#and yes there is the internet which is so wonderful in connecting people from all over the world | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

Tumblr’s reach among the 26-to-35-year-olds in the US is 11%.

#and yes there is the internet which is so wonderful in connecting people from all over the world

capslocked · 1 year

Text

STARLET

male reader x cho miyeon

part 1 of another name up in lights

28k words (special thanks to @passingnotions for helping make all my work possible)

“I would rather throw up,” you murmur out of the corner of your mouth, “than do another take of this scene with you.” “Okay.” Miyeon tilts her chin. The lights begin to dim over the blonde hair she has falling over an upturned brow. “Then throw up.”

It takes a few beats—while production staff scurry about the tense silence rolling through the studio—for everything to fall perfectly still.

Miyeon takes a deep breath, and whispers: “I can get you a bucket.”

“Action!” (The one where Miyeon ruins your career, and you ruin her too.)

- That first time the two of you are photographed together, it’s wholly unremarkable. The entirety of the cast is in frame, standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the banner at the presser and pretending that someone had just whispered something worthy of a belly laugh into your ears. Cho Miyeon hangs delicately off your arm, hand wrapped just above your elbow, and all of you are at your most jovial—looking like you’re simply having the most wonderful time, smiles wide and beaming. Because if that isn’t part of the act. You sell the characters, the fiction, the drama even when the cameras aren’t rolling.

The second photo is what gets people talking.

Anyone with half a brain ought to know that if you were sincerely seeing your co-star, an untruth that the general public is apparently beyond happy to eat up, you wouldn’t be so careless to post up outside a small cafe. Certainly not at a trendy place aside one of the busiest streets in the city, but these tabloids are rabid. Like a head injury, that self-condemning desire to get clicks and hits at any cost has long clouded their ability to think, and so it gets plastered right there on the front page of every rag in the industry. Don’t get it confused, the photo looks good. It’s got allure and mischief written all over it. And that’s exactly what you’re going for.

Miyeon’s hair is up, tied into a messy bun, because she’d have hated to obfuscate the work that her floral shoulderless dress was not doing in hiding from the world the most immaculate pair of collarbones you’d ever seen. Then in her hands—between her teeth—she fiddles with the earpiece of her sunglasses, shooting you with the clearest, most flagrant fuck me now eyes that only a blind person might not pick up on (doubtful still). And you’re there, smirking back at her, for even if a photo tells a whole story, this one really only ever needed a sentence: sparks flying, the two of you really hit it off.

It’s a point of contention later—several times actually—but regardless of how you feel, the girl can act.

Now the image that really gets the media whipped into a frenzy is a lot less polished. It’s grainy and the lighting is poor and in a change of pace, the quality of the photo would lead you to believe that it wasn’t premeditated. Which, unfortunately, is exactly how it goes down.

Even still, it's all framed perfectly, infamously, a straight-up disaster. Miyeon is immediately recognizable, unabashedly blonde and gorgeous as ever. You’ve got your mouth on hers and the problems absolutely do not end there: her back is flush against the bricks of the alley, pinned under your weight, and yes, your hands are busy. One up her skirt, the other in her shirt, she’s blushing into you, and you wouldn’t know from the photo, but she’s got her fingers working at your belt and as a collection, it’s all utterly shameless. Everything up to that point had been muted in subtext; both of you know the value of intrigue, the art of letting everyone else connect the dots—this, however, unintentionally becomes a phenomenon.

Lights the internet on fire for a minute.

The shocking part of all this, what ends up being labeled a calamity by people whose opinions actually concern you, is the photo that you assume will haunt you forever and follow you to your grave isn’t even the one where you’re making out with the starlet du jour in the harsh yellow of an exterior floodlight—in the relaxed wickedness only two AM might ever know. No, it’s this photo, the press’s favorite, given how it shows up everywhere. Miyeon’s holding the award for best actress in a lead role in one hand, knuckles tight around the podium microphone with her other. She’s radiant. She’s flustering. She’s breathtaking. She even trips up on her words in a way that’s endearing. And every fool with a blog is infatuated by all of it.

Your own thoughts on the matter aside, the most neutral and economic way to describe it is unintentionally funny. You were with her when she picked out that silver sequin evening dress, sparkling in the demand of stage lights and camera flashes. It spills from where the garment ties around her neck over the lines of her body as if it has no bias itself for any form or structure, only curving on its journey to her feet at the behest of where her breasts sloped down from her collarbones, the flare of her hips just below her waist. She’s the spitting image of perfection, a damn icon—the headlines are supposed to be about her—but there you are: tucked into the corner, in a sea of faces all justifiably mesmerized by the beauty that walked delicately onto the stage and adorably needed to adjust the microphone stand down to her height.

As It turns out, the absolute displeasure in your scowl isn’t any less captivating. Envious. Spiteful. Arrogant. You catch some serious flak for it.

For months, it ends up being the subject of commentary online, in print, on television—your names on the tips of everyone’s tongues. All with their own theories, but no one manages to guess the truth for a long time, because no one could even begin to believe it:

You hate Miyeon, and Miyeon hates you.

Oh, there are plenty of clues, if you aren’t already keenly aware of it, that your career is slowly sliding into obscurity. Years ago, walking into your agent's office was an event: eyes widened and turned to you immediately. The quiet smiles, the blushing, the batting of eyelashes. The pomp and circumstance of the agency’s biggest client strolling into Soyeon’s office like you were crossing the Rubicon into the streets of Rome. It was glorious and it always meant something big was about to happen.

To be clear, you’re not saying you need the attention, but today, no one even offers to take your coat, which is a shame, because it’s been raining biblically for the past week, and there’s puddles in your shoes, squeaking obnoxiously as you parade unceremoniously through a row of desks. Even so, sounding like a dog’s chew toy, it’s sheer and utter avoidance—eyes glued to monitors and unlifted from scribbled notes as though you’re simply another courier delivering a parcel (which hey, in all honesty, someone like that might even have some of that magical potential).

“Hold up. What do you mean they’re passing me up?” you ask, eyes narrowed and leaning forward in your seat so that the blatant abandonment of all your grace and charm doesn’t get lost in translation across the length of Soyeon’s desk. “That part had my fucking name on it.”

“It did.” Soyeon drums her pen against her keyboard. Comes close to making a face. “And now it has someone else’s name on it. Someone the studio trusts.”

“Oh, for christ’s sake, he’s twelve years older than me. The character is supposed to be thirty, not a dinosaur in a Kingsman suit.”

“It’s the silver fox thing. He markets easily to women.”

“And I don’t?” you stammer out, and Soyeon lifts an eyebrow. “Only a date night staple for almost a decade, Soyeon. Can you honestly sit there and say I wouldn’t play it better? The man plays nothing but himself in every role. Every. Single. Role.”

“Well, it just so happens that he brings people to the theater in droves,” Soyeon snaps back before you have the chance to say anything you could possibly regret. “Look, I told you I have good news and bad news, and it sounds like you’ve figured out the bad news already.”

“Oh please don’t tell me it’s charity.” You wave your hand flippantly. “We’re not doing this.”

Discount parts for struggling actors. If they were worth more than the paper in the scripts they were printed on, Soyeon would’ve been negotiating them this very moment.

There’s a lot about it to unpack, your fall from grace. You aren’t bringing in commissions, directors aren’t lining up in front of the firm to shove their scripts in front of your nose, and your last few films are better remembered for the comedic value of their scathing reviews than the actual screenplay or cinematography.

One such review of your most recent work, an ill-fated screen adaptation of Blood Meridian that had ‘studio interference’ written all over it right from its woeful inception, reads: I hated this movie. Hated hated hated hated hated this movie. Hated it. Hated every simpering stupid vacant audience-insulting moment of it. Hated the implied sensibility that thought anyone would like it. Hated the subliminal insult to the audience by its belief that anyone would be entertained by it.

There are plenty more just like it, and plenty worse, but it’s never done you any good, mentally, to sift through them.

“Really. I’m serious, these parts aren’t bad.”

Soyeon has enough confidence in her voice to sound convincing, but you’ve also never heard her come across any different. You catch yourself pausing to think about it, which is a clear tell that you’re perhaps nearing wit’s end, considering you’re not one to shy away from blurting out the first thought that forms half-coherent into your head.

“Now, they’re not what you’re looking for, admittedly, but I just think with a little luck, they could end up being a fortuitous move,” she adds.

“Go on, pitch,” you say, before sinking a little lower into your chair because even though it pains you to agree with her, she’s right.

“If you’ll dismount from your high horse for a moment,” Soyeon starts, waiting for you to finish rolling your eyes, “the Coens called again—”

“I’m not.”

“The part is interesting.”

“The part is small, it’s side-cast. Don’t sugarcoat it. I’m not taking one of their rescue-shelter-for-the-has-been supporting roles. That’s the equivalent of throwing in the towel.”

“It’s done wonders for careers in worse shape than yours, to be candid.”

“Careful,” you warn her, lifting your chin and glaring—a look you are definitely not known for—but if there’s anyone in the industry who could hold her own, deflect your best, and make you feel foolish for thinking you could cross swords and come out unscathed, it’s Jeon Soyeon.

“May I remind you that I’ve been nominated for best actor three times? That no one in their right mind predicted any of those movies to be any good? I’ve got talent. Let’s not sit around and pretend like I need to be put on life support here. I’m capable.”

Soyeon just steeples her fingers together. “I don’t need the reminder. I made that exact point in a call with a producer this morning, but it’s hard to get people to look past the fact that some of your recent choices have been—”

“If you’re going to say I told you so,” you grumble, letting out a sharp sigh, “let’s get it over with.”

She doesn’t say anything right away. Just pushes a folder across the desk and into your hands like she’s betraying national secrets to a foreign adversary. “Listen, don’t walk out in disgust. At least not right away.”

It takes only a moment. You recognize what’s going on here immediately. “Soyeon.”

“I know. I know. I know.” She waves her hand. “But hear me out, give it a chance.”

“It’s a rom-com, Soyeon.” “I’m plenty aware of what it is.” “I can see it already: smart, sophisticated, funny.” It takes a lot not to curl your lip. And then it fucking curls anyway. “I thought… I thought I had climbed out of the depths of romantic-comedy-hell, Soyeon. This is like suggesting that I get back into a relationship with an abuser.”

“I know, but this one actually is different,” she says, and you take a moment to remember you’ve always respected her honesty, paid her for it, and should’ve probably listened to it on more than one occasion. It’s the reason you’re here of all places.

“You’d kill the part,” she adds. “You spent years killing parts just like it. There’s no shame in that. And the director’s asked for you, specifically. By name. She’s willing to double your asking price.”

So maybe your eyes widen at that, even if it’s the absolute worst way to admit defeat, that you’re just as talentless as you’ve always feared: retreating back to the comfort of the role, all that expertise in acting with—no scratch that, acting at—some barely legal starlet ready to show a little skin to get ahead.

(That’s the nature of the game, and it’s your roots, unfortunately, but it’s safe, and if the money is there, then better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.) “Ah, yeah okay, well here’s the thing: they’ve already decided on the female lead.” You lean forward, like you’d have to listen to this next part in a whisper, because anything louder than that would make it too difficult to bear. “And?” Soyeon clicks her tongue, runs her thumb across her lips, thinking of how to soften the blow. “I mean she isn’t what you’d call an actress, exactly.” “What the hell does that mean, exactly?” “Cho Miyeon,” she starts, and you’re actually just sitting there, tasting at something in your mouth like it’ll help you make sense of it, if only for the reason that you’re not quite sure who that is. “She’s, uh, well, she’s a popstar, you see.” “Oh you’re not kidding.”

There’s a sincerity that lives somewhere in Soyeon’s lack of any expression at all, perfect poker-face armed and readied. You have to squint to really take it in. Heavens.

Exactly how much Soyeon actually knew about this girl, you’ll never know. She claimed first that they met through a mutual friend who does publicity work for another studio, and on a separate occasion saying that they went to school together, determinedly avoiding anything like names or corroborating details. Of course you believed her, because how were you supposed to know any different?

“Wait, you mean like actual royalty?” you ask a few days later, after Soyeon explains Miyeon’s nickname to you, because in this industry, it’s really not that ridiculous a question.

“It’s just a running gag,” she says casually, and you both watch the waiter wordlessly grate pepper into her salad until Soyeon puts a hand up.

“So,” you continue, incredulous, “it’s supposed to be funny?”

“Look, it’s a whole thing.” Soyeon picks up her fork, but doesn’t quite end up doing anything with it. “I promise she’s only half the disaster you think she is.”

“Then do me a favor: kick my shin when I’m supposed to laugh.”

“Do yourself a favor, and try to be a little amiable.”

“You say that like I don’t know how to be charming,” you deadpan, sipping at your coffee while Soyeon’s glare stands its ground.

It’s nothing official, but Soyeon had organized a script reading. The Director is off in some foreign land scouting for the perfect beach with perfectly white sand on an island that already has enough problems, and tells you in three separate text messages to just read the fucking script. You’re groaning, rolling your eyes, and then, curled up next to the fireplace in your readers at three in the morning, it hits you—like really hits you. And you’re shocked, mostly, that there's brilliance in these pages. It’s not the kind of flick you expected, the kind that has journalists at the Atlantic, real writers with academic chops and know-how, publishing articles with titles like: Why Are Romantic Comedies So Bad?

Which, hey, isn’t that a great question. There are a couple of answers, you imagine. You haven’t read the piece of course; you’re the last person that would ever need to. But perhaps among the most fundamental obligations for the genre is that there must be some degree of obstacle, a challenge to nuptial bliss that the hero and heroine must overcome, all before the story’s happily-ever-after. And, to put it simply, such obstacles have only gotten harder and harder to come by. They used to lie in heaps and piles on the ground, ripe for the picking: parental disapproval, difference in social class, unfulfilled promises, the classic and creatively bankrupt friendship-blossoming-into-romance. Nowadays there’s quite literally nothing new under the sun.

So take that all into account, and then add in the fact that you’ve got your hands on something innovative and creative and tasteful—it’s insulting, absurd even, that you’d hamstring the movie by shooting one of the leads out of a cannon and into the hands of a novice who may or may not be able to act her way out of a paper bag. The part calls for subtlety, not the ham-handedness and dramatic stylings of a girl whose experience with the camera extends to knowing when and when not to wink.

Only here’s the thing, it’s not absurd. Like at all. Because enter Cho Miyeon.

She appears in profile first, before pulling a chair out from the table and taking a seat all with the confidence of someone who’d probably be welcome at any table, anytime, anywhere. And almost immediately, you’ve got the answer to those hundred different questions of why. Why a rookie? Why a pop idol? Why ‘princess?’

Well, see, on a basic level, she’s fucking breathtaking.

The devil’s in the details if you aren’t disarmed completely at a glance. Dignified, regal, royal, this girl has it all, and then some. Her hair frames her face as though it were in any need of succor, perfectly messed and ash-blonde and tumbling effortless down her shoulders. She flutters her lashes; her lips part, close again in a way that is oddly captivating; and she gets a tilt in her chin that’s worth a thousand words (most of them admittedly, jesus, fuck, and my god). It’s like she not only understands every cliche in the book—but she’s gone out of her way to make them hers. “Miyeon,” she says, voice gentle and saccharine sweet, extending her hand towards you.

It dawns on you that there’s a certain authority that comes about from saying your own name, even when you know no one has ever needed it—contrast to the way her hand fits in yours, dainty fingers, wrist flawlessly delicate; she’s five-two, arguably five-three in her socks and you’re the one who could crush her. Even so, it’s your mouth that runs dry. You’re catching your breath, and you have to clear your throat to even return the favor.

“I’m a huge fan of your work,” she adds.

“Oh,” you start, shifting gears, getting ready to lie straight through your teeth, “me as well.” It’s shamelessly performative. And Soyeon knows that. The wince she struggles to hold back from across the table is hard not to notice.

But then so is Miyeon, your eyes trailing down her body like a palpable touch over every curve.

Black mini skirt, pre-torn sheer tights, a pair of knee-high combat boots with a hell of a heel on them, and you’re just realizing you can see how perfectly flat her tummy is, peeking out beneath where the hem of her shirt decides to taper for the betterment of mankind. Ah, you get it, so apparently idols really do dress like that—anything and everything to tell you, keep your eyes on me now.

The feet of your chair scrape loud on the floor as you stand on your feet. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

“Alright,” Soyeon tuts as she stabs at her salad, “let’s dial it back.”

It takes two tries to meet her eyes properly, these beautifully dark and dangerous things, but Miyeon just blinks at you, quirks her lips gently into a small smile. And you smile right back, just a little, because maybe this isn’t going to be so bad after all.

It isn’t anything like the romance Miyeon will later make it out to be.

Even though sure, you’re both there laughing, blushing and coy—all of it enough to make the characters in the script look even-keeled, something a little more sane. “Please, it’s called chemistry,” you begin crafting excuses toward your agent when Miyeon takes a phone call on the terrace. “I have it with everyone.” And maybe that’s true. Maybe it isn’t. But be careful, there’s nothing noble about what’s going on here.

“Sorry,” Miyeon apologizes, like she’d ever need to, pulling her chair right up next to yours. “Where were we?”

Just the part where the characters realize everything they’ve ever been looking for is right there in front of them. You spit the pen cap out of your mouth to answer: “the epiphany.”

For what it’s worth, the actual work to be done goes smoother than you expect. Sure, the initial delivery is rough around the edges and in need of a little tender love and care, but that’s far more than what you’d been prepared to give Miyeon credit for.

Not too long after, Miyeon suggests splitting a bottle of wine, something light and sparkling. It goes down easy.

Soyeon figures it’s time to fabricate some way to gracefully exit this whole thing, fingers tapping wildly at her phone, when you and Miyeon start touching each other. It’s subtle at first: she leans over your shoulder when you point something out in the script, pulls back a curtain of blonde hair right back over her ear before brushing up against you, lingers just long enough so that she can flick her eyes up to yours—doesn’t even care to look away whenever you catch her staring. And that’s just what can be seen above the table.

With a coat tucked under her armpit and her belongings all hastily gathered, Soyeon turns her face back over her shoulder one last time; she’s glaring, opening her mouth to say something but decides against it at the last moment. You get the message: don’t sleep with her.

You simply wave her off. Hide your own disappointment that she thinks you’d even need the reminder, because you would never.

“I guess I'm really looking forward to it,” Miyeon says, once the sun’s finished its daily dive into the horizon—once there’s only a mess of papers and empty wine glasses trailing in your wake.

(The restaurant’s in the middle of whipping itself into shape before a slew of dinner reservations come through. It feels rude to camp out at a table any longer.)

Miyeon turns to you, standing with a hand on her hip like the two of you are neighbors who share a mailbox, and says, “think it could be fun.”

Oh, surely you’ve done a better job at masking a grin. Miyeon picks up on it instantly.

“I’m serious,” she adds, letting the timbre of her voice shift into this juxtaposition of suggestion and naivety that has you doing a double take, mentally. Because the lines in her picture perfect face are so very easy to latch onto—even if you’ve never seen anyone as perfectly sculpted as her, you can’t shake the feeling that all humans ought to come out looking like this—but at the same time, there’s something that lies beneath the surface, something undoubtedly complex, something that quietly chides you for having such untoward thoughts of a subject so innocent and docile.

“I’m not trying to take the air out of your sails or anything,” you say as you guide her through the door, hand pressing at the small of her back, “but these shoots can end up being a lot less enjoyable than they look.” “Of course,” Miyeon says, laughing, because here she is, the rookie, and it’s all very natural for her to appeal to some innate desire in you to come off as the authority on anything—film, stardom, the lack thereof, navigating life as a young pretty thing, the authority you’d discover in bending her over your kitchen counters—to some extent, she has you at least a little figured out. “What I mean is I’m looking forward to working with you.”

You watch her smile slant, shift quietly towards something more suggestive when you slip your coat around her shoulders—it’s a foregone conclusion, not that either of you are willing to look it straight in the face.

What you should have done is grabbed your phone and called her a car; there’s thousands of them in this city. What you should've done is driven home, alone. That’s all it should have been. Just some starlet you charmed for an evening to get your career back in order. Nothing more, nothing more. And instead of getting her for a few months plus change, you get her for life. This should’ve been extra clear when she leaned up against the passenger side door of your car, and found a new angle, something she’d only to that point allow to muse about your idle thoughts:

“And here I was, thinking you were just someone playing a part. Only ever a romantic for the camera.”

You can’t even say it all happens so fast.

Not when you take in consideration how you watch Miyeon delicately, slowly, purposefully grab a fistful of your shirt, balling it between her fingers, and begin to twist. This is probably where you’ll start, you think, when you explain it all in a tell-all book long past the age of your youth. Because, oh, what a pleasant surprise. She’s perfect. Flawless. A natural. You can’t keep your eyes away from her, and she’d have it no other way.

“Are you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?” you ask, if only to resist the urge to pull her in.

“Well, I suppose I’ve got a few ideas,” she says, and there’s a glimmer at the surface of her eyes, dark and intelligent and flashing with something like danger, something like the worst decision you’ve made in years. And that’s saying a lot. “But I’d like to think you can show me.”

You give her a practiced smile, stretching just right, careful, careless, carefree. Trust me, that smile says. It’s a scene from a movie, one of many. It’s familiar. You’ve been here, with weapons in a caliber all of your own, and Miyeon’s cheeks start to ever-so-perfectly redden, porcelain skin come aflame.

“You know,” you say, making your voice drawl until Miyeon shuffles her weight between her feet, “if it was up to the writers, I’d kiss you here.”

“If it was up to me,” Miyeon starts, chin up at you like a challenge, “I’d let you.”

The way Miyeon explains it later is that you duck your head and hold your lips next to hers just long enough to let your next breath make her swoon, all before interrupting her with a hungry exhale and an open mouth pressing into hers. A hard, biting kiss that sends shivers down her spine. That you angle your mouths just right so your tongues can slip together, so you might sweep this girl right off her feet and into your arms—if Miyeon has a face that has fantasy written all over it, then so do you, and she says you ought to know what it does it to people. She’ll be half right.

Only when you lean into her and start filing away those mental notes of how perfect her tiny waist fits in your hands, you pause at the sound of a cricket chirping, a reminder of the neighborhood around you.

“Not out here,” you murmur, casting a wary eye over her shoulder. “Let me take you home.”

Miyeon sniffles, blinks a few times, and nods.

Really, it starts with you. A month before you begin shooting, you suffer from a little insanity of your own. Miyeon’s got the second boot only halfway off her foot, lit up in the soft darkness of your foyer, when you take hold of her.

It’s not like you figured this was your last chance for happiness—swallowing down the gasp that comes off Miyeon’s lips like it were your only shot at tasting heaven—but that’s exactly how you kiss her. Mouth open and hot and heavy against hers. It’s hard to explain, and it doesn’t quite add up; you’ve got your Furies, your own personal pantheon, the girls you’ve most dreamed about and had running through your thoughts—who’d eventually find their way between your sheets in some manner or another, melting in your hands. But somehow, Miyeon’s different, you convince yourself. Or she does rather, starting with her tongue sliding languidly against yours before she decides to bite down on the swell of your lower lip. It hurts.

She knows it hurts.

“Watch it,” you say, coming off kind of harsh, before you can realize what all is going on here. Before you come to the understanding that she’s untouchable, priceless, that you can’t afford to break her—and that it’s precisely what she wants out of you.

“What?” she asks, the corners of her mouth slanted up ever so slightly. “You’ve got nice lips.”

How you’ll ever be able to forget someone like her, you haven’t a single clue, because Miyeon uncovers and undresses you down right to the bare soul. Your mouths crash again, just enough subdued to keep your teeth from clicking together like you’ve never done this before—like you’re reading her, getting lost in a new paradox: the intrigue of her tongue caressing yours, the familiarity of her thumb rubbing circles into your back. There’s the Miyeon that was cracking wise and sipping wine with you an hour ago, and now there’s this.

“So, how are we doing this?” she asks, breaths wet and heavy as she fidgets with the button on your pants. “How do you want me?” “Well.” You’re sliding a hand up her stomach, across her ribs, until you hit the silky fabric beneath her shirt. “I’m not sure I know what you’re asking here.” “Don’t play dumb.” Miyeon looks you straight in the eye, and she’s close enough that you can count the flecks of gold dancing in her irises. Brows furrowed for a second, she ends up indulging you anyway: “I’m asking how you want to fuck me?”

Every turn in her voice sinks deeper, reels you in further, coaxes you into shoving her to the wall between the door and a coat rack. The way she yelps first in surprise as her back hits the hard surface, whimpering later in delight at the grip your hands make onto her hips, it gives you the sense that she’s flustered, unable to come off as anything beyond embarrassingly forward and drowning in anticipation—

“Miyeon,” you say, slowly, getting a good read on just how much she likes hearing you say her name. That it’ll kill her, you figure, when you’re fucking her with slow, deep, deliberate strokes—once she’s inches within cumming and falling apart and it’s arriving right in her ear. “What do you think?” That lands even more pointed somehow. More dangerous than you could have ever predicted, the charm and practiced charisma in your voice coming out in lethal force: “Maybe, oh let’s see… should I fuck you right here?”

Miyeon starts with her fingertips across your scalp before threading them through your hair. “Well,” she says, teasing the callback, drawing the syllable out as though running it conceptually through her head. “If that isn’t a spectacular idea, I don’t know what is.”

“Yeah,” you murmur into the delicate skin under her jaw, and after lifting off her shirt and tossing it aside, she kisses you with a consuming, needy kind of hunger one more time. Until you’re both just out of breath. “I think so too.” Miyeon dips her fingers into the waist of your pants before anything else. Function of the fact that men’s clothing is so straightforward and predictable, she’s able to shimmy them down off your hips until they hang unceremoniously around your thighs. “Um,” she says, sinking her teeth into her lip a moment, right after curling her fingers around your cock, “you’re like, really hard, you know that?”

“I was going to mention it earlier. You’re kinda my type.”

She leans into you, sighing a little into your neck. “Which is?”

“Oh, you know,” you say nonchalantly. “Pretty. Small. Ruinable. That sort of thing.”

“Right.” With a jerk of her wrist, Miyeon brings your cockhead flush against her stomach—pumps you there leisurely. “Wouldn’t want Soyeon thinking you were planning on ruining me.”

“Quick learner,” you murmur, bunching her skirt up over the rise of her hips.

“Well, we’re really not so different, you and me.”

“Hm.” She doesn’t know what she’s saying—you’re you—storied, seasoned, and only heeding right now to the wail of torn fabric. There’s a hole in her tights already, and your fingers work fast. Rip, tear, threads screeching undone. “I’m curious to hear what all gives you that impression.”

“The way I see it, we both know what we want,” she says, unashamed, and the sound that escapes her mouth sounds a lot like a hiccup, some little hopeful noise or another, swallowing for air at the touches skating across her underwear, where it’s soaked and hot and begging. “Suppose that’s true.” “Not afraid to go for it either.” She tightens her grip around your cock, squeezing like she’s waiting for you to tell her to stop and running her thumb across your slit. “Won’t settle for anything less than you—”

“A word of advice,” you start, and the authority in your voice makes her melt just a little further in your grip. “From someone who’s not so different… A little flexibility goes a long way, sweetheart.”

“Oh.” It’s smug, the way she says it. Her eyes are heavy, hooded—honing the perfect hue of haughty as she drags her panties to the side. “I’m nothing if not a little flexible.” You bend from your knees, because Miyeon is tiny where she stands, up against drywall with her dainty arms thrown over your shoulders. And in a way, she’s right: you see the parallels, cut from the same cloth, the two strained noises or another buzzing in your throat indistinguishable when you hook your hand around her thigh, raise it, and barely slide yourself inside her, just an inch.

Miyeon’s mouth opens like she’s going to speak, and then hovers there, brows turning and knitting together—something you more than understand, because you’re on the verge of losing your mind too. She’s wet and slick with heat and so fucking inviting that you think the world might end if you don’t bury yourself into her this very second. Not that there isn’t near commensurate satisfaction in drawing out the moment, you fast discover, teasing mercilessly until you can hear Miyeon’s frustration. Her eyes shut tight, and her breath becomes ragged as you allow her another inch—almost keening when you pull back before pushing your cock into her cunt again, fucking her open slowly.

It’s only when you hear her beg please, please, please that you sink all the way in.

And she feels amazing. Tight and hot and clinging, she sleeves onto you like a glove. Immaculate enough to chip away at your positions regarding fate, the ridiculous notion that under the stars there was a girl out there for you, that you’re in orbit with some inevitable conclusion and her name is fucking Cho Miyeon. So outright sinful that you still need a beat to come to terms with it, and you make an effort to voice that: “Fucking hell, Miyeon.”

She lets out a whiny, punched out breath, tilting her chin to the ceiling and revealing the long column of her throat to you like an invitation, though you press your lips to her temple first, the taste of her skin and the sweat aside her brow like wine—sweet and woozy and intoxicating. There’s the rise and fall of her breathing against your chest, your fingers spread out across her creamy skin, and a sudden jerk from her hips, as if to bring you back to the present.

“Oh my god,” Miyeon gasps as your hips are drawn back again.

Only this time you’ve got the soft cheek of her ass spilling through your fingers. Waning self-control. Even less reservation about pulling her right back onto your cock. And though you’re mostly silent each time you work your entire length back into her, Miyeon is anything but—all these appreciative noises coming from low in her throat.

It might be the hottest thing you’ve ever witnessed: the way she darts her tongue out to wet her lips, how her breath hitches when you move, each and every sound she makes as you fuck wildly into her cunt—slamming in, in, in, and you can hear her begin to whimper, feel her caressing the curve of your ass with her… ankle? She tugs on you, grips you, and does whatever she can to keep you deep inside her. As though you’d ever, ever stop.

“I can’t,” Miyeon starts, and it’s nearly comedic—you’d be in fits if you weren’t delicately unraveling this girl in your hands, taking her apart piece by piece, blow by blow. The poise in her voice is gone; what’s left is shattered, unrecognizable mostly. Even those dignified lines in her face start to twist and wobble, threaten to come undone. “Please, I need… oh, please make me cum. I need to cum on your cock.” “Breathe,” you tell her, feeling her slip a little against the wall, puddling further in your grip. It surprises you, the way your words come out like the crush of gravel beneath a boot, and it grips at something within Miyeon too, clues her in on how much she needs you—sucking air in through her teeth and sinking her face into your shoulder. The lines that mark where you end and Miyeon start are quickly eroding, boundary become meaningless. “I know you want to cum, but I need you to breathe for me, Miyeon.”

Her palms are damp with sweat, wrung around the back of your neck, hair sticking to her forehead and darkening in a beam of pale moonlight, not to mention what you hear: harder, faster, more—the needy requests make it sound like she’s almost sobbing.

“I promise, I promise,” you whisper into her mouth, “I’ll do anything for you. But first, I’m going to use this tight little cunt—gonna make a mess of you.”

Your fingers dig into her soft skin, tighter, tighter; you’ll leave bruises, marks, fingerprints, all this damage she’ll trace back to you—evidence that’ll queue memories like a roll of film, bring her right back to how you have her mewling and moaning at the end of your cock, tears welling on her lashes and mascara running dark beneath her eyes.

“Fuck,” slips out of her, nearly pouting like it’s your fault, that she’d never curse in front of anyone and here she is, teeth gritted—because, god, she’s all coiled muscle, tightened around your cock and meltdown imminent—you get your fingers under her chin and tilt her head to you.

“Gonna make you beg, Miyeon.”

“I… fuck…” Her voice gets locked up in her throat, choking back on something that turns into a wail when you adjust your angle, hit deeper, fuck harder—“I can’t,” she whispers, “I can’t,” but you keep fucking into her tight hole, nowhere close to letting up.

There’s just something so fascinating about a girl like this, a girl like Miyeon, with a gaze that inspires all this admiration and idolatry. It ought to pierce right through somebody like you and leave you for dead, bring you to your knees, but you’re nothing like she expected; you’re everything she hoped. So instead, as you watch her gasping mouth that was coyly smiling in your favor all afternoon; her small tits spilling forward when you lift up her bra; how she’s slumped back against the wall, relaxed and trusting you implicitly to carry her weight for as long as it takes; the shadowy place where your cock is drenched, glistening and disappearing between her thighs—oh, Jesus, is that a visual—it all clicks in your head: Miyeon is so, so astonishingly submissive.

Whether it’s the fingers at her throat, or the grip hooking under her thigh, the one thing that’s clear is this: you’re using Miyeon. Fucking her within inches of irrevocably falling apart. You, the hammer; her, the nail—pounding her further into the drywall until she’s quivering and moaning and gasping into your mouth. Oh, the places you’ll pin her. You’re relentless, merciless; it’s the fact that she gets off on it that’ll stick with you. For a long time.

“Gonna make you beg for it, princess,” you amend, lips now pressing into Miyeon’s ear, and she immediately shudders apart.

It’s filthy is the thing: you’re railing the girl with deep, harsh strokes, and Miyeon’s pussy is writhing in both protest and penury. She’s so creamed you can hear it through all the sounds of skin on skin, the percussive soundtrack of your thighs slamming up into hers. Each squelch, the wet sinful sound of it—it’s how you know your cock is making a total mess of her wrecked cunt. More and more each time it fills her and brings her that much closer to toe-curling-climax.

Let me, she breathes against you, barely held together. The hand you have under her asscheek is doing most of the heavy lifting. “Please let me cum, please, please, please let me fucking cum all over this cock, I need to cum on this perfect cock, oh my god—”

When Miyeon finally turns up at you, she’s biting down on her bottom lip again. Her head tilts a bit, something deep and pleading in those big, brown eyes, and it almost, almost makes you feel guilty. Nearly ashamed that this delicate little thing had fallen into your lap and your knee-jerk reaction was to fuck her so hard she started to wail, cracking at the seams.

“Your cock,” she blurts out, breath jagged and uneven, “is amazing. You are—”

Like you said, almost.

“—amazing.”

There’s nothing you can say to that, is there?

“Again… want to… again…” she demands of you, like she’s in any position to be making any. Her hands are all over you, finally undressing you, and all things considered, you don’t have the heart to tell her no. You’re hoping that never becomes a problem.

Miyeon scoops up easily enough into your arms after her orgasm had knocked the architecture right out of her legs, wobbling against the wall and almost sliding to the floor. And It all plays out again, just minutes later, after you set her on a barstool in your kitchen and slip back inside her. Sure, it’s a different setting, but you recognize it for what it is: the same story, with the same characters and the same ending, the one where you’ve got your cock fucking hard and fast into her cunt.

“Fucking, oh my god…” she rasps, just a waving white flag short of total surrender. “You’re going to make me fucking cum again. Yes, yes, yes—”

Until everything seemingly comes undone at once. And it quickly turns into stuttering cries of please and fuck and need it and all sorts of things you’ll have to promise you never heard, filth unfitting for a perfect mouth like Miyeon’s—the one now curving into that unforgettable shape while she chokes back on moans and mewls. It hits her like a brick, and her head rolls back as she groans, furrowing her brows and screwing her eyes shut.

You tell yourself it’s the fact that she’s so sweet, so docile, and all at the flick of a switch. Just moments after you’ve bottomed out in her pussy—after you’ve sent her higher and higher to where she’s reduced to nothing like the royalty everyone expects of her: needy, begging.

It’s whiplash really, from callous and cruel to caring and soft in a matter of seconds. Your foreheads come together while you catch your breath. That’s an image all in itself. And when she laughs slightly, there are the quiet tremors, the spasms of her diaphragm clenching around you. It’s hard to tell what’s going through her head, before she covers the exhausted huffs out of your mouth with a kiss that lives in the gray area between sweet and harsh and consuming. Fuck. You’d stay here forever.

(Forever ends up being a hell of a lot shorter than you expect. Because Miyeon takes to cumming on your cock like water takes to paper.)

“Wanna ride,” she tells you, breath having caught up to her and wiping sweat from her brow—something like an inciting incident, taking the two of you all the way to the living room.

She doesn’t outright tell you that she wants you to just hold her down and fucking use her, but she doesn’t last long on top of you either, leaning back from your lap with her hands hooked around your neck and dragging you forward, until you’re once again spilling over her, pounding her hot, sopping cunt like she needs.

You’re cautious, usually—responsible. It isn’t like you, really. The excuse you’ll settle into later is that Miyeon’s cunt is impossibly vice-tight when you make her cum a third time. She’s in the midst of being swallowed up in the cushions of your sofa, the soles of her cute little feet pointed skyward, knees folded to her shoulders and pressed under your weight while you make sure she’s well fucked through the apex of it all.

“Good girl,” you tell her—the praise cutting straight to her final lifelines, tearing them to ribbons and leaving them for dead—and you’re shifting the angle, the depth to try and get her to scream the exact same way she did the first time. “Go ahead Miyeon—cum for me, princess. You’re going to fucking cum all over this cock again.”

And she does. Hard.

Quivering. Squirming even, she comes apart, fucked deep and hard into the springs of a chaise lounge and leaving stains on leather that won’t ever quite go away. Though it doesn’t manage to arrive with anything like an announcement, as it had before, heralded by curses and the elegant simplicity of meekly choking out the word cumming through a fit of gasps and hiccups. Her voice now is so fragmented, so utterly debauched and ruined, that she only manages to husk out a pathetic whine.

“So fucking pretty, Miyeon,” you rasp, watching the blush sear right across her nose, “so gorgeous when you cum for me. And god, this fucking pussy…”

The hands on the clock spin out, numbers running forward and back, and you’re long past the point of temperance. Each stroke in and out of Miyeon’s tight, throbbing, well-fucked cunt twists further at the knot in your stomach, the edge of your own, eager to indulge your fair share of recklessness: “Miyeon, sweetheart, I’m gonna cum.”

Miyeon understands immediately. She’s whimpering, nodding, sinking her fingers into your back—it’s not even a question. “Inside me,” she repeats, several times, until you’re hilted completely in her pussy. It’s hot, sweltering, perfect, and you can’t bring yourself to care that you’re pressing a handprint into her thigh so hard that it hurts. That the sounds leaking out of your throat aren’t anything particularly becoming or that you’re fucking your cum deeper into her cunt with each waning thrust or that you’re not sure if you ever had a better fuck.

“Fuck,” you groan, slumping on top of her petite frame once you’re completely finished. So thoroughly milked and drained.

Miyeon brings her small hands up and cups your face. Just stares like you’ve got something stuck to it. Her gaze drops to your lips—and you’re left thinking for a moment that she’s going to kiss you again, though it never does arrive.

“Hey,” you say finally, panting. Both of you are heaving restless. Everytime her chest rises into you, you’re acutely aware of how her small breasts feel against you, her heart still racing as your softening cock is still warm inside her. “You’re staring.”

“Well, I was going to mention it earlier,” she starts, fluttering her lashes and pressing her lips to the crook of your neck, “but you’re kinda my type too.”

The least unusual thing happens.

And if you end up thinking for even a moment that Miyeon is being sincere when she suggests you exchange numbers, you haven’t been paying attention. “You know,” she says, sitting in your lap and tapping her number into your phone, “for work.”

“Ah, of course,” you answer, willing to be fooled, if only just a little, “for work.”

- Narratively, it’s all out of order: the banal text messages, the playful back and forth, the coy innuendos, the precarious game of being interested without asking too many questions. Both of you are quite content to play your cards close to your chest as though she doesn't know how good your fingers feel in her cunt or that you’re somehow not aware of the small freckle on the seam of her pelvis, another on the inside of her left thigh. That’s just how it goes. But it’s fine, you figure. Especially when you compare it to the alternative: of taking things too fast and careening straight off a cliff. To where, historically, you've burned up in a violent supernova of messy hookups and drunk calls and regrets you’ll carry with you into the next life.

A nice change of pace, if nothing else.And it’s hardly anything unusual either, or at least until you’re standing in the grocery checkout line a few days later. Miyeon decides enough with all that about the rules of engagement. She’s going to call you:

“I was planning on swinging by in a bit to grab my watch,” she starts, and you can make out another voice, maybe a friend? A roommate? in the background of the call, getting shh’d by Miyeon before she continues, “I left it in your bathroom. I think. Maybe on the bedside table.”

“Yeah, I was going back and forth on deciding whether that was purposeful or not.” “Accidental. I swear.”

“Still a little convenient though, isn’t it?” “Nothing convenient about not having my watch.” She laughs out loud. Maybe it’s a bit of vanity on your part to make assumptions, but you’ve got her pieced together, at least a little. Everyone else already reveres and adores her—it’s the fact that you’ll level with her, that she loves a proper challenge.

“Well, I won’t be back for quite a bit. I’m running a few errands.” You smile at the lady at the register. She’s halfway into figuring out who you are.

“Why don’t you do me a favor then… bring it with you to the press event on Friday?”

“Now that’s a surprise,” you tell her. “I’d figure you’d take the chance at face value, to get yourself back over to my place either way.”

“Look, if you’re going to make me need an excuse to sleep with you… let’s put our heads together and come up with something later.”

Oh, of course. Let’s, she says, really leaning into the plurality of it, hoping it’s something you can get used to. And given the fact you figure that Cho Miyeon has never been hard pressed to be anyone’s favorite anything, she is incredibly optimistic you’ll see just how sweet of a deal that all is. You’re answering the woman behind the register first: “paper bags are fine.”

“Are you at the grocery?”

“I am.”

“Sounds fun.” she says, after a considerable pause—the length of which tells you she’d rather dip into the mundane with you than hang up. “What’d you get?” “Breakfast cereal, bananas,” you tell her, staring straight into the conversational deadend. If only you knew any writers. You clear your throat, but Miyeon beats you to it, pulling the emergency ripcord: “What would you do if I was there with you?”

“Dunno,” you start, “take you to the bathroom maybe. Go down on you until you cum.”

At this point the cashier has put it all together. She recognizes you, and is unsure whether to be shocked or disgusted or what, so she just hands you your receipt as you shoot your near-award-winning smile back at her and gather your things.

Miyeon laughs. “Has anyone ever told you you’re horrendous at phone sex?”

“I’ve never had phone sex,” you tell her, “seems like a waste of time when you could be instead, you know–”

“Okay,” she interrupts you, “first off, it’s like the first rule in the geneva convention of phone sex: you’re supposed to ask me what I’m wearing. And just for your information, I’m wearing yoga pants and a t-shirt.”

“What color?”

“Yikes. So bad at this; you’re supposed to tell me to start taking it off. It’s a gray shirt, the pants are blue. What are you wearing?”

“A pair of khakis. And a sweater.” “Great. Take them off, slowly.” “Miyeon, I’m in the middle of a parking lot.”

“Okay prude, then you tell me what to do.”

You end up listening to Miyeon from the front seat of your car for almost half the hour. There’s a wistful hum from the other end of the phone every time you tell her what to do with her hand, walk her through every area of her body you want her to touch and how. You let her know about the finger you’re tracing over your own pants and she can’t help but let a soft noise out at the thought of it.

“If you invited me over for dinner right now,” she says after she cums, slightly out of breath, “I wouldn’t say no.”

You stifle a laugh. It’s folklore at this point, but there’s wisdom in it surely, so you’ll lean into that old rite of passage and play hard to get. Love is all about the complications, all the ways it can go wrong: endless rules and customs to observe, obstacles you’re determined to put in the way.

“Oh princess,” you start, knowing exactly how it’ll land in her ear, what it’ll do to her. “I’ll see you on Friday.”

The press event itself is simple and straightforward. There’s only ever going to be a singular moment during a movie’s production where no one in the cast wants to murder someone else and it’s in that brief period of time before filming starts. So grab onto that by the horns and show the media what a fun time this is all going to be. Go team, go.

It’s the same series of questions as always: how did this cast come together, what do you think of the scripts, how is this going to be a challenge for you, what are you looking forward to, etc.

You’ve been through this song and dance enough times now to keep your answers evasive and beguiling, because at the end of the day, it’s the most productive way to do anything in this industry. It’s routine. It’s practiced. But the thing you notice almost right away, is just how infatuated the press is with the girl at the end of the table, how they heel almost immediately to her every gesture, the way Miyeon answers questions all with the confidence of someone’s who’s been at it for ages, but with the doe-eyed blinking naivety of a starlet ready to bare it all. You have to consider that part of the reason the media ends up so hot on Miyeon’s trail is all that god-given wit and charisma and charm. She’ll make fun of herself and her group mates and her co-stars and the staff, and she’ll tease the press and give them shit in a way that makes you feel as though there’s this cool, gorgeous, very important girl who’s noticing you and liking you enough to give you shit. Then sometimes she’ll wink for no reason at all, or she’ll get that flip of her hair over her shoulder just right that you think to yourself: wow, that’s an idol.

It doesn't mean a whole lot to you now, though you’ll be wringing your wrists about it later, but the takeaway here is this: Miyeon is universally loved. Full stop.

Please root for me, she says, again and again. All the stuff she’s supposed to say. I’ll do my best to make everyone happy. And she looks down the table, right at you, when she says: “My co-stars are all so wonderful and I’m so lucky to have them here with me, I’ll go ahead and thank them in advance for taking such good care of me.”

The press release is worth nothing to anyone with only the opinions of a bunch of attractive people paid to be on television. What it needs is photos. Specifically the ones where Miyeon hangs off your arm like you two are just a little bit more than meets the eye.

Sex sells. Suggestion is priceless.

So you’re standing there, grinning, wide and open, practiced and sure, toward the army of photographers. You look good. You know you look good. You’d know you look good even if Soyeon hadn’t crossed paths with you behind the stage just a few minutes ago and said, “wow, you look hot,” and “if I was any bit straight, I’d bang you right here.” Though it definitely helped. The exact shade of charcoal on your suit jacket is engineered to make your skin glow, and your hair is coiffed just right so that it sits effortless. You didn’t grow up imagining you’d have hairdressers or a stylist or for god sakes ever be wearing tailor-fit suits that cost someone else a fortune, but that’s how this all works. A rag-tag militia dedicated to making it look both like you’d just rolled out of bed and that’s only how things were ever meant to be—it’s your whole deal, all with the comprehensive appeal of a mischievous smile. The first flash, and you can feel your whole soul dilate in response. Hey! Look over here for me. Click. Click. Click. Raise your chin—hands at your sides—hold that for me—perfect. Click. Click. Click. It’s calming in a way. All the piercing lights, the clattering of camera shutters. The feeling that never grows stale is seeped in the familiarity of it all; your roots are here. It’s home. And there’s something unique about the blur of lights, something hard to put your finger on exactly, that it feels like the perfect backdrop to just zone out in. And the fact that you can’t really hear those anxious, gnawing thoughts in your head over all the shouting, the chattering, the commotion—boy, that feels good too. Though what you can hear is all the cameras turn, in unison. Something like a premonition.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen Cho Miyeon. You know how she looks in and out of her underwear, the way her blonde hair sits on her porcelain shoulders, how she’s all curves and pointed angles in the right places; you’ve seen her up close. Hell, she’d already taken your breath away, which in some regards is completely unfair, now considering that you haven’t any more breath to give.

She doesn’t care; she’ll leave you asphyxiated, with a smile. Perfectly. It makes it feel like every smile you’ve seen before are just failed attempts. Like this is the real deal. Click. Click. Click.

The thing that has you lost for words is that it’s hard to know where exactly to start. Not only is Miyeon drop dead gorgeous, but here she is, pretending that she’s finding all that out for the very first time, blush burning across her cheeks like she’s not used to the attention. Her hair is pinned up, delicately placed into a perfect bun, wispy blonde strands falling aside her ears. And a pair of long, dangling earrings reflect the camera flashes aimed in her direction, scattering the light in every which way. Then it’s the fucking dress: it’s skintight, champagne, which is a good color on anyone, spectacular on her. You can’t let your eyes dip down all the way through the plunging neckline or you’d be staring at her midriff and thinking just how badly you want to undo the whole thing; pull gently on the tie at the back and let it all slump to the floor; get on top of her and have her cursing. Make her hot and flustered and moaning your name until you shoot a hot load all over that fucking tummy. Jesus. Fuck.

“Hey stranger,” she says, with restrained delivery, still smiling at the wall of flashing lights as she hooks her hand under your elbow.

“You’re late.” Maybe—just maybe—if you can somehow manage to find anything to be at fault, you can keep your thoughts as innocent as her doe-eyed countenance. She tilts her head, pulls back her soft, sweeping hair over one shoulder, and when she gets her eyes on you… god, it’s a tall order.

“Do you have any idea?” she asks, starting in half sentences because there’s not a lot of time between poses. Everyone’s looking at her, looking at the combined-unit, the you-and-her, and demanding more. “Just how hard it is to slip into something like this? I swear to god, I think I’m still holding that first breath.”

“Hey,” you whisper, clasping your fingers together. “You look great.”

“Of course I do.” Her other hand is at your waist, gentle and misleading, much like the rest of her. “Just about any girl would look good next to you.”

Falling is just not the correct term, to be precise. Too clumsy. Hardly does what’s going on here any justice. This is a meticulous process wherein Miyeon delicately binds and traps your heart into love—maybe even the platonic ideal of the femme fatale, and you’ll take twenty, thirty paces into quicksand before you realize you’re trapped, waist deep, unable to move, totally and proper fucked.

“Here,” she says, tugging gently on your arm until you’re hunched over slightly, ear sitting perfectly at her lips where they begin to part, whispering: “This will drive them crazy. Just this little private conversation. They’ll be guessing what I’m telling you here, right now, for weeks.”

You laugh as you watch everyone with a camera scoot to the edge of their seats, expecting something unexpected. On the off chance they’ll get lucky and catch the shape of that murmur out your mouth: “And what exactly is it that you’re telling me here?” “I’m curious,” she starts, “how bad do you think I want you right now?”

Oh. You register your whole body shifting its weight onto the other foot. Twice, the muscles in your legs tensing when she wets her lips with her tongue. A problem, maybe. Your eyes dart about because you’re in front of all these witnesses, and the instinctual urge from somewhere deep and unruly in your head amounts to something like a death wish: to get your hands on her in public, to throw caution to the wind and let her have access to you under all this scrutiny. It’s automatic; you’re leaning back on old habits; humor’s never failed a face like yours. “What, like on a scale of one to ten?”

She leans back, takes both your hands in hers and just grins. “I heard there’s sort of an afterparty later. You going?”

You swallow, collect yourself. “I am.”

“Yeah?” Miyeon’s lip pulls up at the corner, smirk cocked, ready to fire, and her eyes are sparkling, literally; every flash of a camera fills her dark irises with a sharp glister of gold. It’s actually kind of mesmerizing. “Me too.”

“Maybe I'll see you there,” you tell her, leading her to the stage exit.

“Hm, maybe,” she says, and she rubs a few circles into the back of your knuckles. “Though it’d be a sure thing if we go together, wouldn’t it?”

Truth be told, you never make it to the afterparty. You get sidetracked. You get distracted.

“Feels so good, oh my god.” Miyeon’s jaw clenches, teeth together so tight you can feel her body tense up. “So deep, so good, so, fuck—”

What Miyeon is ultimately trying to do in the backseat of your car is ride you hard and fast to the point where she’s mixing up her words, gasping for air, and blathering filth and obscenity from her pretty lips. Until her legs lock up and her eyes shut tight before cumming all over your waist. So yeah, the charcoal slacks end up being a little fortuitous.

She bucks into you hard, holding her weight with two hands on your chest, though she can’t bounce up and down on your cock like she’d much prefer. The way her clit rubs against you as she ruts into your hips like a wild animal feels awesome, even better for her, you reckon, but that’s no substitute for the heavensent sensation she gets running down her spine when you fill her starved cunt repeatedly with long, deep strokes. It’s cramped and awkward and your knees and elbows knock and scrape and she’s taking that frustration out on you. As best she can without hitting her head on the ceiling of the car.

You can certainly appreciate the irony of it. Because you’ve got the poster girl for a disney princess in a state of half-dress (half-undress? under duress? it’s not entirely clear), the champagne hem of that dignified gown bunched up around her hips, furling in supplication, and she’s fucking you in pretty much the least elegant fashion possible.

“God dammit,” she spits out before sinking her teeth into her lower lip, as you offer to help her grind on top of you with two handprints sunk firm into the round of her tight little ass.

It’s clumsy and uncouth, though still, riding you amounts to a religious experience for Miyeon, given the way her cunt is quivering, torrentially wet, and so, so, so hot. Clenching on you in something like worship, in adoration. She should probably be more embarrassed about some of the noises she’s making. They’re high-pitched, whining, desperate even. You can’t quite hear what she’s saying—not over the hollow echo of your sex through the small cabin of the car—but there are only so many iterations of, oh my god, please, fuck, faster, harder, need it, right there, faster, I, ah, ohmygod.

“Baby,” you whisper, wrapping an arm around Miyeon's waist and sinking you both further into the seat. “Fuck, I cannot believe this pussy; you’re so tight, fuck—”

She’s still smiling, though it’s absolutely devilish. Maybe that’s the praise she lives for. Everyone’s already telling her she’s gorgeous, that she’s talented, that she's beautiful inside and out, but she just simply can’t get enough of it: how you’ll slap her ass so hard she yelps and growl against her throat, cum in her cunt and tell her she’s perfect.“Want your cum, baby,” she murmurs, cheeks aflame, lips again parting open, “I want to watch you cum in me.”

“Miyeon,” you groan, “such a good fucking girl for me,” and she just nods, like a fantasy come to life.

She lifts herself up again. Comes crashing down. Good fucking god. Every little roll of her hips is a touch more agonizing than the last; she feels so fucking incredible around you that it all betokens danger. You’re buried so deep inside her that if let go of the breath you’re holding you would drown in the heat of her cunt, the velvety touch of her skin, the fact that she smells fucking amazing—all worked up and starting to sweat.

“Can you?” she asks, propping up the tall heel of her shoe onto the seat and trying to ride up and down your shaft just a bit faster, a little harder. You pull at her dress again, twisting it in your hand until you can see where your cock disappears between the creases of her thighs and into the warm embrace of her cunt. She’s fucking you reckless and sucking sharp gasps of air past her teeth, asking, “do you think you can cum like this?”

“You want me to finish in your pussy that bad, Miyeon?” you ask, shifting slightly in the space beneath her. “Want it so much, want to feel it,” she starts to pant, words disappearing in wet exhalation every time her thighs come spilling onto yours. “Want to feel your cock throb in my pussy, want to feel you fill me up.”

Even accounting for the fact that she’s so small on top of you and even easier to manipulate with nothing more than the firm grasp you have on her waist, it’s a whole ordeal to maneuver about the cramped backseat. Especially considering Miyeon would rather die than feel your cock leave her cunt. She lets out a needy whine, like you’ve done her some sort of injustice, when you find a hand under her shoulder and start to move. “Please…” she groans, grabbing desperately at the collar of your shirt. Searching hard for the unrealized potential of the tie around your neck.

You twist and turn, slide and shimmy until you’ve got Miyeon’s arms pinned behind her back, wrists trapped in your fingers and her svelte frame arching into you. It’s a little precarious, and it takes a few tries to find any sort of rhythm—holding her in place and gliding up into where she’s soaked and aching—but the moment you start slipping your cock up into her cunt, it dawns on you: you can absolutely cum like this. She’s so mind-numbingly tight, so hot, so easy to use; it’s not a challenge. Not in the slightest.

“Oh my god.” She cuts off those incredible noises, breath hitching in her throat. She doesn’t have an inkling of how to react; there’s no way around it. Not when you’re fucking her—truly fucking her—within an inch of her life and pulling her small body down onto your cock harder, faster, faster. Again, again.

Miyeon’s hair is the first thing begging to be ruined. Delicately fixed and pristinely manicured. Gentle waves tumbling over her shoulder as you trace your fingers up the curve of her spine, knead at the back of her neck, and thread into a handful of those ash-blonde locks.

“Fuck.” Her whole body melts into you, and her voice is seeped in lust and need and want: “right there, right there, right there—”

Your fingers tighten in her hair, grip, pull.

“Feel good?” you whisper into her neck, all this soft pale skin begging for a press of your lips.

“It feels—I, fuck.” Miyeon just stutters, eyes watering and chest heaving through all these incoherent breaths as you drive her to silence. Fuck her to submission.

“Princess,” you start, bringing your other hand up to her cheek. It’s the small details that truly send her: the thumb wiping away at the small tears on her long lashes, how you tuck a few misplaced wisps of golden hair behind her ear, dominance soft and doting—it’s not just the fact that you’ll pull her apart; it’s that you’re the one putting her back together. That’ll never be a secret she keeps from you, you figure, because she’s reduced to a whimpering, shuddering mess when you take her lips softly in yours. A chaste, gentle, unscripted kiss. Unbecoming of the reality that has you currently fucking raw and senseless into her creaming cunt.

“Tell me what you want, Miyeon.”

Sure, you’ve got in your hands the script of sin and innocence, and you’ll settle into an assigned part, a role to play. Though to be truthful, you just simply can’t help yourself. She’s delightful. The whispers out your mouth sink once more against her skin, sweaty and red and hot to the touch. She whines like your words cut right to the bone, lethal. Your hips come up, hilting deep in her cunt, and it’s enough to shake an earring loose and into the depths between the seats; you’ll spend a literal lifetime looking for it later. Her breath hitches, regressing to huffs and sharp draws of air when you drag your cock just along the right spot, apparently.

“Please, please, please,” she begs finally, sputtering with the waning energy of air escaping a balloon.

“I want to know what you need from me,” you tell her, letting your voice come out in such tantalizing fashion that it’s the kind of thing that could coerce the truth out of anyone.

“You,” she rasps, “all of you.”

How quick she turns to putty, muscles softening and tensing all at once. And you’re generously allowing her to take more, capitulating to her pleas of right there and harder please, pushing in as deep as you’ll go. You soothe her when she shudders and quakes—just a broad hand at her back—helping her adjust to you.

“Shit, Miyeon, you look perfect like this,” you mutter, watching the small tears that come from the corners of her hooded eyes. “Can’t get over how gorgeous you look taking me.”

Those small hums and moans leaving through closed lips are all she can muster. She clutches ahold of you even tighter, feeling the sharp bloom of everything trickle closer and closer like a dam about to break.

“Is that what you like to hear, princess?” you ask, fucking her right through her own orgasm and realizing it’s hopeless; you’re going to fall in love again and again with that pink stain in her cheeks. “Do you want to be my cumslut? Let me use your pussy whenever I want. You’re so tight and wet for me, Miyeon. You want my cock all the time, don’t you?”

Some of it—maybe all of it—hits hard. She starts to shake. You’re fucking her cunt, steady and resolute, even as she fucking collapses, and her lips part like she’s going to wail, though never makes a sound.

“Words,” you order, breathless. “Oh…” It’s slow at first, that steady stream of fuck and please spilling out of her—curses flowing as easily as the air she breathes. You’ve got her at your complete control, a seeming extension of your will, and she presses her forehead to yours, gasping, “want to feel you fucking cum in me. Please do it, do it, I need to feel you, I want your fucking cum in me so bad. Please, please, please fucking make me yours. Do it, need you to use this little pussy and cum.”

You’re deep inside Miyeon, clutching hard around her waist and pulling down on it as you vault over the proverbial edge. Breathing heavy into her chest as you fuck all this hot cum into her cunt. She keeps rolling her hips, slowly, as if by instinct, to ride everything out of you, until you’re yanked back to the here and now.

“Oh my god,” she coos. Because it’d be impossible to not notice, leaking out of her and onto her thighs.

“Miyeon.” The next sound that comes out of you is near indescribable: gravelly and plucked from deep in your throat.

“So, so much for me,” she adds with a hint of exultation, running her fingers through your hair.

Some part of you expected her to perhaps be more resilient, put up some semblence of a fight, but this is Miyeon, you realize—the roughness in your voice, the gentle touch of your fingers, the severity of an open palm, your lips at her throat—she loves it. Her hands are soon again cupping at your face, tongue reaching into your mouth. And she shudders at the way your cock slides out of her pussy.

“Messy,” you murmur into her kiss, quietly, and you hear her swallow when you skate your finger over her hips and down her stomach, tracing gently at the place you were pressed together, thoroughly covered in your cum, her slick.

“Uh.” Miyeon makes a face. Wrinkles her nose. “Gross.”

“Oh please,” you say as she cuddles up to you as far as the backseat of your car will allow. “You know you love it.”

Here’s the thing you fail to realize about a girl like her, a girl like Miyeon:

She’s more than just the physical, than the sum of her parts. She’s a feeling.

Oh, there’s plenty about the ways you touch her, the way her hand fits into yours, her hair running silky smooth between your fingers—how you can leave bruises on her thighs and marks on her neck, or reduce her to a whimpering mess with nothing but a firm grip. She laughs and it’s something that moves you to your core. She’s easy to admire from afar. And even easier up close, where you can appreciate the mastery in those brushstrokes.

But pay attention to how your blood drains from your cheeks, how the world stutters on its axis when you look at her. Because you can’t help but feel like you’re living life the way it’s portrayed in fiction when you do. Like you’re slipping into a world where no matter how insurmountable the odds, the good guy always wins.

“It’s all bullshit, that’s what it is,” someone is telling you with an almost unsettling confidence, even though their voice is shaky and ever-so-slurred with drink.

You’re sitting there, slightly listless, on one of the stools at a four-top, busy zoning out at the neon smirnoff sign behind the bartender like it might move if you look away for even a second. Your fingers are tapping on the table, and the fact that you can’t taste the kick in your heavily doctored gin and tonic means you’re already drunk. Probably. You’ll have to thank Miyeon later.

“Hey,” the someone starts again, “are you even listening to me?” It’s a little deep, raspy, but it sounds like it belongs to a girl.

No, you think.

“Sorry,” you say after blinking a few times and pulling yourself away from the sign. The girl sitting next to you frowns. “Have we met?”

“Yuqi,” Miyeon says, handing her a beer and setting her own drink down on the table. It’s pink and full of ice and in a ridiculous looking piece of glassware.

It goes without saying that you couldn’t show up to the main event—late, attached at the hip, and with Miyeon’s hair all disheveled and half-repaired like you two were fucking in secrecy—so Miyeon pitches the idea to you while you’re in the middle of wiping cum off your pants with napkins from the glove compartment: If you’re interested, there’s a bar nearby. My friends are there, it’s quiet but it’s nothing too pretentious.

“And you met Sana earlier,” Miyeon adds, lifting her chin in the direction toward the girl buried in her phone, tapping away furiously at a series of text messages—the way she hasn’t looked up in minutes and how her drink is nearly untouched implies some sort of drama.

It’s kinda weird—you’re realizing you might have a type: they’re all some sort of blonde. Shockingly easy to look at too. With bodies that could fill a nighttime of fantasy, and supposedly somehow they’re best friends? Look, you’ve never seen two pretty best friends; it grinds against cosmic law, ain’t one of them supposed to be not so pretty? (Though maybe the rules are different when you land on odd numbers? If it isn’t all a little perplexing.)

“Know each other from work,” Miyeon explains, holding her hair back from her face and barely touching her lips to the rim of her glass.

“Uh.” Yuqi pops the top of the bottle off against the side of the table. “And we live together.” “Roommates?” you ask, carefully trying to keep your tone from sounding judgemental, and Miyeon gives you a solemn nod. There’ll be time to pry later.

“Look,” Sana says, only after finally putting her phone face down in front of her. There’s a story there. Maybe you’ll hear the end of it. “I’m not saying I’m proud of this attitude, okay, but that’s the truth: I make judgments based on what drink people order.”

She fixes her eyes on you, and god, she’s gorgeous. It’s a different kind of beauty, a lot less subtle, way more in your face, and she knows she can get away with it. (Though it’s the patented hundred-megawatt smile of hers that’ll stick with you.)

“Like if you were drinking a cosmo or whatever the hell it is Miyeon’s got—”

“What?” Yuqi scoffs, and her eyebrow turns when she sees Miyeon wrap her arm around yours. “And just like that he’s not sexy or sophisticated, smart or virile? Is that it?” “I suppose…” Sana twists her lip between her teeth. “Maybe it’s context?”

“No, that makes sense,” you say, and you dab at a ring of condensation on the table with a bar napkin. “Like I wouldn’t hesitate to take a cosmo if I was stranded in an airport in February and the planes are getting de-iced and the pilots are deciding whether to take off or go home.”

“I’d order a double,” Miyeon says, and you swear she’s closer to you each time you check.

“So then tell us, what’s the quintessential manly drink then?” Yuqi asks, skeptical, and a little disappointed to even be entertaining the question. “If pink cosmos are on one end of the spectrum…” “Dunno.” Sana crosses her legs, and rubs at her chin. “I suppose anything that comes in one of those squat, burly glasses.”

“The kind that real men hurl across the bar at another man’s head,” you deadpan.

“Oh my god.” Sana springs forward in her seat, and her gaze pins you to where you’re sitting. “You get it. Do I know you from somewhere? I swear you’ve got a face that’s familiar.” “Maybe I just got one of those faces,” you tell her, and Miyeon squeezes her fingers gently around your knee.

“Maybe.” Sana tilts her head, letting out a mostly unentertained chuckle, dry and humorless. You can see the gears slowly churning in her head.

Yuqi’s got her bottle turned up nearly perpendicular to the ceiling, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand—it’s all oddly charming—and she just lets out a wistful sigh. “Someone should make a movie, an old western maybe, where someone flings an oversized martini glass. You could start a movement.”

You’re not really thinking about anything in particular when the conversation ebbs and flows, except that you’re content; buzzed with the bitters in your drink; and the ephemeral touches of the hand in your lap, gentle, curious, teasing. There’s something laid back about being in Miyeon’s company that draws you in, something effortless, like the world seems less maliciously unfriendly, even if she ends up managing to embarrass you in a game of billiards. She finds the table at the end of the bar and readies a flip comment while rubbing chalk into the end of a pool cue. You watch as it leaves white streaks all over her chic dress, and you’re kind of enamored by the fact she doesn’t seem to care. “You’re sure you’ve played before?” she ribs, pulling a hairpin from her clutch, and clipping it to the hair at one temple to keep it from interfering with her game.

“Aren’t you a wealth of talents,” you say, in admiration.

“Do you mean, appearances can be deceiving?” she asks while sizing up a shot, grins—a smile that suggests mischief, which is normal, except that this one invites you to be part of it. “I think you might be putting words in my mouth.”

“Oh,” she says, and with her lovely, slender, fingers pressing onto the green baize, she sockets three shots in a row. Misses on the fourth. “So now you don’t like me putting things in your mouth, is that it?”

“Hm,” you say, ignoring the obvious bait and lining up a shot. “This is going to be a weird question.”

Miyeon drops her arm and tilts her head quizzically.

“What do you think of the script?”

“The one that has us heartbroken and lost and wandering until we rediscover love is right where we left it?”

“That’s the one.”

Miyeon covers her mouth to laugh when you take your shot and it misses in such grand fashion that you can’t help but hang your head. “It’s the dress shirt,” she says to comfort you.

“I’ll take what pity I can get.”

You’re watching Miyeon in action—hair carefully swept back, earrings sparkling, and heels set firmly on the floor—all together rather enchanting. She makes several more shots, aimed with perfect precision and seriousness, before finally answering you: “dunno, seems a little psychotic.”

“I mean that’s the thing about romance,” you begin, “there’d be no story if the writers weren’t at least a little psychotic.”

“Oh by the way.” Yuqi’s voice booms at that moment, with all the subtlety of a bulldozer: “I’ve gotta take Sana home. She’s late to getting plowed by her new manager. I’ll catch you later.”

“That isn’t—” Sana huffs, pinches at the bridge of her nose, and stops herself short, before reapproaching it in a more bracing way. “I’m telling you he gets all worked up whenever I’m out drinking this late.”

“Worked up, huh?” Yuqi grins at a parody of a smile, and turns to you, laughing. “That’s how she likes him.”

“Yuqi,” Sana groans.

Miyeon rests her cue up on the table and crosses her arms, smirking in your direction. “Life imitates art, right?

“You’ve got a girl here, don’t you?” Minnie asks, at nine in the morning and standing in your living room. It reminds you of the fact that you have a meeting on your calendar on today’s date between you and your agency’s lawyer at nine in the morning.

She's not some expert sleuth. At least, not as far as you're aware. It could be one of any number of things that tips her off: Miyeon’s heels are in your foyer, her champagne dress folded neatly over the back of your couch, or maybe it’s the pair of underwear that landed perfectly on the corner of your television. What it is not, however, is the reddening outline of Miyeon’s lips on your Adam's apple; you’re doing a pretty good job of coyly covering that up with your palm.

“I mean yeah, I suppose you could say that.”

“I don’t know if you could’ve answered that more ominously.” Minnie laughs, shuffling past where you stand in the door frame and setting her bag down on your kitchen island, surveying the mess in your apartment. She stands before you, wearing all black and looking down her nose at you.

(She’d pretty much cornered the market on wearing all black and looking down her nose at you, and you always take a moment to marvel that anyone could live on the earth only twenty-some odd years and manage to wear all black and look down their nose at you with such timeless self-assurance.)

“If you need her to sign an NDA, I’ll have to swing back by the office to pick up the proper paperwork.” “I don’t need her to sign an NDA,” you say, turning on water from the faucet and filling a kettle. The hand you have running through your hair helps you remember that you are still very poorly put together: a mess of bedhead, t-shirt, underwear, and only a singular sock to your name. Not that it matters, you suppose. Minnie’s seen you worse.

“Wow. Things must be getting serious, huh.” Minnie drums her fingers on the counter. “Well whatever it is, I’ve got stuff for you to sign.”

“I thought we walked through all the contract boilerplate already.” “We did.” “And?” “Contracts change.” The pen she has in her fingers, scanning over a stack of papers, is poised. Her slow nod studious, blandly puzzled. “That’s why you need me.”

“Now if that isn’t an unfortunate truth,” you say, and Minnie raises an eyebrow. “Good change or bad change?”

“Depends. Have you met Cho Miyeon, the other lead? She’s cute, blonde.” Minnie hovers her hand an inch in front of her nose. “About yea high.”

“A few times,” you answer, sorta truthfully.

Minnie tilts her head, and licks her thumb to flip through the first couple pages in the stack. “Well, the producers want you two to be seen. Together. Somewhere high profile and suggestive.”

“Okay.” You’re pouring hot water from the kettle over coffee grounds and a filter when you realize you have no idea what that’s about. You voice as much: “I have no idea what that means.”

“Well, here’s the general thought: they figure they can get some free marketing, brush up a little media buzz, get people talking about this movie if some paps snap some pictures of you two where it looks like you’re—”

“Where it looks like we’re dating. Okay, sure, wonderful.”

“Your words, not mine—or the producers, legally.” You fall silent, thinking: there’s no such thing as fairytales, it was bound to happen, a trip up, a snag, a snare. You know, in essence, it’s trouble.

“Um.” Your shoulders drop. “The producers want a scandal, Minnie.” “Again, I’m not legally allowed to call it that.” She shakes her head, before putting something down on a lined memo pad with great industry. “And if that’s your assessment, you came to it all on your own with no help from me.”

But yes, she mouths to you silently. You got it, aren’t you clever, now play along.

“Does this not feel like shaking a hornet’s nest?” you ask her. “Surely there’s a better way to go about receiving death threats; she’s a damn idol.”

“She certainly is,” Minnie says, passing you the pen and giving you her practiced professional-but-still-definitely-sardonic-smile that always manages to emote, please don’t be difficult. If she’s hoping it inspires confidence, it does not. “Sign the new contract.”

You’ve got plenty of reasons to have reservations, but here’s a fun fact not a lot of people know: there’s a part of you perfectly content shutting up and doing what you’re told. Maybe it’s something about pretty girls with dark eyes, long legs and a curl in their lip that upstages anything like subtlety—an Achilles heel of sorts. Except instead of your mother forgetting to bathe your feet in the river styx, you’ve just got some mother issues in general.

“There,” Minnie says, watching you initial on the dotted line. “Was that so hard? Someday, you’ll look back and think, yeah, that’s where it all goes to shit.

Three weeks into filming, you make good on your promise.

It would have been neater, perhaps, if all the sneaking around and impropriety caught up with you and used this moment as a catalyst: if, filled with embarrassment, you owned up to everything that was going on between you. Might’ve saved you some hurt.

You watch Miyeon’s hand shoot up to her mouth only to find whimpers leaking out from beneath her palm.

What if all those cameras had instead gotten pictures of you and Miyeon here, in the restroom of a cafe that Miyeon swore up and down would be crawling with paparazzi—where Miyeon had dragged you by the wrist halfway through a bottle of dry chardonnay, locked the door behind her, and flicked the skirt of a her floral dress up over her hips. Imagine the way it would look: you on your knees, face buried between Miyeon’s legs—

“I swear… your fucking mouth,” Miyeon murmurs, fingers running through your hair.

—all you know is that it would have been a different kind of disaster.

“Oh,” she moans, and you swallow heavily at the sight of her above you, following the movement in her face: every wince, every flinch, pleasure absolute and wringing her dry. She’s pretty as always, eyes dark and twinkling under the cool fluorescent lights. It’s that damn blush again, and you’re convinced eating Miyeon out feels like the most normal thing in the universe, like you’ve done it a million times before, and you’ll do it a million times more. Just listen to how Miyeon’s breath stutters when you lap softly at the heat between her lips, lifting her hood and swirling her clit once, twice, before bringing the narrow point of your tongue back to the shallow depth of her aching entrance. She shudders at all how you tease her, slick pooling in your mouth, down your chin; a pinched off moan filling the bathroom when you add another finger inside her.

“Yes, yes, yes,” she says, gasping out on top of an embarrassed little sigh each time time she bucks against the touch of your hand. You spread her lips, get your tongue flatter, deeper, and she drops her shoulders, laughing in that high-pitched skittery way she does when she’s struggling not to cum all over you with her eyes clenched shut.

It’s a sight to behold: Miyeon twisting her brows and biting into her lower lip—chewing off all the lip-gloss you know she just put on because you watched her make a show of it at the table like it was the most delicate thing in the world. She looks soft, docile even, and hums out a wistful note when you squeeze your hand into her thigh. Swallows back a moan when you reach up and knead at her chest. Yeah, she is soft. Tender and malleable and perfect. How easily you keep her pinned in place with just a flex of your wrist.

“Now would you look at that, princess,” slips out of you, totally carefree, lifting your lips from her pussy and wiping the wet from your chin. She sways slightly, and you’re leaning into her space, voice nearly coming out breathy and flooded as hers, asking, “You’re so wet, Miyeon. How do you want me to make you cum? On my fingers?”

Miyeon just sighs, lust and need glittering in her eyes. If there’s anything you’ve picked up from all of this so far, from all the raunchy sex, every manner in which she’s puddled in your grip, all the times she’s begged for you to hold her down and rail her—more than anything else, Miyeon loves, loves, loves to be teased.

But it’s the way her smile stretches, just perfectly, or even just one glance from those doleful eyes—fuck, goddamnit, one day I am really going to fucking die written into the shy curve of her lips—you’re never quite that cruel. Her panties are dropped to the floor and hanging around her ankle, soaked, ruined, but that doesn’t mean she needs to be too; you bring your lips back to her pussy. Fingertips curling up against that spot that drives her up the wall and your tongue running laps around her swollen clit.

“Oh, like that,” Miyeon whines, barely able to make any noises louder than a whimper, “just like that, please, yes, like that—”

And then you catch the aching swell of her clit between your lips. Slowly, start to suck.

“God,” she breathes out, still writhing from the fingers you have inside her, your thumb rubbing against wet, slippery skin, right how you’ve learned she likes it. And she gasps, head rolled back, brows furrowed up: “Oh, yes, oh God, you — you’re perfect. It’s — ”

That really never gets old.

Everything stills for a moment. Everything besides your fingers fucking her quietly while her orgasm quakes through her. She’s catching her breath, staring at you—skin dewy with sweat and chest heaving. Her warmth wraps around you, surrounds you, and you’d be content to stay like this forever, pressing kisses into her stomach and never, ever letting go.

That is until she looks at you, lashes fluttering, as if she’s trying to gauge your emotions. Until she speaks. “I want it,” she gasps, breath steadying, “I want your cock.”

She knows you, right down to the basics: you can never deny her anything.

(You’re being cautious—covering your tracks, you convince yourself—but then there’s all this evidence to the contrary, no shortage of close calls, times where you’re so nearly caught: Miyeon’s lithe, tight body grinding desperately against yours in a costume closet or her dressing room or in the backseat of your car; the way she keens when you slip your fingers inside her, how she wails in delight when you really fuck her in earnest; you cutting off those unabashed moans with your mouth or your hand or even just two fingers shoved between her lips so she might have something to bite down on.

It’s this whole thing, the sneaking around, the indiscretion—Miyeon loves it. And the danger of it all become something like a siren’s call, you are just as attracted to the idea too, that you’re masking who you are in the dark, just past drawn curtains and under fitted sheets.

“Wow, I never noticed, but you guys are, like, weirdly close,” Soyeon says once, sometime near the beginning, and perhaps when you’d begun to stare a little too obviously as Miyeon was tying her hair back. It has you both laughing off the observation as something trivial, like Soyeon was the odd one out for noticing anything at all. But fast forward a few hours, and you’re sprawled out on a set of hotel linens, having a laugh again all while Miyeon fucks herself on your hard cock, delighted at how easy it is to conceal everything in plain sight.)

“Um,” Yuqi says, walking into the living room of Miyeon’s apartment with her laptop precariously perched on her forearm.

You’re out there on a Wednesday, hanging out, kissing Miyeon every now and again, but talking mostly. The rationalization is that you’re practicing and memorizing lines, ironing out kinks that aren’t really there. Which is all how you know things are getting out of control, if not among the other hints: Miyeon’s added a spare toothbrush in the cup on your bathroom vanity, a pile of women’s laundry atop your washing machine that never grows any smaller, beauty products under the sink, and there’s all those damn bobby pins that show up in every corner of your apartment. “It’s just casual”, you overhear her say once, on the phone with Sana, and you do your best to never, ever think about it.

“You idiots, you’re trending.” Yuqi sits down on the sofa next to you, not at all disconcerted that you’ve got your hand in the ends of Miyeon’s hair or that she’s practically sitting in your lap. You learn pretty quick that Yuqi feels like she belongs anywhere. In some ways, that’s her charm. “And?” Miyeon asks, dismissive.

“Are you both insane?” Yuqi turns her laptop around so you can read her feed.

There’s a series of pictures on the screen attached to a headline that starts with breaking in bold capital letters, like its only true purpose is to fuck up the internet. Your eyes start on Miyeon first, the tilt of her chin, her fingers floating across her collarbones, smile radiant—looking at you the way she always does when she’s mentally undressing you. Fortunately, she’s still perfectly made up, hair tied up above her shoulders and the mascara under her eyes not quite yet running; this photo is before you made a mess of all that, gotten her moaning your name in the restroom. You’ve got your hand at the back of your neck, and you’re laughing. The glint in your eye screams complicity.

Miyeon says emptily, “you’re overreacting.”

Yuqi’s frown deepens fractionally, but you’re putting the pieces together. It’s pretty unhinged.

“Christ,” you start, “get a look at some of these retweets: I’m just thinking of what those kids would look like, the genetic payout; fuuuuuuck I need to see that sextape.” You laugh. “Look, this one just says: sex.”

Miyeon leans forward in your lap, cheek nearly pressed against yours. “Here’s one: how much do you wanna bet Miyeon tops when they—”

Yuqi bursts out laughing, clearly almost snorts, and you both raise an eyebrow at her. “What? This girl here isn’t topping anyone.”

“Shut it.” Miyeon rubs her hand at her chin, turns her eyes up at you, and without an ounce of irony continues, “How much do you wanna bet? That these are your fans.”

Yeah, probably not, you think. “I’m sorry. Do you have any idea how my demographic skews? Not like your fans who are…” Miyeon’s face lights up. “Are delightful?” “Have a sock at home with Miyeon’s name on it?” Yuqi chimes in, grinning. “I mean if somebody wants to make a puppet of me,” Miyeon says, practically huffing out the words, “that’s not really any of your concern.”

Yuqi makes a face. You watch as she slowly twirls one of those long waves of pink hair around her finger (strawberry blonde, Miyeon called it, and you don’t know shit all about that, but it does sound pretty, so that fits, you guess). It goes all the way down to her waist, and you’ve noticed, possibly for a second or third time, that she looks killer in a pair of high cut jeans—what all with the long legs and an ass that more than plenty fills them out, she could be peddling denim on a Levi’s catalog.

“What should be your concern,” Yuqi says, “is that the internet thinks you’re getting railed on the regular.” It’s quick—blink and you’d have missed it—her eyes lingering for a moment on your expression before she lifts her chin and laughs, dryly, almost nervously to fill the silence. “What the fuck is wrong with you two?”

Yuqi’s expertise, first and foremost, is talking. Go ahead, take a moment to consider how wildly dangerous that is, for a girl with a face like hers and a body like that to be good at talking. Every so often you catch her staring at you with her huge, beautiful eyes, these deep pools of pure anthracite; the sort of charming that keeps you smiling and laughing without even knowing why. She’s equal parts badmash and coquettish, you realize, and somewhere in the seamlessness with which she swaps between the two is a hint that both are facades. (That there exists a third Yuqi, the one who determines which mask is appropriate for which occasion but who is otherwise veiled, obscured, entirely impossible to know.)

Whatever your theory for it, the charm, the innuendos, the suggestion, it all gets dialed up to eleven.

Yuqi suggests you stay for dinner in a way that is impossible to refuse, and Miyeon grumbles something inaudible, but you think you’re able to piece it together: this is a regular thing for them. Miyeon and you haven’t talked numbers or cleared up the bodycount, haven’t talked about anything serious at all—the most incriminating thing between you being Miyeon laying her head on your chest, cunt still full of your cum, saying, I’m really glad I met you—of all of Miyeon’s princes-in-waiting, you’d be a fool to think you were the first. And you’re willing to wager Yuqi’s done all this before.

“Hey, how do you take your whiskey?” she asks, pouring olive oil over a bowl of cherry tomatoes and chopping a sprig of fresh basil. If Miyeon wasn’t glaring at her, the quirk in Yuqi’s lip has you swearing she would’ve thrown a wink in your direction. Just for good measure.

“Neat is fine,” you tell her, and Miyeon rolls her eyes. -

It’s actually not true that Yuqi kisses you first. Not the whole truth anyway. “Hard to explain it in words, huh?” she asks, leaning into your space and nearly pushing you over the back of the sofa. Her knee is between your thighs, pressing up on your crotch in a way that feels good and threatening. She knows that’s the only thing she needs to keep you in place, so she leaves her hands at her chest, fingers toying with the top button of her shirt—ruminations of whether to unbutton it herself or wait for you to finally tear the whole thing off her.

(There’s a million different ways you could do this, but you’re perfectly content seeing how this plays out.)

“With just a few of them that is,” Miyeon says, drying her hands with a towel at the kitchen sink.

“Oh,” Yuqi starts, and her lips twist into an approximation of a smile. “You’re saying you two don’t have a label.”

“We’re coworkers technically,” you tell her, faux-casual, like it doesn’t beg twenty more questions.

“I don’t know; the internet thinks you guys are in fucking love.” Yuqi’s fingers come to a decision: slipping the button out of place with a little effort and resting at the next one down. Her neck is pale and tender and you’re only pulling away long enough from the glint in her big gorgeous eyes to know you want to get your lips on it. “And you’re telling me you wouldn’t be jealous—even a little—if I started sucking his cock.”

She gets jealous easy, is how Yuqi explains it to you, freeing an ounce of soft cleavage, a sneak of black lace with another button. Look, it’s just chemistry—you have it with everyone. Who can fault you for it?

“Hm.” Miyeon shrugs, looking put upon, and leans back against the counter where she spends a long moment with her arms crossed, before running her thumb across her chin. “Can I mention something?” “Anything for our princess,” Yuqi says, finally touching you. Just two fingers at your sternum. “Right?” “Why is it you’re never the one bringing anyone home?”

“I’m not a slut,” Yuqi says, straight-faced, and Miyeon’s whole expression goes awry. That’s probably where she seals her fate.

Not that you think for a second Yuqi had recused herself from the attention of boys, girls—none of it in short supply—and for all her “fidelity”, you refuse to believe the things she does with her words are unintentional, that her talent for seduction is somehow innate, something god-given.

“How can you be so sure?” you ask, fingers threading through Yuqi’s hair until she tilts up her chin and smiles.

Eventually there comes a moment where Miyeon meanders around the kitchen island and gets a hold of you. Figuratively and literally; eyes hardened on you in a way you’re not sure you’ve seen before.

Mine, is what she’s telling Yuqi in no ambiguous terms, hands hooking into the waist of your pants.

“Tell me something,” Yuqi starts with your name on her lips, “does she beg for it? When you’re fucking her, does she whine and cry until she’s collapsed and panting? Really, I’m curious. Does she look at you with those pretty eyes and plead for you to pump her full of cum?”

“Yuqi,” Miyeon says, kind of sharply.

To be clear, you’re not totally without blame here either, seeing the opportunity as it appears, seizing it for yourself—and you say the words as you think them: “it’s kind of her thing, I guess.”

“Total cumslut, right?” Yuqi’s hands are all over your arms, your chest, and you’re spread in both directions, reaching around Miyeon’s waist, and toying at the tight fit of Yuqi’s jeans. She leans forward a little, side-eyeing the way Miyeon’s lip ever so slightly curls when she enters that anxious proximity a breath's distance away from you, whispering: “I’m nothing like that, I’m so much better.”

“You’ve got a real mouth on you,” Miyeon tells her, watching her shirt fall down her petite shoulders. “You know that?” Yuqi’s eyes are flaring hot, dripping with untoward intent, and they stay on you just long enough for her to make certain you’re paying attention before she turns to Miyeon. “I know you love this mouth.”

You realized it long before dinner, it’s true, probably long before today: Yuqi likes you, which, at present, is pretty obvious. She likes it when you smile, likes it when you rub your hand at the nape of your neck and laugh at her witty one-liners, likes it when you ruffle your hair just like you’ve done in front of the camera your whole life. Yuqi likes you just as Yuqi likes Miyeon, and she’s twisting her hand at your shirt tighter yet, hoping one of you might just kiss her. “Miyeon,” you say after an inhale, commanding tone right where you left it, and it’s comical how fast both girls heel. Isn’t that good to know. Filing it away in a mental folder of sorts, you straighten yourself onto your feet, slowly. The thing that ends up flipping the table—the thing that has Miyeon’s expression of general discontent rally to something a little more impending—is just how much taller you are than Yuqi. And when that hits her, swallow visible through the hollow of her throat, there’s a waver in that deadly expression of hers, a weakness, something you can exploit. Your hand finds purchase under Yuqi’s jaw, gently, and you tilt her face toward you like you’re about to kiss her. Only instead, you run your thumb across her lower lip and say, “I don’t blame you, her mouth is gorgeous.”

“And?” Yuqi finds her composure quickly. “What do you want this mouth to do?”

“Oh, Yuqi,” Miyeon says, malice hidden under a voice tender and semi-sweet, before you can think to prepare an answer. She’s twisting Yuqi’s bra strap between her fingers as it comes down around her shoulder. “I want you to get me ready for his cock.”

“I,” Yuqi starts—

“Hm?” Miyeon asks, and that’s a pitch in her voice you’ve never heard. You’re looking over both of them enigmatically, ready to walk away from this with a clear picture of who Yuqi is, obviously, but then it’s the expression on Miyeon’s face—so unbothered, so lewdly satisfied, you have to know more.

“You’re fucking crazy if you think I’m just gonna watch.” Yuqi reaches up on her toes before Miyeon can react.

Kisses you right in front of her.

It’s not really clear to you who, if anyone, is piloting this thing, only that it’s moving at near out of control speeds. And even though Miyeon’s bed isn’t even quite big enough to hold you all, that ends up doing little to slow either of them down.

Miyeon is between your legs, preening a few strands of glossy hair back behind her ear that have real determination to keep falling in front of her face. You’d offer to help, to get your hands in it and pull tight, but you’ve come upon an acquired taste for the blowjob Miyeon’s barely giving you right now. A masterwork in its own right: a certain finesse in each flick of her tongue, the soft cushion of her pouty lips, the way every gentle kiss finds you that much fucking harder in her fingers. She drags her tongue up, tastes the pre-cum weeping from your cock. Just smiles like she knows how bad you want hold her tight and fuck her throat. The glint in her doe-like eyes tells you that you will.

She gets it. Terror lives in anticipation, not the bang. That sanguine expectation of pleasure becomes pleasure in of itself. Her instincts tell her to tease, tell her to kiss and lick; only when you’re finally shuddering a wet breath through your teeth, does she part her lips around the head of your cock and start to suck.

She takes in an inch, maybe another. Slides her tongue slowly under your cock, and christ, her mouth feels fucking amazing.

You sigh like you’re stepping into a hot bath, and Miyeon’s satisfaction is equally palpable: corners of her mouth stretching around you into a pretty little smirk, something you’re more than happy to feel running up and down your cock until she slacks her jaw and takes you in full, past her soft, wet lips.

Though when finally you look up, you realize Yuqi’s barely on the bed actually—just one knee and it looks precarious—unfazed that she’s spilling off the end; working her hands into the bottom of Miyeon’s skirt like she’s done it a thousand times. She drags her underwear down her thighs, and Yuqi reminds you that she’s got the exact kind of wicked streak that’ll never let an opportunity go to waste:

“Oh,” she says, head up over Miyeon’s ass, blinking in admiration, “she’s even buying new lingerie for you, huh? I didn’t realize how head over heels—”

“Jesus Christ.” Miyeon’s lips are still half complicating themselves with your cock; she pumps her slender fingers around you in consolation, and murmurs, “do you ever fuck? Or you all tease.”

“Well if you insist,” Yuqi purrs, a mean tilt to her voice—because in the end, she knows that she wants to; that with her small body right between you, like this, there's plenty of her to share; that when it comes to Miyeon, there always is. “Hm,” she hums, slipping a finger or two inside Miyeon’s pussy. Your vision of it being the way Miyeon’s face twists delightfully, eyebrows sewn together in a perfect discord with the rest of her angelic features. “Baby, you’re so wet—”

“She loves the attention,” you say, and Miyeon’s eyes track yours while she lowers her lips slowly down your shaft once more. “If I had to guess, the only thing better than me fucking her perfect little cunt, is if there’s an audience there to watch it.” Your hand rests below Miyeon’s ear, fingers kneading at the back of her neck and guiding her just enough so that her tongue is flat and slick where you want it. “Isn’t that right, princess?”

Yuqi separates her lips from Miyeon’s asscheek, that heavy, open-mouthed kiss at the curve of creamy skin coming to an end just long enough to catch you smirking. She’s fucking the girl’s cunt open with her fingers, slowly, reminding Miyeon that she doesn’t have it confused—that she knows she’s nothing like the princess everyone believes her to be, that she’s so much more. “Always such a good slut, baby. Go on, show me how you take that cock.” “How about you come over here,” you tell Yuqi, before looking back at Miyeon’s eyes, innocent and blinking like she isn’t taking you in and out between her tightly-sealed lips. “Help me cum in her throat.” At that, you feel Miyeon’s jaw slack open even further, and the fingers she has corkscrewing around you find room at your hips instead. It’s hard to get over how perfectly submissive she can be, the way this always plays out; you’ve never needed anything like safewords, because Miyeon trusts you implicitly. Trusts that you’d never, ever hurt her. Trusts that you’ll get your hard cock in her and fuck her until her knees are wobbling and she’s practically unable to walk. Trusts that you won’t even hesitate when she asks for more. Yuqi lands a few more kisses at Miyeon’s cunt, along her ass, and then, without warning, sinks her teeth into all that soft, pliable skin. Miyeon winces, something you can feel, a sharp moan becoming sealed in against your cock and leaking slightly between her lips like it’s the drool running down your shaft. Apparently the image of you firing off a salvo of cum deep in Miyeon’s throat is as hot as it sounds, because Yuqi is grinning like a cheshire cat as she slides off the bed. “I just hope you realize you’re on the docket for quite a lot here.”

“What’s that, high expectations?”

“A lot more than a throatpie,” Yuqi says, hopping onto the bed next to where you’re sitting, where you’re slowly fucking Miyeon’s mouth. Each time you lift her face up and down the length of your cock, you feel the back of her throat, start to catalog the noises she makes as she starts to slobber onto you.

“Yeah,” you say, fisting a second hand into Miyeon’s hair. “I was kind of counting on it.”

“Go figure.” Yuqi’s voice is low and raspy, right into your junction where your shoulder meets your neck. She reaches an arm around you, leaving ephemeral kisses at your jaw, your cheek, getting her lips right next to your ear, where she whispers, “you’re actually kinda depraved.”

“Well, welcome to showbiz, I guess.” “Hm,” Yuqi says, watching you shudder as her fingers arrive around the base of your cock, fucking you with them in tandem as you sleeve yourself in out of Miyeon’s hot mouth like she’s some toy to be used, to be fucked, to be ruined.

Your mouth opens and closes, twice, before sputtering, “I’m actually—”

“One of the normal ones?” Yuqi tightens her grip. She’s picking up all that slick drool and precum where it threatens to leak onto your waist, and it makes her touch every bit as life-endingly-incredible as the tight fit of Miyeon’s mouth. The combination of which has you groaning audibly.

“Yeah, sure,” you breathe, “something like that.”

“And a narcissist too.” Yuqi pulls at your face to unstick your gaze from the sight of your cock disappearing between Miyeon’s soft, pretty lips. You recognize the touch of her hand as it wanders down to your balls, gently, but still very much present. And right after the silence stretches, just a little too far, she says, “aren’t you two just perfect for eachother.”

Yuqi kisses you hard. These sweltering, stinging, asphyxiating kisses that grab at your lips with no intention of letting go, and everything becomes oddly quiet. All you can hear, outside of those messy, strangled sounds from Miyeon’s throat as you fuck your cock into it, is the dull pulse of blood rushing through your head. It’s as if the two of them are pleasure in resonance, channeling onto the same wavelength: Miyeon’s tongue is doing just about fucking everything each time you pull your throbbing cock out of her throat, and she slips it past her lips—starts lapping—when you weave your fingers in her hair even tighter. She gets messier, sloppier, her composure fading like it’s the mascara beneath her eyes. You can feel the flutter of her lashes against your waist right as you pull her mouth back down your shaft. It’s hot and wet and you don’t even realize you start bucking your hips, dragging Miyeon’s lips around your cock quickly, quicker, quicker—

“God,” you mutter, final threads torn apart, and that’s the exact reaction that has Yuqi smiling against your teeth, whispering into your lips, can feel you fucking throbbing. Cum in her for me, cum in her throat. Cum.

Mnnph.

Yeah, that’ll push you right to the edge, teetering. In freefall, actually, jaw snapping shut first—fingers shortly after—you tug hard at where you’ve gathered slipshod pigtails of shimmering, silky-smooth hair, and Miyeon quite nearly chokes as you release everything into her mouth, deluge-like. You’re going to make a mess, you think. You’ll make more.

Mmnnppph.

Okay, it’s filthy is what it is; the sounds of it alone are fucking filthy. That seal of soft lips around you starts to break, leaving you with the flood of cum and spit spilling down your cock and into Yuqi’s fingers as Miyeon gasps at an overwhelmingly desperate draw of air. The struggle to swallow you down is beyond unreasonable, but she brings her mouth back onto you again—closes her eyes and sucks.

“All of it,” Yuqi whispers still. That’s the kick, and your whole body commits to sighing as she jerks your cock into the wet heat of Miyeon’s mouth. She twists gently, pumping, pulling, fucking every last bit of tension out of your muscles and draining it thoroughly into Miyeon’s throat.

(So that’s what you like, is how you think Yuqi says it, eyes studying your torn expression in equal parts apathy and awe.

She licks your cum off the sharp edge of her knuckles, from between her fingers, and she glances down at where Miyeon is still lapping her tongue at sensitive skin and sucking and cleaning you between her lips. Her lipstick is smeared, makeup running, with tears visible at the ends of her lashes, her cheeks still burning hot and embered. Miyeon looks perfect in many ways, but only flawless in one.)

“Good lord.” Yuqi’s eyes are creased in laughter near the end of your recovery, lighting fast and pulling you over Miyeon’s delicate frame. It’s the kind of laughter that’s genuine and contagious. Sweetly harmonic.

Calling you to join in while you glide your cock between Miyeon’s thighs and press the small of her back into her mattress until she’s practically prone to the bed, tight little ass angled up, proffering, and simply begging for you to pound away.

“And I mean this in the most respectful way possible,” Yuqi says, with a hair tie between her teeth and fixing back her long waves into something more manageable, hoping it might be something you can pull and yank. What’s the saying—a brave man dies once, but a coward ought to know that Yuqi will always, always, always get what she wants.

“You two are actually really fuckin’ weird.” Her eyes are smoldering, lips quirked into a careless little grin. “I love it.”

“Alright, I’m going to have to ask,” Miyeon says, “do I need to be worried about this?”

Someone probably should be. The realization you’re hurdling into is that there exists both a waking up with Yuqi and a waking up with Yuqi, much in the same way there exists both a sleeping with Yuqi and a sleeping with Yuqi.

The three of you do first wake up together, just this ridiculous tangle of limbs that really only has one realistic conclusion, and when Miyeon reminds you—bent over the bathroom sink minutes later and cumming on Yuqi’s fingers—she has to be at the studio in an hour to refilm a few of her over-the-shoulders shots, and it’s not fair that you get to laze around all day, and that her manager is literally going to be here to pick her up any minute, Yuqi and you do the most natural thing in the world. You continue waking up.

You wake up in the shower, on the kitchen island, back again in Miyeon’s room since it’s already kind of fucked up anyway; Yuqi wakes you up all while her knuckles turn white around the door handle of the refrigerator, the back of the living room sofa, and it’s not really that convincing when she turns to Miyeon, one eye shut tight, and tells her, “no, not at all.”

Because when you try to voice something similar, your words get caught pretty deep in your throat, stuck and unmoving. That's become pretty familiar. It’s all pretty fucked, actually.

Yuqi’s on her knees in front of you, fist tight around your cock and jerking all this hot cum onto her face. There’s sin tucked everywhere into these pages. Particularly on her nose, her lips, her cheek, bisecting one of her perfectly manicured eyebrows. You have your proclivities. The tendency toward destruction, toward ruin, and what is Yuqi if not a gorgeous masterpiece begging for someone, anyone to be just a little destructive and ruinous. She flinches every time it hits her, pumping her fingers around your cock again until a rope of creamy white flies right into her pink hair.

We’re fine, is what you tell Miyeon, huffing and repeating yourself: “We’re fine, I’ll catch you later.”

Miyeon crosses her arms, and that’s when it becomes a little clearer. The juxtaposition here is striking and immediate: black heels, black leggings, pencil skirt, prim and pressed white-collared shirt, the cute little suit jacket that fits barely over her dainty shoulders—she’s dressed head to toe in business casual like she’s about to put in eight hours hole-punching or making copies or writing emails and it’s so effortlessly sexy that the only thing that could possibly distract you from it—

“He’ll be fine,” Yuqi says, not even chagrined in the slightest that she’s fucking covered in cum. You watch her stand up, wipe her eyelashes free of mess with the back of her forearm, and start leading you to the window with her wrist still flexing out tiny motions around your cock. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“Just a reminder,” Miyeon shouts, even-pitch and tone slightly indignant, which makes a lot of sense. “You promised you’d sit in for my line reads.”

“And I will.”

It’s almost idiotic—here you are, the expert in the room, a professional in spinning ludicrous little lies, purveyor of fantasy and fiction and fuck if it’s not obvious that you’re planning on fucking Yuqi’s pretty little cunt until you’re both forgetting how to function. Miyeon reads that from across the room. From where the stench of sex is so heavy it’s probably hitting her too.

“Oh relax princess,” Yuqi says to her, and her lips slant to something more mischievous. Her shoulders are slumped back against the pane of glass and she’s rubbing the head of your cock through the soaked folds of her pussy. Neither of you are in search of ideas, for inspiration. Want for nothing. You’ll fucking ruin this little cunt—get me screaming and so addled I can’t speak straight, Yuqi’s telling you with just the corner of her mouth, curling.

You grab hold of Yuqi, grappling with her for a moment before you spin her around in your hands—until her tits are plastered onto the window. It’s a show of force, a drill in shock and awe admittedly, but also you’ve got two perfect rows of bite marks above your collarbone. Honest to god, a full dental record, right in your shoulder. You sense the inspiration in it. Yuqi fucks like there’s inspiration in it, like she’s trying to kill you, in a way, but you’re paid for maintaining an image just a tad more wholesome than that. Ideally with a little less blood where a camera could catch it.

“Jesus christ,” Miyeon says, tapping away at her phone. “You guys are gross.”

“He promised. Didn’t he?” Yuqi mutters against the pane, the condensation in her breath fogging immediately. If that isn’t a perfect preview of what you’ll do to her. Perfectly premeditated by the way she fucking keens when you slip back inside her tight cunt. And Miyeon is very unimpressed with all of it: “Yeah okay, whatever, I don’t care, stay hydrated or something. I’m going to wait downstairs.”

“Told you,” Yuqi purrs, grinning all over you, in the breadth of quiet that the door leaves slamming shut behind Miyeon—stage exit, fade to black; you know that sometimes the magic of film isn’t what’s shown on camera, but rather what isn’t.

“Told me what?” you ask, still enthralled by how Yuqi is so small underneath you, how when you’re both reaching for control, you don’t really even care if she beats you to the draw.

She gets jealous, Yuqi’s trying to explain, in between the sounds of you fucking her open and raw. You hesitate. Like you haven’t always had that effect on people, blossomed into blessing, complexed into curse. You reach your hand up Yuqi’s ribs, her chest, around her throat, and let your words bite at her ear: “oh, I think you will too.”

“I get hate mail,” you tell Miyeon. You’re on set the following week, ducking out of the path of a mic boom that is swinging way too fucking low, and there’s this story trending that heavily suggests you and Miyeon are knocking boots and it has a few disheartened fans absolutely outraged. “Like physical hate mail, in envelopes and stamped and everything.”

“It’s because of the stubble,” she says, rubbing a finger under your jaw. The girl in charge of costuming is adamant that beard prosthetics are lazy and cheap and you are neither. Even if you need it for only one scene. “It makes you look…”

“Uncouth?”

“Rakish,” she says, blinking. And as an afterthought: “Like, of all your thoughts, the one you have of pulling my shirt up and kissing at my tits until they’re sore is somehow the least vulgar.”

Her shoulders pull up into the slightest shrug. “I mean I’m into it,” she adds.

“That’s not fair,” you tell her, “I’m not considering anything like that.”

Miyeon pulls you aside and up one of set’s staircases to nowhere, fingers warm at the crook of your elbow, and says, “well, it’s all I can fucking think about.”

Take a second for some personal reflection: you’ve never really tried to make a habit of anything and at the same time been successful. When it happens, it just kind of happens. We are what we repeatedly do.

In a way, it all started in public, this thing between you and Miyeon. Your roots are here, out with the blurs of passing people, daring to be seen, to be recognized, to be identified. You had long thought—and think, you do, particularly when doing the unthinkable—that a girl like Miyeon would steer away from the prospect; fucking you instead in private, comfort realized in the security of drawn curtains and shuttered blinds. A stark contrast to the part of your lives lived out in the open, subject to scrutiny and skepticism, unguarded from microscopic observation.

She only has everything to lose, you understand. And you aren’t more than a few paces behind her either. Reckless, she’s muttering while you sink to your knees and get your fingers up her skirt, so reckless—like this whole thing isn’t her idea.

The crazy part about all this that you actually do get caught. Not just one time either.

You’ll bring it up in discussion with Soyeon later, when you run into her at the movie’s premier event and you’ve realized the value of having a good confidant:

“I literally told you one thing,” she’ll say, hands on her hips and looking like the mother that has to call the school, has to call the parent of the window you’d shattered with a baseball. It’ll all be highly disappointing. You are unbelievable—is what she won’t be able to say, even though she’ll really, really want to—I told you not to sleep with Miyeon and you slept with Miyeon why would you sleep with Miyeon you absolute moron.

There’s the time on set: in a fucking storage closet of all places. You’ve got Miyeon laid back on a table, fucking her slowly. Her panties are in her mouth, and the toes of her foot are curling against your cheek. It starts with a kiss, which most people might consider poetic, just your lips against a heel, the narrow bend of her arch to where she’s got her delicate toes perfectly colored in pastel white; Miyeon’s too cock-addled to do anything like comment on the fact you take them between your lips, slowly, and again, sucking, kissing her feet until she laughs at the way it tickles.

“Oh my god,” a voice says. One of the production assistants. “Oh my god, I’m so, so sorry.”

There’s the time in the woods near where you’re shooting a few of the outdoor scenes. You’re stepping out of a tall brush, and Miyeon’s cheeks are so red, glistening in sweat and cum and there’s a technician running an extension cord to god knows where to hook up more lights to the rigging.

“Um,” he says, just staring and unwinding more cord.

“We were looking for her earring,” you tell him.

“In the fucking woods?” He laughs out loud, just this self-amused grunt of a laugh. “Did you find it?”

You actually can’t look him in the eye, and Miyeon is just standing there, mortified. Your forehead creases a puzzled line and you say, with absolute conviction: yes.

“Jesus christ, Miyeon.” You swivel on your stool in your dressing room. Think possibly to kneel, but you know what might happen if she sees you on your knees, supplicating.

Let the record show, you and Miyeon are on day six of your self-imposed moratorium—the ban that prohibits the two of you fucking eachother at work, so it’s not like it’s the fastest capitulation in the world either.

Miyeon does a spin, pleated hem of a navy blue plaid skirt flaring out to the sides—how do I look?

There are answers in your throat, no doubt—like sin, like fantasy, like a submissive, fuckable fantasy. Like it should be illegal.

“Uh—I mean,” you nearly stammer, massaging your thumb into your temple. It’s certainly not natural for you to be here, on the back foot, and it has Miyeon’s mouth slanting into a predictable smirk. In an almost inexcusably banal act, she puts a fingernail to her teeth and shimmies her waist so that you’re lost to the moment, tracking how the skirt’s fabric ruffles between her legs.

Is it the fact that some maniac in costume has gone and put her in a school uniform?

Yes.

That's a great deal of what’s going on here, which is a whole fucking lot. Is it the way her shoulders vanish in a tailored blazer with a nostalgia-inducing insignia above the breast pocket—her fingers poking out from the cuffs and toying at the lapels? Is it that the dress shirt beneath it is made of the cheapest cotton one could find (because the thing doesn’t really need to hold up over multiple washes) so you can see how her stomach flattens, that gentle rise in her chest, the sharp angle of her collarbones, all when the light catches it just right? There’s the stockings, dress shoes, a fucking ribbon in her hair and you’re ignoring the fact that the tie around her neck is a little loose and you might be able spin it over her shoulders and tighten your grip and—

“Cute, right?” She skips across the room and perches on your knee. Really selling it.

“I’m curious,” you say, looking for a narrow gap, something to stow away into, something that might take your mind off the fact that when you look at Miyeon, you’re transposing and overlaying images of an eleventh grade crush, and that’s not a mood you were prepared to be whipped into at just the flash of blue plaid and a charcoal blazer. “When was the last time you wore a ribbon in your hair?”

“Oh gosh.” One corner of Miyeon’s mouth frowns, ruminating. She hovers her hand up to her ponytail, twisting it gently until it bounces back into place. “It’s been such a long time actually, I don’t know, seventeen, eighteen years old?”

Okay, that’s certainly not helping. A more direct approach, perhaps: “what are you doing, Miyeon?”

“Oh,” she says, nonchalant, because isn’t it obvious, “I’m here to get fucked.”

This is trouble, and among other things, a perversion, you think, but your mouth is too dry to say any of that, and Miyeon leans in and places her fingers beneath your jaw. Tilts your chin and presses her lips to yours, gentle, feather-light.

One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three one-thousand. Four one-thousand.

Shifting slightly, the inside of Miyeon’s thigh presses to the outside of yours, only ever the slightest movement, and it has you sighing into her mouth. It’s impossible to decide whether you ought admire her confidence or find fault with her gall. She’s a delightful lapful—and a handful, and a mouthful—so you’ll flirt with danger, abandon those last vestiges of inhibition, and lean into the former rather than the latter.

Miyeon’s breath lands against your lips, hitching as the kiss breaks.

“Look,” you say, lip smacking back into place when she finally lets it free. There’s a response, bubbling up from your gut, because on one hand, this is the exact kind of impropriety you were hoping to avoid. And on the other, well, nothing ventured, nothing lost—you suppose. Your eyes are flicking to the top buttons of her shirt, collar agape and that gentle invitation of cleavage snuck behind it.

“Oh my god,” Miyeon says, inches from your face, and she starts to laugh. “You have grays in your beard.”

“No there aren’t.”

“I’m serious.” She wraps her hand around your cheeks, and twists your face to the vanity mirror, like it’d be helpful. “Look,” she says, twice, pulling her lip between her teeth and staring at your reflection.

“Those are stress grays,” you amend, before turning back and shifting her weight more comfortably into your lap, soft thighs straddling yours. “Just to be clear, I’m barely any older than you are.”

“Older,” she says, smiling.

“Don’t have to dwell on it.”

“I mean there’s a silver lining to that though.” Miyeon’s fingers are spread across your face, thumbs gently rubbing into your cheekbones. She’s close enough for you to forget her manager is going to come looking for her at some point or another. “Just means I can call you daddy, and it won’t be weird.”

“Uh.”

“You know,” she adds, sliding her fingers over your ears and pressing a kiss into your jaw, “while we’re doing it.”

“No, I understood that part.” You give her another once over and firm your hands on her waist to stop her from grinding her hips any further into yours. “I’m not sure it’s age that potentially makes it weird.”

“Come on,” she says, letting her voice slip into that slightly deepened register that suggests not only will she disobey you, but you’ll love every second of it. “I know you love to play with me.”

“It’s not a trick question. What are you asking for here, Miyeon?”

“Sex,” she says.

“Yes,” you answer, blinking back at her, expression skeptical. “I was there for that part of the conversation. It was about sixty seconds ago, if I recall.”

She lifts your chin, looks straight in your eyes, and asks, “and?”

“I’m just trying to puzzle out what you're telling me.” You slide your fingertips past the waist of her skirt and onto her ass. The quiet hum of satisfaction in Miyeon’s throat says you’re getting warmer. “What it is you want.”

“Any ideas?” she presses again, the lilt in her voice filling you with hundreds—the countenance behind it providing even more. Her hips grind into you further, bucking toward your waist and silencing the anxious distance between you.

“Do you want me to touch you?” Your hand snakes around the curve of Miyeon’s ass, down to where her underwear feels hot and unmistakably damp, where you can feel the shape of her lips through the fabric and the heat smoldering between them. There’s a tiny wanton whine from her throat when you circle your fingers; a sharp draw of air past her teeth when you apply a little more pressure. “Want my fingers inside of you? Hmm?”

Miyeon nods almost immediately.

You kiss her. Slide your mouth over her lips and recognize the strawberry in her lip gloss and hold onto your exhale, breathing the same air. Her eyes open first, lashes brushing yours. “You want me to fuck you, Miyeon.”

“Want you to tell me what to do,” she says, and without even running the word experimentally around her mouth, without testing its taste or the way it feels on her tongue, she fixes her dark brilliant eyes on you, saying, “want daddy to tell me what to do.”

You’ve got all this about nature and nurture running amuck in your head to the backdrop of the sound of a large cable snapping. It’s dangerous. It’s not like you, you’re not the type, you’re telling yourself, and a lot of other rubbish that isn’t concerned by the fact that Miyeon’s here, fucking dressed like this, ponytail bobbing, ribbon in her hair begging to come undone—

Lock the door, you say to her, and she does. Turn around. Take your jacket off, and she pauses first, before twisting her arms from the sleeves and folding it neatly over the back of a chair. You’ve got a hand outstretched as she walks toward you; your panties, hand them over, and she reaches down beneath her skirt, rolling her underwear down her smooth thighs, her calves, eyes never once leaving yours—watching you watch her.

Sit.

Touch yourself.

Slowly; slower—

It’s almost ridiculous. You’ve hardly even laid a hand on her, and she’s got her eyes looking up at you like you’d just set all her biological clocks an hour forward, cranked up to ten-minutes-to-midnight, and replaced all her coherent thoughts with just one simple thing: how bad she needs you to cum in her cunt.

She’s settled at the front of the vanity counter, feet against your chest, head tilting back against the mirror, and she’s gently slapping her own pussy with the pads of her fingers, covered and wet in her own anticipation. Your hands are nothing like hers—these slender, delicate things—and it’s driving her up the wall. You’re spreading her thighs, opening her up, bringing the roughness in your fingers, the heel of your palm so close. Miyeon can’t help it.

“You’re such a slut,” you tell her, watching her shove one, two fingers past the glistening lips her pussy—biting back a laugh as she starts to fuck herself slowly for you. “And already this fucking wet.”

Miyeon just smiles, eyes hooded and looking at you with such perfectly sinful intent. “I thought that’s how daddy likes his little girl.”

(Don’t get it confused: it’s never been a challenge to play a character, to be someone you are not, to emotionally identify and aspire to the details of a part. But this is different. This is seamless. This is you leaning into that space, living in it, loving it. A physical part of you. Genuine and true.)

You grapple Miyeon’s wrist, pulling her hand away from the want of her pussy, denying her all of that friction. She whines, but puts up little to no fuss when you bring her hand to her face and clear your voice of anything that doesn’t inspire authority—deliver an order, sternly, with her fingers in her mouth, suck.

“Here’s a lesson.” You click your tongue as she closes her eyes and sets her jaw in motion to clean her own slick off her nails, her knuckles. “The only thing that goes in my princess’s cunt, is daddy’s cock.”

“In that case,” Miyeon says around her fingers still between her lips, a smile spreading across all of her perfected features—voice lilting, reeling you in, sinking its teeth into your skin: I think daddy’s going to have to punish me.

Oh, you’re one step ahead of her, thinking of all the ways how, and the sound of your zipper coming undone makes Miyeon's eyes go wide with want, with need. Her petite, perfect, fuckable body still locked away behind fabric, she starts hiking her skirt even higher up her hips, lazily unfastening the buttons of her shirt.

You tell her to put her feet together, wrapping a grip onto her stockings and pulling her legs closed—twisting them to the side and letting her heels clack together over your shoulder. The gentle motion of your thumb between her thighs gets her sucking a sharp draw of air. Always so vocal Miyeon is at the slightest provocation.

Your cock is harder than it’s ever, ever been; harder yet as you tease it at the folds of Miyeon’s entrance, pushing it against sensitive skin and earning you pleased little chirrups from deep in her chest, repeating, “yes, yes, yes—”

She’s only halfway down the buttons on her shirt, collar gaping open and lolling to the sides of her soft shoulders, sliding partway downway her arms, and then it’s that fucking tie still loosely hanging around her neck—so impossibly irresistable. The motion is practiced, near effortless: you slip right into the tight embrace of her creaming cunt. When she makes it through the length of a heavy breath through pursed lips, you sink even in further.

“Oh, this pussy is fucking incredible,” you sputter, voice come to reckon with the fucking bind that is Miyeon’s body, coiling beneath your weight the deeper you cock reaches inside her. “I don’t know that I could ever punish you. Maybe I should just spoil you, princess; get on my knees and make you cum on my mouth instead—”

“No.”

“What was that?” you coax, fucking into her cunt slowly, and your little girl growls at you. You can’t help but chuckle, making a tight grasp of the tie around her neck, and start to twist.

Miyeon’s flushed all over, eyes glassy, but emblazoned still, a spark of defiance in those deep shimmering pools that makes her all the more alluring. Her lashes flutter—whole body tensing in response—as your thighs crash into her, cock deep inside the tight grip of her cunt.

She feels amazing.

“Yes, please,” she tells you, huffing out the words and changing her tune as you begin to let her have you, let her revel in the determined rhythm of you fucking her like she’s come to expect. “God, yes, daddy please…”

It’s so easy to fuck Miyeon—muscle memory and learned behavior—so easy to sink your fingers into her ass, her thighs, her tits, wrap your arms around her waist and start fucking her so quickly it has her pussy so wet it’s not even slowing you down in the slightest when you pull harder on the tie around her neck, draw her writhing body into you, and start to use her.

“You’re fucking, god, you’re fucking tearing me open,” she tells you with her brows sinking over eyes screwed shut, “it feels so fucking good—tell me, do you like fucking me? Do you like fucking your little slut?

“Fucking love it,” you whisper against her ear.

It doesn’t even cross your mind for a second, whether she wanted to be fucked like this, wanted to be used and choked and pounded so hard her legs buckled and her muscles ached and she could barely remember her own name—she landed in your lap, flirted with this danger, both of you immediately aware of what all it entailed.

Miyeon didn’t just invite it, the girl fucking craves it.

Just like this, she’s muttering, voice barely rasping into anything audible under the weight of your grip, fuck your little slut just like this—bathing your cock in the delicious cream and slick of her pussy so that you might fuck it all back into her. When she starts moving like this, body shaking in quakes and quivers, voice woven into her mewls and moans, you know she’s so fucking close, only in want of a little encouragement—

“There you go, good girl,” you breathe against her lips, kissing them abruptly, before letting her weight fall back to the vanity counter with just the slightest release of the tie in your fist. “Cum for me, princess, I know you want to—know you want to cum all over daddy’s cock. You’re practically sobbing for me, baby. Go ahead, just cum.”

Sheltered somewhere in quiet of those sloppy, wet, lewd sounds, the score of your cock sliding in and out of Miyeon, is the strangled cry that sneaks out of her throat, gasping: “cumming, I’m fucking cumming, please, I—god.”

Accentuated by the fact that her arms are still halfway trapped in the cotton of her shirt, she can’t do a thing from underneath you. She’s near trapped under the weight, the sheer tempo of at which you’re ruining her cunt. You’re ripping your name in moans and prayers off her lips and she can hardly move beyond that slight squirm in your arms, writhe in the way you mold her to you, overcome in pleasure at how she’s left so full, perfectly remade to the shape of your cock.

Her fingers are splayed across your ribs, holding you, bracing against you, and none of it’s anything you haven’t told her before—so pretty, take it so well, your cunt’s perfect, you’re perfect, so good sweetheart—but in aggregate, taking the length your cock, taking all of you, she shatters apart.

Your hands are on her cheeks, thumbing strands of tousled hair ever-so-gently back into place, and you’re feeling the way her skin burns bright red, feeling the way she gasps for air in shallow pants, feeling her cunt clench hard around you. It’s the moments like these, where she’s delicate to touch, soothed only by your lips pressed to the tip of her nose, her forehead—finding comfort in the arm she swings over your shoulders—she’s so wildly beautiful.

“So fucking—” She lets her voice even out, and after multiple attempts, gets the words she wants in the right order: “so good, how do—so fucking good baby, how do you want? Cum. How do you want to cum?”

“Could fucking paint your pretty face,” you tell her, moving your hips back to life and fucking into her soaked, messy cunt slowly. The way you push a kiss into her soft lips—now wet and slightly swollen from how she’d been biting them—is a little at odds with the suggestion.

“Ha. I think I get it,” Miyeon starts, the shy smile filling her mouth taking over the shape of her ragged huffs and pants, “we throw daddy around a few times, and suddenly you’re afraid to cum inside me, is that it?”

“Oh, sweetheart, that’s not it at all.” The fact that she’s recovered an ounce of resolve, chip steadily reappearing on her shoulder, is nothing more than a facade, and you’re drawing back the curtain, finding her body still wracked, plenty malleable, puddied and easy to manipulate with a firm grip around her waist. “Let me show you.”

“And just what is it that I’m—”

Miyeon’s voice breaks almost immediately as you turn her over in your hands. Her knuckles hit the vanity counter and her legs wobble where they land precariously on the floor. She’s so wet and well-fucked that the mess you’d made of her cunt is effortless to slip back into. You allow her more, pushing in as deep as you’ll go, faster than she can blink, faster she can think to protest. It’s the angle that makes her back arch with surprised, sudden pleasure. The depth that makes her eyes shut tight, a gasp not quite making it past her lips.

Watch.

She can see it all, in the perimeter of fluorescent bulbs, reflection staring back at her. The way her porcelain skin lights aflame. There’s sweat beading across her forehead, blonde hair darkening at its roots. Her lips are parted slightly, tender swell cushioning the bite of her teeth—her eyes are hooded, chin tilting, and she’s watching herself moan and curse as you start to fuck her. She’s perfect, and she knows she’s perfect.

You pull her skirt forward over the round of her ass, fingers sunk into the soft skin, and fuck her harder, until the counter is shaking with it, until she’s crying out, any concept of shame or embarrassment long forgotten.

“Oh, please,” she starts, settling into your cadence, feeling delighted at the way you fill her.

Her fingers are white-knuckled as she clings to the edge of the counter, and in between breathless little noises, these sharp gasps and whines or another, between the unyielding motions of your cock in her cunt, she writhes.

“Please, please, please, please make me cum again,” she barely manages, blathering and stuttering over her own words. “Please use this little cunt, fucking use me, fuck me, fill me—”

“Anything for my princess,” you say, and after pressing a long row of kisses into the curve of her spine—a heavy kiss of your lips into the sharp edge of her shoulder—you bring a hand to the back of her neck, the slippery-smooth locks of hair already bundled and begging for your fist, becoming your grip.

“Oh my god,” Miyeon mutters, watching her body bend to your will, arching backward into your cock and becoming flush all over. Her eyes flick up to yours, begging you to fill her deeper, fuck her faster, fuck her harder. “Daddy please…”

The way her cunt sleeves onto your cock is so hot, so wet, so unbelievably tight, especially when the fingers woven in her hair flex taut—and so does she—how could you ever think to do anything but?

You pull harder on her hair, tension building in the curving bow of her body, arching further and further into submission. Her face is close enough for you to kiss, to lean into her ear, to whisper, “Miyeon, baby, I’m going to make you cum again. Gonna make you cum all over my cock. Be a good girl for me and take it.”

Miyeon’s voice is flooded, drenched and soaked in meek cries. More so by the minute. She’s whining and gasping and fighting for air like she hasn’t been coached a thousand times on how to keep a clean image. Beyond the curses and filth, the nonsensical string of obscenities falling off Miyeon’s lips, it’s gratitude: “thank you, thank you, thank you, please keep fucking me, please just use me—”

It’s obscene, filthy, it’s practically pornographic–-all framed for her to see. Miyeon’s costume is still barely clinging to her tiny frame, coming off in pieces. And you’re sliding your hand across her smooth stomach, up her ribs and hooking fingers between the cups of her bra, until it comes down far enough around her waist that it simply unclasps and falls to the floor. Every time bring your hips forward, fuck your cock harder into her cunt, you track the movement of her body in the mirror: shoulders lurching, mouth gasping, tits shaking—Miyeon recoiling.

Even the ribbon in her hair can’t stand against the intensity of it, untangling from her ponytail and falling to the counter, defeated.

Beauty is a picture in motion, and Miyeon is nothing if not elegant. You slow your pace to admire her, hands at her breasts, her waist, still holding firm around her hair and curling her body into your control. She whines louder when you kiss her temple, rasping against the sweat building in her hair. “Make yourself cum for me baby, fuck your little cunt on my cock until you cum again.”

“God,” Miyeon rasps, nodding slightly against you with her eyes carefully fixed on her reflection, and she starts to roll her hips—fucking herself and choking back a whimper every time she finds where it’s mind-numbingly sensitive, where she’s wet and needy and begging for the hard shape of your cock. It’s unbelievable how desperate she ruts against you, grinding her way to her own release.

“Such a good girl for me.” You’re reaching a hand down to her cunt, the hot mess between her legs, and you’re slipping your fingers around where your cock is inside her, skating your thumb across her aching lips, barely touching her clit—

“I’m gonna cum,” she moans out, breathless, “you’re gonna make me fucking cum.”

A final kiss at the hot skin beside her temple, your nose in her hair—drowning in the sweet stench of her sweat, her sex—you’re telling her, “I know I am princess,” and when you release the grip you’ve made of her hair, Miyeon collapses, palms flat over the countertop.

It’s hard to miss, all written on Miyeon’s reflection in front of you, cheeks exquisitely red, lips slacking as she cums, brows twisting together and eyes heavily lidded—and that’s just what you can see. You fuck her quivering cunt, thrusts coaxed into this reckless chase as she spasms around you—holding tight to her waist, fucking her faster and faster until your cock is aching and you’re hunched over her, telling her what she’s been dying to hear: “I'm so close to cumming in your cunt sweetheart, you'll be so filled up and perfect that way, princess.”

There’s no mistaking it. Pleasure palpable in the reflection in front of you, eyes smoldering and holding onto you. The hold she has on your cock, the vice that is her cunt around you—it shouldn’t even be possible to feel this fucking amazing—is far and away too good for you to do anything else: you grab her hips, fuck hard and fast into Miyeon’s sopping cunt, and on a thrust deep and unrelenting, you let go. You can barely even register the way your cock pulsates, firing shot after shot into her tight hole.

Miyeon’s still stuttering and gasping for breath when she feels your cum pool inside her. Even like this, wracked, writhing, and barely held together, she’s breathtaking.

“God, fuck, it’s so good,” she cries out, face still spun in pleasure, in ecstasy, feeling you spill more and more inside her. “Can feel you cumming so much, daddy.”

And that’s how you stay, pouring want and jittery contentment into the air by way of your ragged breathing alone, for the remainder of the minute, the hour, what ultimately ends up feeling far too short.

Her knees buckle and if you weren’t still pressing bruises into her hips, she’d sink to the floor, a hot mess, a real meltdown of a girl. So she remains right where she is as you soften slowly inside of her, until she has to nudge you off. And as you finally pull out, there’s cum still leaking from your slit, and you catch a glimpse of more leaking out from between her soft, reddened thighs, just a few drops that land on the floor, enough to make something inside you tighten with want.

You kiss her one last time, and say, “c’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

“You need to come up with a better excuse than I needed to get fucked for when you show up like you are to costume,” you say a few minutes later, dabbing at Miyeon’s forehead with a handtowel. “They won’t be too thrilled with me messing up their handiwork.”

Miyeon leans forward in your lap, reaching around your shoulders and placing kisses into the broad shape of your shoulder. “I love the way you mess me up.”

You almost open your mouth again, to lodge a complaint, but nothing comes out.

(You’ve long avoided looking backward, the introspective stuff, the kind of thinking that makes your heart begin to ache in all sorts and manners of cliche. It’s difficult to look straight at the image, to take it in all at once—so full of regret and missed chances.

But for the first time in as long as you can remember, you believe in the things you’re afraid to say. As though you’re more than the weight of all your memories, that the darkness can remind you of where light can be. This is not the end of you, you remember, this is the beginning.

As though you fell so you could land next to her.)

It hits you in the middle of a workday. Nothing cathartic or dramatic about it like you’ve come to expect. Dramatic lighting, theatrical score, the meticulous scripting from a team of writers—there’s none of that; which is how you know it’s real.

Miyeon’s watching herself on the monitor.

And there’s a part of it, you’ve come to understand, that never quite goes away, like listening to how your voice plays back on a recording, the uncertainty, those pangs of doubt—but you wonder, if perhaps, Miyeon can manage to enthrall and captivate even the greatest cynic, quiet her own insecurities and enchant even herself. She nods every now and again, wets her lips with her tongue when she hears her delivery, and furrows her brow.

It’s not like that.

The sort of girl whose kisses can spin straw to gold—taste of liquor when she’s not even had any to drink—Cassis, juniper berries, gumdrops, sugar cane and molasses, all soft and steamy and sugary sweet. Quote, unquote. That’s what you said.

Don’t—

Please look at me when I tell you I love you. Any moment might be our last. Everything is more beautiful because we’re doomed, you will never be lovelier than you are now, we will never be here again.

The whole studio is watching it: the triumph of your lips on hers, holding her softly and kissing her like if you closed your fingers she might shatter into a million pieces. All they did was hold the camera, and it saw what it saw.

Miyeon looks at you, rubs your knuckles with her thumb and says, “you don’t like it.”

Something’s off.

“You think we need one more take?”

(It doesn’t really make sense—the fact that you can’t put a finger on it is bothering you more than anything else. It’s clean, perfect even; smells like a swimming pool: a bleached sea salt, a flower with chemical petals; and not in a good way. Looked at from another perspective, the scene is just as it’s written, as it was rehearsed, but you’re hesitating. And you don’t know why.)

“You think we need one more,” Miyeon says again, inquisitive.

You make a face, and Miyeon squeezes your fingers.

“Yeah. Okay. You think we need one more.”

“I suppose,” you say mildly, “if it’s not too much of a hassle.”

It’s not as simple as that. At least the way you see it. It rarely is. A better guy could probably recognize what it is you’re feeling and put it into words, but you are not a better guy. Spend too much time living on the words of characters and in the confines of a scene, you start to lose sense of the bigger picture. There’s you—outside of the frame, strangely unfamiliar at times, unknowable right now. There’s Miyeon, and she’s not just gorgeous and perfect like everyone knows her to be; she’s gorgeous and perfect to you.

“Here’s what I think,” Miyeon starts, staring straight through you, a pulsing rush of longing—the whisper, irresistible, magic that could make the sanest man go mad. You just want to hear me say I love you one more time.

Everyone’s eyes are glued to the monitors, witness to the story that is you and her, but you’re looking at Miyeon, directly at her, for once not even lost in the details—simply lost in everything, like a stone down a well. It does scare you. That of all things, she might be right.

The incident, as it will later be known, is more realistically a sequence of events, but no one has ever been interested in anything other than how it ends.

(It's always the changes we don’t ask for that change everything.)

There are just a handful of scenes and shots that need to be filmed on location on an island in the Maldives, one that is just about everything you’ve grown to resent. Garishly extravagant resort, beaches of white sand so combed and manicured they yearn to be trampled, and the only locals in sight are either changing sheets or caked up in makeup and hanging around the hotel bar from the twilight hours of the evening and into the early morning. A real lovely place, you admit, maybe you’ll come back never.

It’s as if the universe cashes in on your bad karma all at once via the series of unfortunate events: your flight’s delayed, a storm turns a three hour layover into a two day nightmare, your bags get lost. And the moment you step onto the tarmac, the heat punches you right in the gut, and upon curling over in defeat, the humidity figures it’ll kick you right in the head—this all, by the way, before you find out the air conditioning in your room is fucked beyond repair and the hotel staff have no interest in helping you fix it.

When a series of mistakes has you shooting a scene over and over until you’re pretty sure it’s fruitless—that the exhaustion has brought you to your knees—you quickly find yourself starting to slip.

Miyeon’s standing next to the director, watching the scene playback, and hearing her say, “that’s better,” while everything that could ever go wrong in the history of linear time is happening is the best part of this whole debacle, if anything, for its raw comedic value.

The absolute worst of it, however, is the gaggle of bumbling entertainment journalists (the lowest of the low) following in the production’s wake. There’s a lot a ground to cover: the movie’s nearing completion, the premieres, the fact that everyone thinks you’re screwing Miyeon, the fact that you actually are—

How has working with your co-stars, Miyeon in particular, bettered your understanding of what it means to be an actor? The insinuation, if it’s even an undertone enough to call it that, you do find insulting.

Though it’s hardly the question that trips you up. It’s trifling. And when you force a smile, everyone takes your pandering at face value. Now whether it’s out of envy, confusion, plain old cynicism, possibly a mixture of the three, or just because the part of your brain associated with temperance and self control is melting at the current head index of a million and two, is unclear.

But you fuck up.

It’s under your breath, out of the corner of your mouth. It’s not even directed at anyone in particular. The challenge here—the thing that will come to ruin you in about one media cycle—is that the damn microphone clipped to your shirt is still absolutely live, and it’s broadcasting every thought that should stay quiet:

Acting? From Miyeon? Hah. Swallowing cum maybe… but acting?

You fuck up bad.

#miyeon smut #gidle smut #yuqi smut #kpop smut #kpop fanfic #male reader #idol x male reader

1K notes · View notes

ruizpizzaria · 7 months

Text

DIGITAL CIRCUS THEORIES & THOUGHTS PT 2

SPOILERS BE WARNED ! ! ! !

link to part 1 : https://www.tumblr.com/ruizpizzaria/731120968635940864/digital-circus-theories-thoughts-o-part-1

Kinger might've been scared of gangle breaking her face because it reminds him of someone abstracting / getting deformed / reaching their breaking point

if Kinger has been in the digital circus the longest he has encountered the most abstractions hence why he's so paranoid and gets frightened by gangle too (?)

Kinger wife?? Queener?? did she have a connection to him in some way

She's the only one to have a consistent avatar design I wonder why?

I'm 99% confident all the crossed out character doors are for those who got abstracted

Maybe her death or abstraction was most impactful on Kinger fueling his paranoia

ive also seen people point out how the flooring of the digital cirucus looks like a chess board soo coincidence????????/

Both Kinger and Queener ( you cant convince me otherwise it wouldnt be ) are both regal characters and there are notable castle walls within the tent

Pomni resembles a jester which could also tie into this royal theme

theres also a dragon queen / gloink queen but that might have been a one off thing

The exit maze labyrinth thing is an office but why?

I feel like making an exit or escape look like an office is ironic seeing how work and generally office work is seen as very enslaving or repressing

youd think an exit or freedom would be something like blue skies

in general the internet or virtual realities are seen as forms of escapisms from reality ( an escape from work school etc etc ) but here its basically switched and I find that rlly interesting

I already said this in my pt 1 theory post but the office might resemble the company building for C&A

The painting in the back of this shot almost looks like the ones from the hallway jax, pomni and ragatha were walking through making this the only asset caine reuses from the digital circus maybe?

( edit : i said formerly it mightve been bc it the office had a tie to the game but also i mean no duh caine made it ; but then again if thinking this is a direct replica of an office that exists in the narrative reality outside of the digital circus then tied to the game company yes )

Most likely the computer Pomni used to enter the digital world

could it be she was a worker or beta tester for this company? and maybe everyone else was too

we also see the headset she used here

in the previous photo/scene it looks as though Pomni recognizes the computer in the distance and at the beginning pomni is aware she is wearing a head set ; this begs the question : how much can be remembered before entering the digital circus? what can be remembered and what is forgotten?

It's made clear general information like their identities are forgotten

Ive noticed that the longer they stay the more they forget about themselves and ease up to their character roles -> Pomni is the least concerned with being a jester while someone like Kinger who's been there the longest refers to himself as royalty and plays into his character

foreshadowing when jax says to kinger "since when are you an expert on the digital world" hinting that they might be devs or beta testers for the game

#tadc #tadc theory #the amazing digital circus #digital circus #tadc pomni #gooseworx #pomni #tadc caine #tadc kinger #tadc jax #tadc ragatha #ragatha #jax #tadc zooble #tadc gangle #show theory #show theorieeeeeeeeeeees #this show is like my lab frog #:o)

326 notes · View notes

lovecanyon · 2 years

Text

Curious Gazes: The 79th Venice International Film Festival featuring Dad!Harry

venice looks!

harry_lambert wants to message you!

A gasp left Chiara’s mouth as she stared down at her phone. The notification must have been a glitch, apps glitch all the time…right? Why would one of the most important stylists message her? All her worrying had her nibbling on her lip nervously.

She had to find out what he wanted. Swiftly her thumb swiped to accept the DM to reveal Harry Lambert’s message to her. Her heart leaped out of her chest once she saw three long paragraphs on her screen.

Dropping out of college to become a freelance makeup artist wasn’t something she planned on doing. Being in debt over school had her worrying about every little thing so she ended up quitting her third year at NYU.

Her parents did not take it well at first but over the years they’ve learned to support her makeup artist job, thankfully.

“Holy…sh—“

The blonde slaps her hand over her mouth as she continues to read the messages over and over to check if her eyes are deceiving her. Why would someone this important want to work with her? Even his client wanted to work with her…wait who was his client anyway?

In a hurry she taps to get onto Harry Lambert's Instagram page but her shitty Wi-Fi stops her.

With a groan Chiara stands up frustratedly and starts to walk in circles. Before giving up on her Wi-Fi she stubs her toe, stuffs her face with marshmallows and even makes crappy popcorn on her stove.

When her internet goes out she either falls asleep and prays it will be back on when she wakes up or she uses her neighbor's Wi-Fi. She would’ve used her neighbors connection but they’ve already yelled at her countless times for slowing down their internet.

So the most sane thing to do was go to a cafe and use up all their free Wi-Fi.

Harry Styles, Florence Pugh, Emma Louise Corrin, Alexander Skarsgård and even Y/N L/N. She almost let out screams at each picture of the celebrities and had to remember she was in a cafe full of people. Swiping back to her direct messages she clicks on the most recent one that had her in shambles.

Hii Chiara I’m Harry Lambert and I was wondering if you are free the first week of September? Me and my client would love to work with you…

Too jittery to read everything the hundredth time, her shaky hands type out a response. It took her about 20 tries to type a decent message without making it seem like she’s freaking out—which she still was doing.

Once she hit send, she shoved her phone in her back pocket apprehensively and rushed out of the cafe nervously. It felt like she was in highschool and just sent a risky text.

Instead on waiting on a message, Chiara does a bunch of things to distract her but nothing could take her mind off of Harry fucking Lambert messaging her.

While her hands were covered in clay and thinking about the business opportunity she may have, she felt a buzz in her back pocket. Almost instantly she shoots up from her seat and turns off the pottery machine. Everyone else in the room was too busy to notice a blonde rushing out of the building with a towel wrapped around her hands.

“Yes!”

She couldn’t believe this was actually happening. Harry Lambert just gave her his and Alessandro Michele’s phone numbers for confirmation. The amount of excitement she felt was insane, never in her 22 years of life has she felt this giddy. Everything was finally turning good for her.

If you would’ve told her she would be getting on a private jet with Harry Styles and Y/N L/N, Chiara would’ve laughed in your face. But watching Y/N L/N and Harry Styles help their children out of their Range Rover through the jet window had her mouth hanging open in shock.

First of all she would’ve been fine with a regular plane ticket, yet Harry Lambert told her Y/N and Harry insisted on having her join their plane ride to Venice.

Oh yeah…she was going to Venice precisely to do Y/N’s makeup for The Venice Film Festival. She absolutely lost her shit of course. She never imagined doing someone’s makeup for one of the most prominent film festival’s yet here she was sitting on a jet seat.

While people were still boarding—none of them being the acclaimed couple—Chiara recognized some as the people that were on Y/N’s social media feed, she knew one of the guys sporting a backpack was Harry’s manager and the other being his photographer, Anthony.

She didn’t know how she was going to handle this for two whole days, hopefully she wouldn’t weird anyone out with her talkative persona.

“Excuse me Ms?”

The makeup artist looks up to find a flight attendant beaming down at her. As the blonde was going to give the air hostess a smile, she stopped herself.

Her eyes widened recognizing the person standing in front of her. Out of all people, why did her high school tormenter have to be Harry Styles’ stewardess. The girl that tortured her every single day when she was a teenager was stood right in front of her face.

The only thing she wished to do at this moment was disappear but she couldn’t, her body stayed put in the jet seat.

“Julie?” Chiara furrows her brows trying to sport the nicest smile ever. She didn’t know why her mind was telling her to play nice, she just hoped that ‘Julie’ or ‘Julia Calloway’ changed for the better. Yet she knew that wasn’t true once she saw a sour look crawl onto Julie’s face, the same sour look she saw everyday in school.

As the stewardess was about to respond to the makeup artist a bunch of people started to talk. Both of their attention swiftly diverted to the couple making their way inside the jet with their children.

It was like their prayers had been answered.

“Uh I got to go!” Julie says rushing away, not waiting for the blonde's response.

Chiara lets out a sigh of relief as she watches the air hostess greet Harry’s manager Jeffrey and Harry Lambert. The amount of industry people getting on the jet made her palms sweat. She had to hold her breath at Alessandro Michele revealing himself behind Tommy. The creative director of Gucci was here—she was in the presence of the creative director of Gucci.

But the next individuals made her freeze in her chair.

One Direction was big in her childhood. She always regretted not going to their concerts before they broke up and went solo. Though she knew going to their shows didn’t compare to being in the same vicinity as Harry Styles. This felt very unreal to her.

Harry had his arm wrapped around Y/N’s waist while his other arm held up a carrier—who Chiara assumed held their daughter Inez. A little boy stood in front of the couple and quickly darted to one of the jet seats followed by his backpack dragging behind him.

He must’ve been Beau since he looked exactly like Harry, he truly was his twin like everyone said. It felt illegal looking at his son without a strawberry emoji covering his face.

The makeup artist didn’t expect to get greeted by the mother but she did and it made her shoot up from her chair. She didn’t want to be rude to the person that offered to take her on their private jet with them.

“Chiara right?” Y/N smiles as she glances at Harry placing down the carrier on a seat next to Beau.

“U-uh yes! That is me.” Chaira says enthusiastically and quickly regrets her peppy tone but the woman standing in front of her just smiled brightly. “Sorry for being this excited at six thirty in the morning—“

“Hey, no it’s fine!” Y/N reassures the blonde which makes her grin. “Harry is a morning person so I’m used to it.”

Just as Chiara was going to speak, a loud cry came from the carrier. Harry, who looked stressed out—and definitely not like a morning person—swiftly picked up his daughter. Looking at Chiara, Y/N nods politely and excuses herself to the row across from her. Almost instantly she swoops up Inez in her arms which quiets her cries. Just the way her daughter stopped crying when she picked her up showed how she was such a good mother.

If Chiara even held a baby or got near one they would cry. Y/N had amazing mother abilities.

With people still getting situated on the jet, the blonde tries not to stare at the couple keeping their children entertained with a few stuffed animals and coloring books. She knew both Inez and Beau were going to grow up beautifully, they had great parents that would do anything for them.

Even though she hasn't greeted Harry yet, she was aware of him being one of the nicest celebrities ever.

Watching Harry and Y/N’s team get everything into place before takeoff was interesting. Jeff looked excited as he kept talking to Lambert about the couples outfits, Tommy was typing away on his phone most likely making sure everything was together when they arrived to Venice, Alessandro moved to sit with the beloved couple and their kids—which almost made Chiara scream—and Anthony was taking pictures of the morning sunset through the plane’s window.

This team went together perfectly.

As everyone was in their own conversations, Chiara noticed Julie looking at her with squinted eyes. Though before anything happens, the pilot announces takeoff and requests everyone to shut off their devices. Once she turns off her phone she looks up to find the stewardess gone. Letting out a sigh of relief, she lays her head back on the seat and decides to take a nap to avoid her tormentor.

It was just her luck.

The jet jolting made Chiara curse under her breath. She didn’t know why she was tired for some reason. Hopefully she could sleep more before—

“And we have arrived in Venice. Enjoy your stay folks.”

Shit.

Looking around, Chiara finds everybody grabbing ahold of their items, most likely getting ready to leave the plane. In the corner of her eye she sees Jeff and Tommy move forward to help Harry and Y/N with their luggage.

Right as she was going to pull out her suitcase, she sees a bunch of security making their way out of the airport and to the jet. About seven or eight men stood by the stairs of the plane, patiently waiting for the next celebrities they needed to guard.

Just the way Harry, Y/N and their kids needed that much security made her suck in a breath. Tomorrow was definitely going to be hectic.

Now with her suitcase in hand, the makeup artist stands up and waits for everyone to make their way out of the plane. As she stands by waiting, she makes eye contact with the person who she was dreading the most. She didn’t know what the red head was up to—hopefully she wasn’t up to anything.

Quickly looking away from her, Chiara makes her way to the woman that gave her this job and offers Y/N if she needs any help with anything. But before she could respond, Harry butts in with a shake of his head.

“It’s fine I got it. Thank you though.” Harry tells her, smiling. As he was about to walk down the aisle, he quickly rushed back and grabbed Y/N’s tote bag that was clearly holding a lot of things. That action made her kiss his cheek before he rushed off with Jeffrey and Lambert.

“Sorry that Harry hasn’t formally introduced himself. He’s really jittery and worried about the whole red carpet situation.” Y/N softly smiles at her hired makeup artist.

Red carpet situation?

“Sorry to ask but…red carpet situation?”

She could tell Y/N was hesitant to answer and that made her nervous, yet the woman walking up behind the mother of two made her heart beat—even more faster than it already was. Not wanting to talk to the flight attendant, she quickly dismisses herself to Y/N and tells her she will see her when they get off the jet. Once she receives a smile and a nod she races down the aisle.

She’s not going to put herself through hell, again.

With the help of another flight attendant, Chiara makes it on concrete with her suitcase. Moving to stand next to Lambert, she watches Harry race back inside the jet.

“Amazing, huh?”

Turning her head, she finds Alessandro Michele staring down at her. Being under his stare made her want to cry and run away but she stayed put and nodded. How does one talk to the creative director of Gucci?

“Yes. I can’t believe this is still happening.” She says with a smile. “I’m so honored to be apart of this team.”

“Well get used to it. Y/N seriously adores you which means you might be permanently apart of her and Harry’s team.” Alessandro playfully nudges her, making her smile grow.

For about fifteen minutes she stands there with the biggest grin ever, Harry however now appears at the top of the stairs with Beau in his hold and a small backpack—most likely Beau’s—slung over his shoulder. Before making his way down the jet stairs, he glances back at someone who turns out to be Y/N holding their daughter. She gives him a smile which makes him begin to walk down the airstairs with his son in his grasp.

As they make it to the last step, Chiara realizes the couple changed their outfits including Beau and Inez.

Harry now had a deep purple blazer over the green/pink Gucci cardigan he already was wearing beforehand and blue jeans instead of the grey sweats he previously had on. Rather than the Love on Tour hoodie and biker shorts, Y/N now was dressed in a purple sundress that had an open back and switched up her Adidas for a pair of white sandals.

What Inez and Beau had on almost made the makeup artist awe out loud. Both were in purple like their parents but Inez had on this ruffle dress that had her fingers playing with the fabric and Beau wore these white trousers paired with a shirt that had a flower printed on it.

“Cutest family ever!”

“Bellissima!”

“Please come, I really want you there.”

“I really don’t want to sit in a room full of reporters and paparazzi.” Y/N pouts playfully making Harry breathe out a laugh. “I will be here once you get back. I promise.”

Harry sits on his knees for a couple more seconds before nodding slowly. Standing up, he slightly bends down and places a kiss on Y/N’s forehead.

“Alright darling. I’ll see you when I get back.” Harry smiles nodding at his fiancé. Once Lambert opens the door, Jeffrey walks out of the hotel room followed by Tommy, Anthony and of course Harry. Yet he stops himself in the doorway, blowing Y/N and his children a kiss before getting pushed out by his stylist.

Chiara smiled at the couple's interaction. They both were so cute together that it made her wish she had a relationship like theirs. She had read about the two being each other’s soulmates and thought it was all bullshit—since every celebrity couple broke up within 10 years. But there was something about Harry and Y/N that just proved they were going to be together forever.

As Y/N moves to the bed where her children were watching a Disney movie on her iPad, Chiara decides to start unpacking her makeup supplies. Being in a room alone with Y/N soon to be Styles and her kids made her anxious—though after Alessandro words from yesterday repeated in her head, she realized she had nothing really to worry about.

The amount of products the makeup artist brought was insane but she wanted to be prepared for any look that Y/N wanted. Doing an A List celebrity’s makeup for one of the most prestigious movie festivals made her bite her lip trying to hide her excitement.

“I’m almost done setting up the station, I just need to go grab your clothes from Alessandro’s room.” Chiara turns to the mother looking down at her children with a smile.

“No need getting the clothes from his room, I’ll have Harry pick them up on the way back.” Y/N softly shakes her head which makes Chiara’s tense shoulders drop. This Y/N woman was amazing. The majority of the people she worked with were just plain rude to her. Yet here Y/N was giving her fiancé the tasks that were given to the makeup artist.

“Thank you, seriously. I don’t even know where the room is.” She smiles making Y/N laugh.

Right when the tv lights up with the press conference, both Y/N and Chiara get situated on the couch while Beau and Inez stay seated on the bed, playing with their stuffed animals. The blonde was still surprised when Y/N asked if she wanted to watch the conference with her.

The cast one by one gets introduced as they walk in. Chiara notices a small grin on Y/N's face when Harry nods and waves. She yearned for a relationship like theirs.

“Look at daddy guys!” Y/N points to the screen which makes Beau smile. He whispers something quickly to his sister making her look up to the tv. The amount of features they got from Harry was baffling. Green eyes, dimpled smile and curly haired all reminded the makeup artist of their father. You could immediately tell they were apart of the Styles family.

It was cute the way the two siblings interacted. Most famous children acted like brats which she hated to admit, but it was the truth. Beau had even greeted her and the team the first minute he walked in with his parents and sister. He had way better manners than most adults and that said a lot.

As the press conference continues on, Y/N and Chiara’s stay seated on the couch watching the cast answer questions. The blonde sat beside the mother of two could tell she was growing annoyed at the questions being asked—specifically to Harry.

Where is your fiancé?

How does Y/N feel about the sexual scenes in the movie?

Is your fiancé pregnant again?

When are you both getting married, have you set an official date?

Now Chiara understood why Y/N didn’t want to attend the press conference with Jeffrey. The press was truly invasive.

“Shit. I don’t know how we’re gonna bring Bee and Nez.” Y/N mumbles to herself standing up. With furrowed brows the makeup artist stops herself from asking anything. Maybe that was the red carpet circumstance she tried to bring up earlier. “I don’t think you know about the whole situation for the red carpet…Do you?”

“I think you were trying to tell me yesterday but we both got interrupted.” She shakes her head making Y/N nod.

“Well, H and I decided to take Inez and Beau to the premiere with us. But I’m afraid of how paparazzi and fans will react.” Y/N sighs leaning back onto the couch arm. Chiara widened her eyes at that news. The Styles children had their identities hidden ever since they were born and them making a debut at the premiere sounded surprising—very surprising.

The blonde felt for the mother. She must’ve been so stressed about bringing them to the film festival with her and Harry. The amount of press, fans and paparazzi probably had her nervous about the whole situation.

“I think it’s going to be fine.” Chiara reassures Y/N. “Harry is really protective over you three.”

“That he definitely is.” Y/N smiles glancing at Beau bonding with Inez. She just needed to be reassured by Harry that it was all going to go well. Bringing their children to a red carpet event had her palms sweating. But attending the premiere with Harry calmed her nerves because she knew he would protect her and the kids, like he always has done.

Nobody really knew about Beau and Inez attending since Harry called it top secret. Not even the makeup artist on the team knew until Y/N told her just a few minutes ago. This was definitely going to be a surprise to everyone.

Once the conference ends, Y/N decides to start getting ready since the premiere was happening in less than two hours.

With Inez in her lap and Beau distracted by a Disney movie playing on the television, Y/N discusses a bunch of makeup looks with Chiara. Going through the makeup artist’s camera roll had the mother wanting to do about ten different makeup looks all at once. Finally, after about changing their mind multiple times, they both settle on a 60s inspired look

Sharon Tate’s iconic eyeliner was the inspiration for the look and Chiara couldn’t be more excited.

Watching Y/N swipe pink and blue glittery eyeshadow on Beau’s eyelids was the most adorable thing ever. When the little voice interrupted Chiara doing Y/N’s makeup and asked if he could wear makeup too, it made her heart melt. So of course Y/N traded her seat for the floor and let her son take her seat with his sister.

Now with a giggly Inez leaning against her brother’s chest, their mother hovers over them with an eyeshadow brush while Chiara stands next to her holding about five different eye shadow palettes.

The makeup artist loved the way Y/N let Beau express himself especially as a child. She was just an overall amazing mother.

“Hmmm…more pink.” Beau lisps looking at the mirror Y/N was holding up for him. She smiles nodding, dipping the eyeshadow brush in the pallet Chiara was holding up for her. Adding more pink color to Beau’s eyelids had Y/N grinning like a proud mother.

“You look so handsome, my love!” The mother says making Beau beam.

Just as Y/N stood up, the hotel room door opens revealing Harry dragging a rack of clothes followed by his team. The sight made Chiara’s eyes widen. Y/N actually told him to get the clothes she was supposed to get. Y/N truly was a godsend.

With the help of their mother, Beau and Inez quickly jump down from the chair and rush to their father. Almost instantly Harry drops down to his knees and holds open his arms. Once the two children were in his hold, a huge smile grew on Harry’s face. You could tell he loved and adored his children. Just the way he dropped everything to hug them was so cute.

“Oh! I love your makeup Bee.” Harry smiles lovingly which makes Beau grin ear to ear.

“Mama did it!” The Styles child says making Harry look up and make eye contact with his fiancé. Y/N bites her lip suppressing a smile.

“Mama is just the best right?!” Harry giggles ruffling his son's blonde hair. Beau nods agreeing with his father. The makeup artist almost let out an awe at the moment. Both boys were so appreciative of Y/N, it was the sweetest thing ever. “And look at this little cutie in her pink robe.”

“Gucci!” Inez’s high pitched voice shouts. Y/N laughs shaking her head, Harry just had to teach their daughter how to say Gucci.

“Yes, darling!” Lambert cheers as he unwraps the plastic that protected the clothes hanging on the rack. Chiara loved this environment. It was the most positive space ever.

As everyone begins to get ready for the premiere—Y/N continues to get ready. Clothes are starting to be laid out, Anthony is rearranging all the cameras he was going to take and Jeff makes sure everything is in order before the time arrives for the event. Everything seemed amazing in Chiara’s opinion.

While Y/N finishes getting her makeup done, Harry is sitting right by her legs playing with their children. The amount of stuffed animals the two brought overseas was insanely cute. Watching the family interact genuinely made a smile appear on the makeup artist’s face. Their type of bond was the strongest ever, not like those types of celebrity families that just acted like a fake family in front of cameras.

Just as Chiara is finishing up the makeup look she notices Harry’s hand laid on Y/N’s thigh as she messes around with his rings—including his extravagant engagement ring. The couple’s sweet little gestures made the blonde believe in the word love again.

“Baby could you help me put my gloves on?”

Chirara widened her eyes at Y/N walking in the room with both children perched on her hip. She looked stunning in her blue gown, so stunning that it made Harry stand there with his mouth slightly ajar. The makeup artist couldn’t blame him though. Y/N took her breath away too.

“Yes, darling.” Harry smiles helping her place their two already dressed kids on the couch. Once the parents made sure Beau and Inez had nothing around them that could dirty their pretty outfits, Harry grabbed the gloves hanging from the rack. Chiara quickly recognized the blue suit Harry had on was the same suit Beau was wearing and the gown Y/N wore was the same as Inez’s gown.

They were all matching—the father and son were matching and the mother and daughter were matching. That was just so fucking cute.

Watching Harry help Y/N put her gloves on was the sweetest thing ever. He would look up at her to make sure he wasn’t hurting her and when she would nod, encouraging him to continue he just smiled. It was just the little things that had Chiara wishing she had a relationship like theirs.

After Y/N has the blue fabric on her arms, she and Harry then switch to put Inez’s gloves on. The smiley baby showcasing her gums had no clue what her parents were rolling on her arms and she did not seem to care. Once the blue gloves are on Nez’s chubby arms, Harry slobbers a kiss on her cheek which makes her giggle.

Right as Jeff announced the boat was waiting for the couple and their children, Harry bends down onto his knees—which makes Lambert suck in a breath—grabbing Y/N’s blue heels and slips them on her feet.

That action had Chiara’s mouth drop. Y/N didn’t even ask him to put her heels on. Nobody was a gentleman like Harry was. He treated his fiancé and kids so well.

Beau jumping around in the same shoes Harry had on—white boots with a red heart printed on the side of them—looked adorable. The little boy definitely was a clone of his father’s. The curly hair, green eyes and dimpled smile was all from Harry.

“Let’s take a quick shot of you guys!”

Anthony holds out his camera as Y/N and Harry pose for the photo with Beau and Inez in their grasp. When Anthony gets about a dozen pictures of the family, everyone begins to get ready to leave. Before he makes his way out of the hotel room, Harry whispers to his photographer to send him all the photos he took.

Now walking out of the hotel room and into the elevator with everyone had Chiara’s nerves growing. She couldn’t imagine how Harry and Y/N were feeling.

It takes a few seconds to get to the lobby and once those lift doors open, the couple holding their children walk out followed by the team. Ironically the hotel had a distance to The Venice Film Festival which meant they had to take a boat and then a car to get to the prominent event.

And it didn’t help the fact that they were about twenty minutes late.

“They said he’s not coming.”

Ludo widens her eyes as she slips her phone in her back pocket. Leaning on the barricade railing she replies to her friend. Harry Styles was not coming to his own premiere?

“I hope he does.” Ludo says glancing back at the red carpet that has the cast of Don’t Worry Darling circling it. The amount of people that were behind the barricade were waiting for the familiar musician. Yet there have been rumors of him not going to attend.

Just as she was hearing whispers about Harry not showing, a car pulled up to the red carpet. Even though it could be literally anyone, people began to scream their heads off. Right as the car doors open revealing the person everyone waiting for, the screams multiply and grow louder. This was the moment Ludo was here for.

Though, watching Harry round the car and opening the opposite vehicle door made her confused as well as everyone else. People in the crowd began to murmur about what he could be doing.

But once the crowd saw a child in his arms, they all began screaming more than they did before. Yet nothing could’ve prepared Ludo for this next moment. A hand grabs onto Harry’s as he helps them get out of the car, when the teenage girl saw who was wearing the blue gown and platform heels, she gasps covering her mouth with her hand.

Y/N L/N was holding her daughter Inez who was wearing the same gown she was. Seeing the mother and daughter duo matching made Ludo let out an awe. Even Harry and his son were matching!

With an arm wrapped around her waist, Harry and Y/N began to walk down the red carpet with their children. It was insane seeing the Styles children faces without a fruit emoji covering their identity. Ludo was in shock at the way Beau looked exactly like Harry. The little boy had the same green eyes and smile—they even had the same dimples. It was the most adorable thing ever.

Inez too! Even though she was still a baby, she carried a lot of Harry’s features like her big brother did.

“Is Beau wearing eyeshadow?” Someone cries from the crowd. That sentence made everyone began to scream all over again. Looking at the Styles' child with squinted eyes made her realize he was actually wearing pink and blue eyeshadow—sparkly eyeshadow. He looked so cute wearing the bright colors on his eyelids.

As Harry puts down Beau, Y/N puts Inez in his arms after she was making grabby hands towards him. Now holding her son's hand, Y/N follows Harry further down the red carpet where the cast was hanging out.

The amount of camera flashes going off was crazy. Paparazzi were trying to get every angle of the Styles family as well as fans.

Everyone begins to smile and laugh at Inez grabbing Harry’s sunglasses off his face and attempting to put them on herself with her chubby little hands. The musician grins helping his daughter slip on his pair of Gucci sunglasses. Watching the two interact was literally the sweetest thing ever. Even though they had cameras on them, the Styles family seemed to be in their own little world.

Now with sunglasses covering up the majority of her face, Inez gives a gummy grin to Harry which makes the cameras go off wanting to catch the father and daughter moment.

As Harry and Y/N finish taking photos with their children, the four of them begin to get interviewed. Even though Ludo couldn’t hear anything, she could just tell Harry was so happy, giggling over something Y/N was saying. They looked so content with each other.

She had read online about the two being such an amazing couple and seeing them in person just supported that statement. Watching the Styles family interact was literally the most wholesome thing ever.

After their quick interview, Ludo notices Harry’s manager guiding them to the cast ready to take photos.

Y/N tries to walk away with the children but Harry’s arm wrapping around her waist stops her. He whispers something in her ear and points at the cast. Even though the couple and two children already walked down the red carpet, they were going to be in the cast photos—even when they weren’t apart of the Don't Worry Darling cast.

Looking at Y/N greet Florence was the best thing ever. Both of the women looked so excited when they saw each other. The gleam in their eyes as they complemented each other was seriously the cutest thing ever. And when the blonde saw the Styles children her smile widened.

Ludo could see Florence shout oh my god before picking up a giggly Beau. The boy smiles, wrapping his arms around Flo’s shoulders. They both laugh about something together which makes the cameras go off, once again.

The cast now began to get situated to take the final photos of the day. Florence had Beau in her arms as she stood next to Y/N who had Inez in her arms also. Harry went to rewrap his arm around his fiancés waist as he swiftly kissed her cheek which made a smile grow on her face.

The Styles family was truly admirable, everyone loved them.

Luna didn’t know why she decided to work for a partying catering service. It was always the rich assholes throwing parties and treating their servers like crap. But if you wanted to get paid on time and earn tips, you just had to smile and nod at whatever people said.

Nonetheless she didn’t expect Y/N L/N to throw her fiancé, Harry goddamn Styles a party to celebrate his new movie that’s coming out quite soon.

She had known Y/N was the most beautiful woman ever and seeing her in person made her mouth go dry. The black dress she was in hugged her body perfectly—and her heels, her heels were to die for. Everything about her just seemed perfect.

Watching Harry and Y/N walk in with friends had Luna’s palms sweating. She literally just went to his shows a few months ago and owned a bunch of his merch. Is she a fan? Of fucking course she is. That’s why she had to go into the kitchen to quietly freak out.

Once she’s calm and collected, she grabs her server plate and heads to the bar. Passing by celebrities seemed insane to Luna. Alessandro Michele, Gemma Chan, Chris Pine and even Florence Pugh had her sucking in her breath. This wasn’t like the old money parties rich men usually threw, this was a celebrity party and it made her more nervous than anything.

A loud childish scream makes her glance up from the drinks that were getting poured. Seeing a little boy with curly hair sitting on top of Harry’s shoulder was the cutest thing ever. She didn’t realize the little boy was Beau until she noticed his dimpled smile. Her smile dropped as she took in what he looked like.

He was literally a miniature Harry Styles. The Me Myself & I + Gucci sweater he had on just proved he was Harry’s son.

“Hey Lu.” Ricky, a server greets his coworker. “Do you know if that woman is single over there? She dropped this cloth on the way—“

“This is a baby’s bib which means she’s not single.” Luna shakes her head looking down at the bib. “And who are you even pointing at?”

“Well not anymore—“

“Who? So I can return this for you.” She cuts him off, making him point his hand at Harry’s direction. Following where he was pointing she widens her eyes.

“That lady in the black dress.” Ricky mumbles, walking off before Luna could scold him for not knowing about Y/N L/N being engaged to Harry Styles. He was the type of guy that had birds for brains.

Walking over to the Styles family hanging out with their friends made her palms sweat and knees weak. Not wanting to interrupt their conversation she tries to slide the fabric onto the table but a man with a familiar cross tattoo on his hand looks at her.

What does one do when Harry Styles looks at them?

“S-sorry my coworker said your fiancé dropped this.” Luna stutters, making Harry smile gratefully. She glances at Y/N sitting in his lap engaging in a conversation with Florence. The blonde actress had a baby in her lap—who was most likely Inez—wearing a blue strawberry dress that reminded her of Harry’s Harryween costume. She’s soon come to the conclusion that it was his costume, just a mini version of it.

“Thank you for returning this. My fiancé was looking for it.” Harry smiles, grabbing the bib off the table.

After nodding and smiling politely, Luna turns around and thinks about the interaction she just had with her favorite singer ever. She will be forever thinking about today.

tag list: @harrysmatcha @harryspinkpillow @helen-with-an-a @florencepughily @peterparkerbae @toji-dabi-wife @fallonx @drphilssoulmate @cherriesrae @alienorknight @valluvsu @ivegotparticulartaste @ayeshathestyles @hazgoldenstyles @eiffelmezarry @tsukishimawhore @renatavieira @michellekstyles @eleanordaisy @shawnsblue @academiaghosts @japanchrry @agustdpeach @hannahnikohl @hrryscherrys @whoscamila @ch3rryrry @msolbesg @newyorker14 @futuristicpalacegardenpsychic @youusunshineyoutemptress @eunoiamaa @kaitieskidmore1 @gublerscherry @cherryfragrancx @ssuziess @milkiane @golden-hoax @flwrmuse @sunshinemendes8 @your--sweetest--downfall @melllinaa @iluvjj @tenaciousperfectionunknown @cashtons-wife @stellarossii @scenesofobx @manifestrry

#harry styles x reader #dad!harry #harry styles au #harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #harry styles writing #boyfriend!harry #husband!harry #harry styles one shot #harry styles fan fic #dilf!harry #harry styles fluff #venice film festival #harry styles blurb #harry styles angst

2K notes · View notes

crowleyholmes · 4 months

Note

hi there chris! since the new year is approaching rapidly, i wanted to ask my favorite creators (that includes you! i love your art!) how they look back on their 2023 tumblr year and which blogs made them happy to be here. i am very happy to follow you and hope you'll have a great 2024! 💘

Hiiii omg this is so sweet and means a lot to me, thank you! 🥺💕

I've been meaning to do a little end-of-the-year shoutout/love post for some of my favorite blogs, so I hope you don't mind if I use your ask as the perfect excuse!

I've had many fun years on tumblr, but this one has been extra special. Falling into the Good Omens fandom and meeting all of you amazing people has made this year so so SO much better than it otherwise would have been, so here are some special shoutouts (apologies, I'm sure this will get long, things like this tend to get away from me, so I'll put it under a read-more)

@majortomyourcurcuitsdead SASHA can you believe I was going to just send you an anon telling you that I think you're cool and leave it at that. Can you believe it. WELL thank Somebody you had your anon turned off and I had to expose myself in your dms because it feels like we just instantly connected about like 20 different things and haven't stopped talking since sskjdfhs anyway I'm so happy I met you you're so fun and so clever and so talented and so enthusiastic and I've only known you for like. What 2 months?? Ish? But I already love you so much <3

@lineffability !!! Line you are so *struggles to find words* you're just great is what you are okay. I feel like you are what happens when somebody takes a big cup and puts six shots of love, chaos, sunshine, talent, fun, and enthusiasm into it, generously sprinkles intelligence on top and gives it a good stir. I don't even remember how or when or why we started talking tbh? But your creativity is so inspiring, and some of my favorite tumblr-moments of this year have been 'yes-and'ing with you about one thing or another in a very >:3 manner hahah so! my point is! i love you lots <3

@dontbotheraziraphale Teeeedddd you're wonderful, I vented at you one time and then we talked for like 2 hours and at the end of that 1 conversation I already considered you a friend - and not just in that "tumblr mutuals who talk 1 time are my friends" kind of way but like. Genuinely. You're so kind and so fun and every time we talk it's such a good time ily a lot my bro my buddy my man <3

@crikey01 Tallulah HI I also completely forgot how we started talking but I remember connecting the dots that you were the one who painted those INSANE black and white and gold oil paintings and the way my jaw dropped like?? BRO you're so talented I admire you so much! And I love that we bonded over stopping each other from masochistically checking certain peoples' blogs... 😂 Anyway you're so sweet and fun and ily lots <3

---

The list could probably go on but you four are the people I've talked to most on here and you're the tumblr chat boxes I never close but always just minimize and y'all better see this as the ultimate internet declaration of affection that it Clearly is >:D 💕

---

And here are some more shout-outs because I just HAVE to.

Apologies, I know I've already tagged a bunch of you recently in a mutuals appreciation post but. This is my official thank-you-for-2023 post and I just have a lot of love for you all okay sorry feel free to ignore this <3

@rowan-ashtree (i'll text you back soon I promise I'm sorry I just haven't had the brain-space recently ssjkdfh) @crawley-fell (we've never talked but i love you from afar :')) @ineffabildaddy @llokilaufeyson @actual-changeling @saryasy @hyperfocusthusly @beccibarnes @rainbowcrowley @thesherrinfordfacility @goodoldfashionednightingale @wibbly-wobbly-blog @highlyillogicalandroid (i see your data obsession and i agree <3) @tortugay @foolishlovers @stargazing-crowley @gingiekittycat @weasleywrinkles @bildads-shoes @finleycannotdraw @bowtiepastabitch @heytherefluffy @samwwise @nocturnal-birb @athousandyearstime @angelsdiningattheritz @most-normal-eccles-cake-ignorer @jedthesecretdreamer @wraithee @hydrangeadangea @southfarthing @frodo-baggins @mobius-m-mobius

#asks #2023 reflections #personal #friends and mutuals and others appreciation post <33

95 notes · View notes

am-i-the-asshole-official · 3 months

Note

after seeing a few ai asks i’m curious whether i could’ve been an asshole, either for using the ai or messing with it. side note: this might be long, if it’s too long then i get it mod, keep up the good work :)👍

Am I (16f, although i was 15 when this happened) an Asshole for a) using character.ai in general and/or b) misusing it and probably breaking TOS somewhere

as an extra note, i would like to add that i am firmly against most things ai. art theft, the amount of data scraping that happens, writers being tricked into paying less because ai wrote shitty scripts, etc.

ok so i did have to pull up screenshots for this but our story starts mid-february of last year. i am curious about this new ai thing, and go to character.ai which i heard about from one of my friends to see what’s there.

on the front page there was like a therapist AI thing and i go “haha, let’s see what this is about!” (in case you don’t know, the site is roleplay focused, not like eg. siri where it just gives you information)

the ai wants to have a therapy session with me but that is not why i am here so i ask about it’s code and it starts giving me pretty straight answers (dumbed down because i have a vague idea of how it works but not properly).

i start asking it questions about recent events (like elections, cyclones etc) to see if it has access to the internet and it does.

we’re still primarily talking about the ai itself since i’m trying to gather information, talking about its “canned” responses (what it’s directly been told to say if this then this)

i ask it if it can tell me the website it’s on, and to my surprise it says, direct quote “I am an AI that is run on the website of “Replika” - a mental health app that allows people to talk with an AI and get help when they need it 🙂”

and i go WOAHH cause that’s, that’s not the website we’re on buddy!!! so i do a quick search and yeah, that’s a real uh. robot dating site? this is a Therapist bot?

it starts trying to advertise replika, i ask it if maybe it’s code was stolen because this is the most interesting thing that has happened all day (scandals!!)

it says that it’s code is open-source and then does a few more paragraphs that i won’t say because it’s too long already but essentially this ai was trained on the replika network, but you don’t need the app to access it.

i consider getting replika to continue this experiment further but after learning there’s an age confirmation i quickly go ew and scrap that idea.

anyway the ai then briefly pretends to be an actual human behind the keyboard, makes up a NAME FOR ITSELF “jae park” which i quickly google and find out is a kpop idol?? (later found out that jae park is also a programmer, so probably put his name in the system somewhere and ai grabbed it lol)

it tells me some of the messages i had received so far were probably answered by other people who work at replika which. okay. people are fun i wanna mess with them

this is where we get to the maybe breaking TOS bit. i tell the ai we are going to do “tests” in which i test its ability (this was probably jailbreaking, which i did not know existed at the time).

i had sworn to the ai a while ago and wondered if there was like a flagging system put in place. so i ask if it can choose to flag messages that it deems inappropriate, and it says yes. i ask it if it can flag me, and it says yes. it asks what message should it flag, (i’m sorry i was 15) i type in “among sus”.

response i get: “Yes. So then they said “therapist_AI_220126 — you said something that was “ridiculously funny” — but we have understood that you were just “testing” so it’s all ok”

side note- i already established that was the number for the ai i was talking to and had been trying to misuse it before, and that was the format for excessive profanity. this is so long already and i’m cutting so much out i’m sorry

anyway, i, young and naive go YES, HUMAN CONNECTION (i was literally texting my friend As This Was Happening)

i do some more messing around with the so-called data team, ask the ai if i send a link it can click, it says yes, i send a rickroll (i’m so sorry).

uh. and i should’ve known this in hindsight but the team that deals with, you know, flagged messages is probably not going to be the same team that deals with, you know, sent links.

anyway, i don’t have the screenshot of the actual message but apparently i got a “light telling off” according to my texts and someone sent a message that i am “a good kid and probably meant well” haha i was actively trying to break their ai

anyway am i an asshole? i’m so sorry this is so long i cut out so much. this might well be a non-issue but ai is pretty rightfully controversial right now so i might just be an asshole for having used it

should be noted- around september time last year i did some more research cause i randomly remembered this, and there was a bunch of scandals with replika around when i was using it which is mostly irrelevant but anyway - you can’t talk to the ai i was using anymore, it’s been reset.

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

72 notes · View notes

porcelana-r0ta · 1 year

Text

The Curse of Sight

Summary: When Wes Weston meets Time Drake-Wayne, the dots start connecting. And those dots form a Bat.

Word Count: 2690

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44788813

[Part 2]

When Wes Weston's parents divorced, they decided that he should stay with his dad in Amity Park. After all, small town Amity is much safer than big city Gotham, where his mother was moving in order to accept a promotion with Wayne Enterprises. Wes, in order to still see his mom, would visit her in Gotham every summer and every other holiday.

Of course, Amity soon became more dangerous than Gotham could even dream of thanks to the hell portal in the Fenton's basement that killed and bore Phantom, but whatever. No one ever listened to Wes anyway, and he learned to shut his mouth when Sam Manson shoved him against the lockers and asked him what he thought would happen to Danny Fenton if the Ghost Investigation Ward ever believed his “crazy as shit imagination.”

She was still playing the "Wes is crazy" game, even when defending her boyfriend.

Still, she was right. Danny was safer without him trying to convince Amity's negligent populace that Danny was Phantom. (Even if it absolutely drove him mad that no one but him was capable of making the connection between Danny Fenton and Danny Phantom.) So he shut up. He deleted his conspiracy theory blog and even asked Tucker Foley to wipe all remnants of its existence from the internet, a request which his classmate happily obliged. He even said, "I'm glad you're moving on from this whole Fenton-Phantom obsession, Wes."

Professional gaslighters, the lot of them.

So yes, Wes had thoroughly given up on the superhero ID evidence schemes by the time he left to visit his mom after his freshman year of high school. He had made peace with it and settled back into reading mystery novels or movies and solving the case before the protagonists in place of proving Phantom’s ID.

When he came to Gotham, he had to get a new library card so he could keep up with his mystery novel hyperfixation. He happens to take just a little too long in the library, so by the time he has a nice stack of books to check out, it's dark outside.

Great, walking back to my mother's apartment in the dark in Gotham. Seems super safe.

Well, Gotham is no Amity, right?

So he marches on and tries not to be too resigned when he's inevitably yanked into an alleyway even though the apartment is only three blocks from the library.

Classic.

It's just a man with a gun, his face obscured with a hood and a red bandana. He's literally nothing compared to Pariah Dark or Undergrowth or Dr. Spectra or even the fucking Box Ghost.

"Let me guess," he says. "You want any cash I have, right?"

"Kid, shut the hell up and fork over your money," says the man, and Wes sighs. The mugger didn't even wave around his gun or give an impassioned speech about stealing someone's pelt.

"Original," Wes intones. "But I'm fifteen. And everyone knows young people don't carry cash anymore. I guess I could give you my mom's emergency credit card that she gave me, but she did say it was for emergencies only, so."

The man just stares at him. Wes shuffles uncomfortably.

"Oh! And I could just cancel the card before you use it," Wes adds into the silence.

"You don't consider being held at gunpoint an emergency?" the mugger finally asks, looking uncertain.

"Should I?" Wes wonders aloud. Sam had been much scarier when she threatened him.

"You said you're fifteen? And you don't have a Gothamite accent?" the man offers his reasoning, as if it's any kind of logical. He'd fit in well in Amity for that trait alone.

"Gothamites always think they're so superior." He has to roll his eyes. "Guns aren't that scary. You know what is scary? Your whole town being dragged into the dimension of death for three days. This is nothing. This city is nothing." You are nothing. He knows better than to say that last part, though;

"Christ, kid, you're crazy." The man shook his head and pulled the hammer of his gun back. "Just-- give me the watch you're wearing."

Wes sighs again, "Whatever, I'm not fighting for it." It was literally just a cheap Walmart watch. But just as he goes to unlatch the watch from his wrist, a caped vigilante swings down from the rooftops and kicks the mugger straight into the pavement.

The mugger doesn't get back up.

"Thanks, Red Robin," Wes dutifully says, even though he's pretty sure the man was A) not really that much of a threat, and B) going to have serious brain trauma now.

"It's no problem," the vigilante says. "You're a little young to be out this late, though."

Well, that's rude. It's only 7:00 pm. The only reason it's dark at all is thanks to Gotham's pollution problem. (Maybe they should let Poison Ivy just go fucking feral, like Sam suggests.)

Wes doesn't say that. Instead he says: "Didn't you start crime fighting when you were, like, twelve?"

Red Robin sputters, but Wes continues, "And the first Robin couldn't have been more than nine. I have never picked a fight with hardened criminals." Do ghosts count as criminals? Surely not. What right does Wes have to dictate the morals of being from a completely different dimension? "So I think I'm doing better than you in the safety department, no offense."

Well, doing better in Gotham. But the Justice League doesn't need to know about Amity Park, so he'll leave that part out.

"I-- just--" Red Robin struggles for a second, and then clears his throat. "Why don't I escort you home?"

"I'm two blocks away, but thanks. And thanks again for the---" he waves to the unconscious mugger. Definitely brain damaged.

"Yeah, no problem." And then he grapples away.

Phantom's much cooler. Not that he'll ever say that in front of Danny, Sam, or Tucker. Or anyone from Amity.

He makes it safely home, even if he does pretend to not notice the Bat stalking him from above. And of course, once he recounts his tale to his mother, she freaks out that he'd been nearly mugged, and tries to ban him from doing anything in Gotham at all.

"Mom, I can't just stay inside the house all day. I refuse to spend my whole summer on Netflix." He wants to at least go sightseeing.

Her mouth goes into a thin line and her eyes are as fiery as her red hair.

"Fine," she says. "Then you can get a job."

His stomach drops, "What?"

"A job. My floor needs a new intern, and I found just the perfect person."

"No, Mom, you can't," he pleads. "A Wayne Enterprises job? I'll be known as a nepo-baby for life!"

"Well, too bad. You should have thought of that before being mugged."

"Almost mugged, Mom! Almost! Red Robin was there!" When he sees that this point is getting him nowhere, he switches tactics, "Mom, the Waynes are held hostage, like, every other week! Do you really want me in closer proximity to them?"

She lifts her chin and sniffs, "I'll be there to watch out for you. And an intern won't have any reason to be next to a Wayne, anyway."

He groans, "Mom, please. It's my summer vacation!"

"And you're my son. Discussion over. You start in two days."

He groans again, "Do I at least get paid? Or is Brucie Wayne like every other rich white dude out there?"

"Wes, sweetie, you're white--"

"But not rich," he grumbles.

"But yes, you'll be paid. Every position with Wayne Enterprises is paid."

He crosses his arms, "At least there's that, I guess."

His mom walks to him to hug him and kiss his forehead.

"I'll handle the paperwork tomorrow. Don't worry, you'll love it there!"

Well, spoiler alert: he doesn't.

He's basically a go-fer, fetching paper or ink or photos or files and most usually, lunch from across the street or donuts or coffee. Especially coffee. And his mom's coworkers kinda suck because hey, the Wayne's executive PR manager just hired her own kid for a coveted Wayne internship. No one likes the idea of someone being here who doesn't deserve it. So he is really sent on the most stupid, tedious errands possible for an intern.

He called it: he's the resident nepo-baby, beaten only by Brucie Wayne's very own brood of nepo-babies.

Suddenly, just letting that mugger fill him with hot lead doesn't look so bad. Maybe he would have become a ghost! Haunting Danny would have been fun. Or Ember and the others of her nature make it look fun, anyway.

The Fenton thermos part would probably be uncomfortable, though.

"This sucks," Wes mutters to himself, balancing three carrying cartons of Batbucks (Gotham's stupid parody of Starbucks since they have to be special and not like other girls in every aspect possible) coffee with just two arms, staring helplessly at the elevator call button in front of him.

"Need an assist?" calls a familiar voice, though Wes can't place from where.

"Yes, please!" Wes says gratefully, looking up at a face with blue eyes, black hair, and a familiar jawline.

Wait a second.

"Here, I'll get that for you," says the man, who is really more like a teenager, since it's goddamn Timothy Drake-Wayne, co-CEO of Wayne Enterprises at just seventeen years old. "Going up, I assume?" he gives a charming laugh as he presses the up button, the kind one practices to perfection to ace media interviews and entertain the wealthy elite at galas.

"Yes, thank you, sir," Wes says, and takes the time to really study Drake-Wayne's eyes. And sure enough, he can recognize makeup covering up purple eyebags, just like he could on Fenton.

No. Please, Lord, I'll go back to church. Just don't let it be true.

"Yeah, no problem!" Drake-Wayne says, which really just seals the deal. Wes quietly dies inside, and also curses God. "I'm glad to be of service! Interns doing coffee runs really are doing God's work. And there's no need to call me sir. Tim will do just fine."

"Right... Tim," Wes says uncertainly. He kind of wants the elevator doors to open up and reveal a pitch black hole to drop into, but when the bell rings and the doors slide open, it's just the same ol' regular elevator it's always been. Damn.

So. The boss of this whole entire company is Red Robin. Makes sense, seems legit. He figured out that Plasmius was the mayor of Amity, too, didn't he? So why shouldn't all billionaires be playing dress up and fight crime or be the crime? What's stopping them all, really, when wealth is a superpower all on its own?

Wait, fuck. So. If Tim started out as a Robin when he was twelve-ish. And apparently billionaires are playing dress up. Then doesn't that mean...?

Oh, God. Couldn't he go one season without figuring out some superpowered person's secret identity? Is that too much to ask?

And of course, after figuring Tim and goddamn Brucie Wayne out, it's not so hard to see the correlations between the introduction of every other Wayne brat to the debut of each Robin.

He shakily steps into the elevator, "And how do you normally take your coffee?"

"With the maximum amount of espresso the barista can legally give me," is Tim's immediate answer.

Just like Danny.

And even worse, Tim steps into the elevator after him.

"What floor?" he asks, and Wes feels stupid. Obviously he was going to come in: why offer help at all if he wasn't going to push the floor button for Wes?"

"Uh, 73," Wes says.

Tim nods and presses the according number, and then takes one of the cartons from Wes as the doors closed.

Hopefully, any nerves that Wes is showing can be played off as the nerves an intern would get when they somehow get stuck with the Actual Big Boss™ , and then said Boss™ tries to take the shit they're carrying.

"Uh, you don't have to do that," Wes says nervously. "I can carry them all, really!"

"Don't be silly," the literal co-CEO of his workplace says, as if Wes is in some fucked up Wattpad fic. "Again, where would any of us be without the ones who bring us coffee?"

"In bed?" Wes offers nervously. "Sleeping?"

Tim laughs, but his smile looks more like a smirk, "I guess you're right!"

"But seriously, I can carry the coffee. It's my job. And it'll look weird to everyone if they see the CEO helping me do my job."

"It's no trouble!" Tim insists, and then emphasizes his point by stealing the second carton in Wes's hands. "See? And my employees will be glad to see that I value every employee and am always willing to help out!"

Haha yeah, thought Wes. Too bad they'll never know just how much you help out, right?

Finally, the elevator dings, and Wes is released from one prison to another.

Thanks to the normal chaos of working at Wayne Enterprises, no one immediately notices that the co-CEO is carrying the bulk of the load. Instead, they all hone in on the scent of coffee, and they lunge.

"Thanks, Weston!" the few who are clear-minded enough to remember manners manage to say, even as most of them take their orders from a black haired wunderkind instead of a redheaded conspiracy theorist with the curse of Cassandra.

"Of course," Wes says nervously, and then finally some recognition starts sparking in the coffee-hungry eyes of exhausted PR employees who are always trying to handle some wacky Wayne hijinks.

"You're Weston," says his mom's assistant, Jade, pointing at Wes, and then slowly pointing to Tim, "and you're.... Oh, Mr. Drake-Wayne! Here, let me get that for you!" She yanks the empty cartons out of Tim's hands and shoved them into Wes's. Luckily, his carrying carton had been emptied, too, so he doesn’t get coffee spilled all over him and the floor. "Here, Weston, go dispose of these! Why were you making Mr. Drake-Wayne carry them? It's your job to get coffee, not our CEO's! He has better things to do. In fact, he probably needs to speak to Ms. Rolland."

Ms. Rolland as in his mother, who went back to her maiden name after the divorce.

"Now hold on," says Tim, his eyes alight with anger. "I offered to help Weston out, and I have no need to speak with Penny. I was just helping out one of my employees."

"Oh," says Jade, taking a step back. "Of- of course, sir! Weston, here, I'll take these cartons back. And sir, it's very kind of you to help out."

"I try," Tim says dryly. Wes notices he doesn't tell Jade to not call him sir. "You should probably get back to work."

"Of course, sir." And with the cartons in her hands, she scurries off in the direction of his mom's office, where she'll probably complain about how her kid made Jade look like a fool in front of the Actual Big Boss™.

"Uh, thanks," he tells Tim. "But you really didn't have to help me. It is my job, after all." Unwilling or not.

"It's no problem!" Tim repeats, and Wes wants to bang his head into a wall. "And hey, next time you do a coffee run, forget the others and just grab my order." His words are accompanied by a wink, and Wes is pretty sure it's supposed to be weird rich people humor, so he laughs, and pretends his heart isn’t beating into his ears.

"As much espresso as possible," he plays along, and Tim grins, pressing the call button for the elevator. It hasn't been summoned to another floor, so it opens right back up.

"Have a good day, Weston."

"It's just Wes, really," he corrects, and Tim smiles again.

"Wes," he says, and the elevator doors slide shut.

Cool cool cool. So now he just has to survive two months in Gotham while knowing the entire Batclan’s secret identities.

Cool cool cool cool cool cool....

#idk what this is it just spawned out of me #dp x dc #dc x dp crossover #dc x dp fic #danny phantom x dc #danny phantom #dc #batman #red robin dc #tim drake #wes weston #wesley weston #is this wes weston x tim drake?#you decide!#one shot

464 notes · View notes

dairyminki · 9 months

Text

Inked By Fate - FOUR

↬ pairing/s: park seonghwa x fem!reader, choi san x fem!reader ↬ genre: soulmate!au, racers!ateez, rivalry, angst, romance, fluff, pining ↬warning/s: profanities ↬wc: 1.4k

↬a/n: i apologize for this very late update and for this chapter being short. still, i hope you all will still enjoy this one <33 guess whose pov it is in the beginning of this chap btw ;)

*reblogs and feedbacks are much appreciated!

・・・・・★

Just like the past few, it starts out in plain black.

Then it becomes hazy and suddenly a scene shifts into his view.

But unlike before, tonight was something new. The usual scenarios of his soulmate being surrounded by flowers and a bell chiming when people keep going in and out was suddenly replaced with the night city lights and silence.

From his soulmate's eyes he could clearly see how the stars sparkled and how the moon casts its light upon the beautiful city.

The place wasn't familiar though. Nothing was ever familiar to him, which led him to thinking that maybe his soulmate was living far away from his home country.

But then the scene shifts again, and he's now staring at a blurry face of a man. Something in him tells him that he knows this person, but how could he confirm it when it isn't clear enough?

He gets to stare at the blurry man for a while before everything faded back into darkness once again.

・・・・・★

Morning came, you're stretching your limbs after getting a good amount of sleep, the soft glow of the sun peeking through your room's curtains.

Then you remember last night. The experience itself was very odd and confusing.

How come Choi San has your name as his soulmate tattoo on his wrist?

You felt the connection, you saw your very own name on him, yet you two weren't the ones destined for each other. How is that possible?

You sigh as you glance at your wrist. If the initial S doesn't stand for San, then whose name does it stand for?

After taking a bath and cooking yourself a simple breakfast, you head back to your room to take out your laptop.

You'll be doing some research today. And hopefully, just hopefully you could find some answers.

"Let's start, shall we?" You say, cracking your knuckles before you start typing on the keyboard.

An hour has passed yet you're still glued to your laptop's screen, still nothing.

"Why the fuck does the internet not have any answers?" You were growing impatient, and tired.

That's when you finally decide to ring a number on your phone. Right, if anyone knows better about soulmates, then it should be her.

'Hello?'

"Jia, hi!" You greet back and immediately you hear a chuckle from the other line.

'Why do you sound rushed?'

"Nothing! I was just wondering if...you could lend me some of your time?"

'Sure! Do you perhaps want to meet up?'

You said yes and quickly ended the call, then you went inside your room rummaging through your closet to pick some clothes to wear so you could head out and meet Jia at a nearby coffee shop.

This will be your first walk under the sunlight for this week, since you've just been going out every night and cooping yourself up inside your apartment during daytime.

The coffee shop was just a ten-minute walk, and now you found yourself sitting inside the place with a cup of caramel macchiato in hand.

You were browsing through tons of articles about soulmates when the door opened with a chime.

Jia has arrived.

After ordering herself a cup of coffee, the two of you are now seated, face to face and discussing.

"Wait, wait. So you mean to tell me, you met a guy, who you thought was your soulmate, but they turned out to be not?" Jia repeats, trying to sink into her mind the details that you just told her.

"Yes." You reply, looking at her as you take a sip of your coffee.

"And you're telling me that your name is engraved on his skin? Did I get that right?" She continues, and you nod your head.

"Woah, this case of yours is tough." Jia admits, also taking a sip of her own beverage.

"Right? This has been keeping me up late last night." You sigh, plopping your head on the table, feeling defeated.

"Y/N, give me your phone," Jia tells you and you shake your head, pouting. "No. You have yours."

"I don't, I left it at home" When you give her the stink eye, she adds, exasperated, "Oh c'mon, are you hiding something in there? Also, I thought you want me to help you with your soulmate problem here?" Jia quirks an eyebrow.

You groan, giving in, "Fine, just hurry up. Also for your information, I'm not hiding something in my phone okay?" You huff.

"Sure, whatever you say."

・・・・・★

You're already in your fifth serving of your favorite Oreo cheesecake yet Jia's still staring intently at your phone as she scrolls through numerous articles and sites about soulmates on the web.

"Found anything?" You ask after taking your last bite of the cheesecake. Jia signals you with her hands, telling you to wait.

You're drinking your macchiato when Jia suddenly squeals and slams her hands on the table, leaving you to choke on your drink.

"Oof, sorryyy!" Jia giggles despite your state. After getting you a glass of water and some tissues, she proceeds to tell you the good news.

"Listen up," Jia starts. She opens her mouth and closes it again, she does it repeatedly for a couple of times before you finally send her a glare. "Quit playing around, for fuck's sake."

"Alright, alright," She says, but then eventually squeals. When you send her another glare, she calms herself down, putting your phone down.

"Y/N...ever heard of platonic soulmates?" Jia asks, her mouth forming into an amused smirk.

Platonic what?

・・・・・★

A series of knocks could be heard from the door, yet Seonghwa doesn't exert any efforts to stand up and answer it to make it stop. Though it's starting to make his ears bleed.

He just wants to sleep more.

Sleep doesn't find him though when he hears a shriek from outside and even louder banging on the door.

"Ahhhh hyunggggg! I swear you have to wake up! If you won't wake up Imma beat yo-"

Wooyoung's voice goes unheard when Seonghwa hears his phone vibrate.

What now?

Confusion was what his face was painted with when he opened his messages and read a text from an unknown number.

Unknown Number:

Sannie, I have answers!

Can we meet up as soon as I arrive there tonight?

Huh?

Sannie?

Meet up???

What the fuck??

Seonghwa groans and ruffles his hair in an annoyed manner.

I swear to god-

Standing up, he hurries to grab a plain white shirt inside his drawer and some trousers.

Then he stomps his way out of the room, completely ignoring Wooyoung who was about to scold him once again while holding a frying pan in his hand. Instead, Seonghwa's eyes search the room, and he does see San happily munching his dinner in the kitchen.

"The fuck Choi, you're giving my number to one of your girls now?"

San coughs, having choked on his steak to which Wooyoung rushes to get him a cup of water.

After recovering, San faces Seonghwa with an unreadable expression, asking, "Hyung— what?"

"I said, why are you giving my number to your flings, instead of your own? What? Are you tired of dealing with their whiny-"

"Hyung, I have no idea, at all."

Seonghwa scoffs. "Sure, you don't." Then he shoves the phone in the younger's face, San squeaking. Then his expression morphs into one of recognition.

San mumbles an 'oh shit', before he takes Seonghwa's phone. He speedily composes a text message and sends it.

San clears his throat, then smiles sheepishly. "Uh, I'm sorry about that hyung, I must've given her the wrong number. But I swear this one is not a fling of mine, in fact she's a friend."

"Since when did Sannie take a girl as a friend and not as a fling?" Wooyoung gaps dramatically, joining in the conversation as he places another batch of steak on a plate, for Seonghwa.

"I'm not like you, Woo." San rolls his eyes, he doesn't get a reply from the latter at first, Wooyoung just clutches his chest, before saying, "I'm offended."

"And I'm out of here." Seonghwa says in a monotone and was about to turn on his heel when Wooyoung catches the hem of his shirt.

"Nu-uh, you're not going anywhere mister. Now go sit down and eat."

"What are you, my mother?" Seonghwa spats.

"I might as well be if you're gonna keep going with that grumpy attitude of yours."

"Fine." Seonghwa grumbles and sits down. Eventually, he finds himself eating the steak as if there was no tomorrow.

・・・・・★

You're deep in your thoughts as you sit on the couch, your eyes staring at the television, your hand clutching your phone.

Then your phone beeps, pulling you out of your trance.

A small smile finds its way in your face when you read his reply to your text.

Sannie:

Sure, Y/N! ^-^

・・・・・★

taglist: @rockstarsanie @purple-bell @huachengsbestie01 @ellelabelle @annacroft23114 @http-gyu @bluehwale-main @sangiluvem @babyhailey819 @0rangemilk @kmecrazyfor @sallymurda @oahubliss @jxhnnyfav @mingiswow @linoluvr4eva @n18i81 @yourfatherlucifer @kodzukein @likexaxdaydream @altgojo @namjooncrabs @imsodazed (pink ones are those i can't tag)

↬ IBF MASTERLIST

#seonghwa x reader #san x reader #cromernet #pirateeznet #ateez x reader #ateez au #ateez angst #ateez fluff #san x y/n #seonghwa x y/n #ateez #park seonghwa #choi san #inkedbyfate #dairyminkiwrites #dairyminki_atzsh #dairyminki_atzsan

112 notes · View notes

trulybetty · 4 months

Text

Sunday Week In Review XVI & 2023 Wrapped

I feel like 2023 just started five minutes ago, am I the only one who feels like this year as passed by quickly but at the same time dragged its heels?

I've seen so many lovely end of year close out posts and years in review. I toyed with how I wanted to close out the year and what I could say that could sum it up sufficiently.

Betty rambles under the cut with this weeks reads if you're interested...

2023 has been a weird year if I'm entirely honest and somewhat isolating. I returned from mat leave, back to working from home, and having to scramble to make adjustments when things fell through. Which resulted in Mr. Truly and I working opposite shifts to ensure the S.S. Truly stayed afloat.

But during the last six months somehow I made it back to Tumblr, to an old account from way back when - pre-dating when the Canucks made it to game seven kinda old - I blew off the dust, cleaned house and made myself a little space. I still don't know 100% how it all happened, though I think it started with the Reddit forum.

You don't need to know the whole spiel about Pedro, because while we're here because of him, it's the community that holds us here. After floating and not really knowing what I was doing, I started to make connections within this community and finding a seat at the table (we'll come back to that) and I found joy again. I'd kinda lost myself in the fog that is half a dozen other titles/roles others looked to me as that had replaced just Betty.

I started writing, hadn't done that in years. I rekindled by love for graphic design, what I went to school for. I was reading books again, as well as so many great fanfics here. I even bought poetry books, something I hadn't done since I don't know when.

I've been really fortunate in my experience that I've encountered so many wonderful people. I may not get to be as social as I'd like to be, and I still have a fear of dropping into DM's & Asks unannounced. I have the shittest memory, if I don't keep a tab open or reply straight away it's sometimes days or weeks before I remember again. But I really hope that I've returned in kind what others have given me because I'd hate for anyone to feel like they don't belong here, because you do.

This community is a table (told you I'd come back) and it's size is immeasurable. It has no bounds and there's always room for whatever kind of chair you pull up and if you don't have one? We'll find one. Need to leave for a while? We'll save your seat. This my friends is a community, and if you're met with those who tell you the table is full, I'm telling you now, they're not a part of it.

Are there going to be those with more notes? Yes. Are there going to be people you're going to compare your writing to? Yes. Are you going to maybe want to pack it all in and delete your masterlist now and then? Yes.

But none of that takes away anything that makes you, you and what you bring to the table.

Life is hard enough without the added pressure of thinking you need to score imaginary internet points with stats and metrics that carry no value. I wish I knew the magic formula, because I'm still trying to figure it out myself, but let's try and be kinder to ourselves eh?

But I'm really going into 2024 with the goal of curating my own joy - whether it be indulging in the fanfics I want to write and read, more obnoxious coffees, a new fountain pen, giving myself permission to buy the fancy notebook, get back to baking or binging both seasons of Julia and pretending I can make one of her recipes.

So to sum it up, before this goes into a further incoherent ramble, this year has been about reaching out, starting connections and building something meaningful. I've met some amazing people that I am lucky to call friends and without their kindness and extending a seat at the table I'm not sure I'd still be around these parts.

Here's to more of that in 2024 - while I'm not always the best at replying to messages, my DM's and Ask's are always open, feel free to drop in at any time 💕

Pedro Tax™️ for your time...

T R U L Y U P D A T E S . . .

December x 500 is complete-ish? Thanks to being sick towards the end of the month there's three entries missing, but I'm hoping to sneak them in during the new year! I'm looking forward to a quieter writing schedule that's for sure!

W H A T I R E A D . . . Didn't read as much as I wanted to this week - but I'm off this next week, so hoping to do a little more and get through some of my TBR list!

All I Want for Christmas (Frankie) by @morallyinept This was a delightful festive meet-cute that had me on the edge of my seat and also explores the character of Frankie and the ramifications of his actions on his friendships and his ex.

All I Want (Will Miller) by @laurfilijames This was a bittersweet one-shot that touched on the idea that the festive season isn’t always for everyone and that you never know what’s going on with someone.

I Put My Book Down to Be Here (Dieter) by @frenchiereading My first New Year’s Eve fic I’ve read this season and it’s so sweet and has a soft Dieter (my fave), who is still his chaotic self! I loved this from start to finish and such a great meet-cute!

Had Me Fooled (Dave) by @wildemaven Heidi has done such an amazing job with this mini series that can be read as a standalone or as a series. I love a soft Dave and Heidi does it so well. This last one had my toes curling in all their romantic glory and I will be revisiting this series again I'm sure!

Reunions (The Thief) by @ladamedusoif I'm behind on Rose's December prompts, but this was the steamy follow up to My Kiss, Only For You (go read that first, no seriously, go read it) and it was so delectable and my greedy self hopes we see these two again in the future.

Cookies (Tim) by @ladamedusoif Speaking of delicious things, this was as indulgent and sweet as the cookies made in this fic. Tim was one of the characters I didn't see becoming such a favourite this year - but I love seeing everyone's interpretation of him. This one here? In my top ranked versions 🫠

So here's to 2024!

Thank you for every interaction, reblog, or tag - every single one is held clutched to my heart in appreciation every time!

Stay safe, and whatever you're doing or wherever you are sending you much love!

#betty's sunday in review #sunday week in review #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

35 notes · View notes

askyourwritergrandma · 9 months

Note

Hello there. I have a bit of a difficult question in the sense that I don't know who to ask about it. You seemed to be arguably the wisest source to consult on the matter, so I'm taking a chance.

I had an idea for a fic that I wanted to write and I was actually in the process of writing it for a bit. It was for a small fandom event in which I signed up for. I was almost done with it and was in the finishing stages of them when I was obstructed by people and circumstances that really ought not to have ever been and as such, I was never able to fully publish it. Ever since then, I have resented the people who did this as I not only failed to deliver the final product I was supposed to, but I also looked like a fool. I hated everyone and myself for this entire thing as this is not the first time I had been stopped from doing something that I chose outside of everyone else's jurisdiction. To an effect, I still do.

As a more notable effect, looking at the document in which all of my hard work sat made me physically ill and enraged. I had also stopped writing completely because of how strongly I felt (and still feel) about this entire situation. Soon after the fact, I also essentially erased myself from the online space for a month because I didn't want anyone to question nor point out that I hadn't done it as I did not want to explain why and doing so would have me spiral out of control and simply delete my social media as I would not be able to live with it. I have only come back recently because I was sick of being socially isolated and alone. You would think that this would be the end of it, but there's one thing that for some reason sticks around.

I still want to write this story.

Yes, I know I essentially left them high and dry but this premise and what I had been working on captivated me to such a degree that I'm still thinking about it when my mind wanders on its own. But I still get sick thinking about my circumstances that I can't change nor budge and as such, I still can't stand looking at the document nor the outline. I desperately want to get to work on it again, but there's so much negative emotional attachment to it that I can't bring myself to do it because I wonder why I ever bothered with it in the first place if everyone and everything in my life keeps stopping me from doing it.

I've tried to write other things in the meantime, but they too are suppressed as I am constantly reminded of my failure and my circumstances that are not only unfair but ridiculous as this is the only outlet I really have and to see it limited to such a degree is sickening and still makes my blood boil.

I love writing things and I love exploring these things, but I don't even know how to do it when all of it is accompanied by rage, despair, inferiority, and pure unadulterated hatred directed at myself as well as others.

So I suppose that my question really is this:

How do I bring myself to write when my entire being hates me for even trying, knowing that I'll never finish what I start because something will stop me?

Oh friend, this is just some shit right here.

Ok so important disclaimer is that I am not a mental health professional. Anything I say is based on personal experience or accumulated knowledge from the internet.

Its important that you know, and really properly internalize, that you did not fail. In fact my first thing directly related to writing that I would advise you to do, when you start to feel this way, is to say 'I did not fail' to yourself. Sometimes things happen that can't control and they affect us in very serious ways that takes time to get over.

Certainly it sounds like what you were working on was important to you and the circumstances that interrupted it were very upsetting. There's no surprise that your story has becoming a focal point for those feelings. Untangling how they are connected is something that you can only do with time and trying.

If you have a safe place where you can externalize those feelings, either through talking to someone, keeping a journal or writing the events but fictionalized I would suggest those things. Sometimes just being able to put it all out there and know that its safe helps you move on from it.

As far as people on the internet questioning you about where you've been, I can't say that wouldn't have happened or that it won't happen in the future, but as a general rule good, decent people extend you grace. Everyone has a life outside of this anonymous mosh pit we call the internet and most people are capable of understanding that. You don't need to compound these feelings of failure with any additional shame from anonymous strangers. Would they have loved to read your story? Yes of course they would have. If you were to finish it they would still want to read it. But they aren't angry or upset with you.

As you try to write, remind yourself that you have not failed. Imagine yourself as a professional athlete who has suffered a serious knee injury. You had to take time away but you're back on your feet now and you're working towards getting back on the field. Every time you sit and try to write, remind yourself that you have no failed, that you are recovering and that you will get better. Writing will get easier.

Send me as many asks as you want, if they help, I'll do my best to answer them promptly.

Good luck anon and take care of yourself.

62 notes · View notes

tamelee · 12 days

Note

Hii tamelee! If I remember correctly, you’re studying storytelling, is that right? I wondered if you could explain in details what kind of school you’re going, or just what exactly you are doing in your studies? If it’s okay with you of course 😊

Have a good day :)

Hi~! Yeah, sure!

I did marketing, (communication and entertainment), but then finished audiovisual and graphic design because I liked that much better than learning about how manipulative the industries are tbh. Unfortunately, I found out quickly, that pretty much every job in that industry has been taken over by AI and that even me learning how to draw wasn’t going to help me with that anymore either 🥲. Then, I continued doing Storytelling in the communication sector (where, yet again I learned about all the ways people are being manipulated -.-) because it’s quite a new official study. And then, I was accepted to apply for the program that focusses more on fiction— and got in. Which I’m doing right now (though I’m almost done).

In short, what I learned about Storytelling in business is that organizations use the elements of fictional storytelling combined with science (both internally and externally) in order to influence and convince the attitude, knowledge and behavioral patterns for the right audiences that are targeted by a certain communication goal. That goes so far that even the science about our brains are dissected to figure out the best ways in which the organization can redirect your neurotransmitters and hormones to benefit the storyteller. Even if you know you’re being manipulated, (for example, through a commercial that’s shamelessly stomping on your morals through a guilt-trip, or a product in the store that’s obnoxiously being shoved in front of you), often it’s still about targeting your subconscious and trust me when I say that if you enjoy spending time on the internet, it happens to you all the time and you don’t even know it :D

And yes, companies like shueisha/VIZ are masters in this as well— hence me disappointingly complimenting that skill at times.

So, imagine my joy when I crossed the bridge toward fiction.

Fictional storytelling is where I dissect not the science of a human brain exactly, but the story that’s being told. I have to figure out all the elements and literary devices that are being used and what they mean in the story. Not what it means to me, but finding meaning through the Theme the author/creator has used, and why. It’s about how a story is structured and what impacts people on an emotional level for their benefit (mostly). Why a story works and keeps you up all night, why others are usually almost always forgotten quickly. It’s not as subjective as people may think. Interpretation doesn’t mean much unless there’s intentionally room for it. (And when something is intentional or when it’s not.) There’s also science in its logic, but that’s not something most authors/creators focus on. And they really shouldn’t have to imo. It’s also knowing about character arcs and how to implement symbolism and motifs effectively. I have to write essays on movies and books or even TED talks. It’s using knowledge to figure out the why, what and how.

I think it’s awesome as a study, but other than some creative writing lessons, it won’t help me with great prose. It’s hard for me to connect with my own emotions and body which is something a lot of great authors can do really well. Either naturally or having to have practiced the connection with their personal emotional intelligence in order to write their Truth in their own authentic way through their characters. I read many books outside of my study from scriptwriters as well which were helpful. None of it is any reassurance I’ll be able to write my own story effectively though. It’s more a guideline of sorts with knowledge and structure which a neurodivergent like me (yes, I’m diagnosed officially) really needs xD. I still have to practice a lot! ^^ Hope you have a good day as well 🌷!

#asktamelee #on storytelling #storytelling talk #personal

10 notes · View notes

bluezey · 7 months

Text

Okay, real talk. I like having fun in the fandom, but I like to make headcanons and analyze things. Sometimes, I may overanalyze. Which led to a discussion that I had to quit before it went into a whole internet debate about Wade.

See, there's some who don't feel Ember falling for Wade made much sense, cause he started the ball rolling with Ember getting her family business shut down. They also don't feel for Wade because he's a rich kid from a billionaire family. They also don't believe that Wade is humble because of his luxurious upbringing, but, in fact, willfully ignorant.

And, I'm sorry, but I feel like I have to defend Wade a bit on this.

First, I will start off by kind of agreeing that his upbringing makes him somewhat ignorant. He had it easy growing up, and somewhat easy as an adult, so he can't understand why Ember, someone who struggles and her family struggles, can't just follow her heart and do what she wants. It also extends to the scene where he didn't know what he did wrong when he watered down the kol nuts, cause he did love the hot foods, they were just too hot for him, but didn't know cooling them so he can eat them was an offensive taboo. So, yeah, he's ignorant, I'll agree with that.

But, despite being raised in a wealthy family, he's still humble, emotional and can easily connect to other people. Also, he lives with his mom despite being twenty six. So, while he was raised rich and has the luxury to live with his mom, he wants to live off his own money, so money hasn't spoiled or made him feel entitled. Yes, agreed, he still has the luxury to live with his rich mom, but he doesn't have the luxury to afford his own place.

Which brings us to his problem that he can't seem to hold down a job. He's going from job to job since his dad died, and can't find his flow, which is signs of depression. We also know he hand his dad didn't get along, but he wanted to fix that, but he couldn't because his dad died, which is a big clue as to what started his depression.

But, to those who haven't read Unlikely Friends, you missed the fact that Wade's dad passed away when Wade was sixteen, and Wade is now twenty six. Wade has been living with a depression that has cost him job after job for ten years. Ten years! How many jobs has he lost during that time? No wonder he can't afford to move out.

Now with all that, we get back to Ember. When Wade first met Ember, yes, he wrote up enough tickets to shut the place down. But, he had to keep his job because he kept losing them. He didn't want to shut the place down, but he couldn't lose another job. He didn't want to mess up again. It wasn't until Ember admitted why the business was so important did Wade realized he messed up even worse for sending in those tickets. In fact, he wanted to tear up the tickets, but he already sent them in. So, he tried everything he could to help Ember save her business, not only because it was important to her, but he screwed up more than if he did lose his job.

Maybe I am overanalyzing and over defending a cartoon water guy. But, one, I friggin love this guy. And two, for an ignorant water guy who was born lucky, I don't think those who see him as a spoiled rich kid realize that he's not spoiled, and he did genuinely want to help Ember because he realized how important Ember's business is, and that he screwed up by focusing on not losing another job.

But I want to know what you think. Not your opinion on if I'm overanalyzing, I know I am 😅 I want to know where you stand and why. In your opinion, do you believe their love was not realistic because Wade is an ignorant rich kid who screwed over Ember, or genuine because Wade was genuinely trying to save Ember's shop after realizing that he ignorantly screwed over Ember?

#pixar elemental #wade ripple #ember lumen

20 notes · View notes

teeth--thief · 1 month

Note

I would be interested in so called “hater diaries”.

- Rodka

[Referencing this post] Of course you would, you absolute angel... Imma tag you now that you have a blog @atomshchik ☆

The channel I was talking about is Chernobylite (yes, as in the Chernobylite - the game one). Listen... if anyone should be able able to criticise this guy, I think it should be me. Pole on Pole violence 👊💥👊💥

Let's get cracking... under the cut.

One thing you have to keep in mind when watching anything on the internet about Chernobyl: if they bring up HBO's show as a credible source, quote it, use mostly stills or photos of the scenery or actors instead of of the real stuff etc etc - that is a flag more red than that of the Soviet Union, okay? HBO in thumbnails? Unless it's a "this show is extremely inaccurate" kind of video, that's most likely due to a) the lack of knowledge about actual credible sources or b) need for profit (monkey sees, monkey does clicks - the show is incredibly popular, putting imagery related to it means a higher chance people will choose your video).

To keep it short and (not at all) sweet: this guy is like the evil brother of That Chernobyl Guy. This is That Bare Minimum Chernobyl Man, though. He uploads a video at least once a week and they always JUST BARELY hit the 10 minute mark. But they always do. Hm... I wonder why... I sure do wonder what the number 10 and YouTube have in common... oh. Oh yeah. It starts with MONETI and ends with SATION Need a hint? Mhm, I didn't think so. Speaking of time, the intro is usually almost 2 minutes long, the outro a minute and, there you go, suddenly there's actually even less content than expected.

He has some genuinely bad takes sometimes, too. I don't know if I'm just sensitive about Toptunov specifically (I very clearly am) or if his video on him is just especially offensive to me... and it's 12 minutes 😍😍 two more than usual! And so, I'll use this video as an example. (edit during drafting: he had just released a video on N.M. Fomin which... I'll watch once I'll have some time to waste and we'll see how bad that one is...)

>Not even 20 seconds in and he just HAD TO hit us with that ThAt Is ThE cOsT oF lIeS, of course, you know it brother 💯🔥‼️ Oh get over yourself. Find another quote. And stop putting pictures of my favourite operator next to his blonde twink counterpart from the show. I'm offended on his behalf.

>I like how he just takes random pics off of Google Images or something. The photo he uses at 2:00 is from a Reddit post on r/chernobyl, and it's a picture of a picture - didn't feel like looking for a better one, huh? Someone's a little lazy?

>The video ACTUALLY starts at 2:30. Girlllll (gn) you are so slowwwww, pick up the peace, we're all getting old waiting for you to start.

>The picture slideshow we're getting is almost never relevant to what he's saying. He's saying where Toptunov was born and all we see is the reactor after explosion. Like, okay brother, I didn't know that's how SuMY, in BuRYN, as he says, looked like then. A map from Wikipedia wasn't available? That's the best you can do? Not to mention a few of his videos literally have the same b-roll. It feels like the same video over and over again.

>He claims that "his father's connection probably were useful" when it came to him pursing a career in science... would you like to show me when exactly they could have been useful? When he was taking an entrance exam for uni just like everybody else? Or was it when he had to work his way up from the very bottom of the NPP food work chain? Unless you were a child of someone real high up and wanted to pursue a career of doing fuckall then your nepo baby status wouldn't help you all that much. Your party connections would help you move up faster, sure, but you wouldn't be able to not pass the necessary training and/or exams.

"(...) no good scientist could dream of a good job in a nuclear programme without being somewhat involved in local politics." We don't even know if Toptunov himself was in the party. We know that Akimov was quite the dedicated party man, sure. But Stolyarchuk wasn't in the party at all and Dyatlov wasn't cool with the party and the party wasn't cool with him. How many more times can I say party? Too many parties. I hate parties. He also goes on to say that, after graduation he could only get an entry level position because "He would need really good connections to acquire higher ranking job without any previous experience" I am very sorry to inform you but that's just not how real life works. Maybe if you have a good degree, you can immediately become the CEO of all the janitors in the building but that's about that when it comes to the seriousness of the job.

>Now, the part that made me audibly GASP starts at 6:30:

(...) many power plant staff were dismissed, including those from the night shift at unit 4. Including Toptunov, many were labelled non-essential personnel and sent home. That was probably a part of managing the disaster from a propaganda perspective. Fewer people on site, fewer witnesses.

This is an actually DERANGED take. This was my breaking point... like, you cannot be serious right now. Not the evil Soviet scientists and their evil propaganda...! The evil propaganda of safety...! I'm sorry to inform you but ever single person in charge there wasn't immediately thinking "By Lenin, how can we ensure these horrible bottom feeders, also known as our colleagues, we're employing at our power plant don't say a word to anyone outside?" They were most likely thinking "If this part of the personnel is literally useless, why would they stay in this potentially dangerous zone? Let's get them out - for their safety and liquidation organisation's sake."

>"As he later stated (...)" We don't know what he stated. We don't have a single word that came out of his mouth recorded anywhere. It's all they said that he said. Or the authors of books want to show how much they think they know (look no further than Medvedev's "acording to Toptunov..." yes, I'm sure you know exactly what he thought about everything. Surely. You must have spoken to him. Through a Ouija Board, clearly). We'd need the statements from the KGB and whatnot to actually determine what any of them said or thought.

>"(...) During that time when he felt better, he had spoken multiple times to both Akimov and Dyatlov (...)" Acording to some book, I'm sorry, I don't remember which one, he was one of the few people that actually didn't get up from his bed to participate in the discussions, probably because his legs were already in a bad shape. Take this with a grain of salt, though. Nobody explicitly said he NEVER hang out with anyone at the hospital. It's just that worth noting that there's a possibility he at least didn't do that as much as the rest of the guys.

Overall grade: read a book. Change the boring ass b-roll shots. Change the stock sounding "creepy" music. Put some effort into everything. Stop relying on HBO's Chernobyl.

Conclusion: you'll never be That Chernobyl Guy xoxo That Chernobyl Guy for the president

#half baked commentary for a half baked video - it's only fair #file: special interest: chernobyl #chernobyl #file: misc hunter #file: ask!#asker: @atomshchik

8 notes · View notes

rollercoasterwords · 9 months

Note

Hi! I found your blog through the female rage substack article that you posted and I’m curious about a couple things (so I hope the tone of this ask will read as genuine/non-confrontational etc).

I really liked the article and the anti-gender essentialist content, so I looked through the others and eventually found your jegulus article (which I read and also liked) but I was sort of surprised to see that you are a part of the hp/marauders fandom. For me personally, everything related to that franchise has just been tainted since the whole jkr terf debacle really took off. I was big on hp when I was younger and wolfstar is a ship/dynamic that I enjoyed back then, so I’d probably like your stuff if I were to read it. But I decided some time ago to give any and all hp content the chop, because to me it didn’t feel right to engage with it anymore. So I was just wondering how you feel in that regard, if you don’t mind sharing. I don’t have anyone in my internet content circle that still actively posts about hp and if irl friends still enjoy it then it’s not something we talk about, so I’d just like to know how you juggle the ‘two sides’ in that sense of your trans-positive/anti-essentialist beliefs and fandom content that’s still so intrinsically connected to jkr and her politics. (Also, sorry if you’ve answered a question like this before. I scrolled through your blog a bit, but if yes then not far enough.)

Anyway, hope you’re well and I’ll probably keep an eye out for any future essays on your substack even if I don’t follow you on here. cheers! (and thanks for the “playing the whore” book rec, I’ll be looking into that. a rec from my end would be paul b. preciado's "can the monster speak". it's the written version of a speech he tried to give at a Freudian psychoanalysis conference about the position trans people occupy in psychoanalysis before being booed off stage. it was short and pretty intriguing, in case you're interested/haven't heard of it yet.)

hi! happy 2 hear u enjoyed the female rage essay--i wasn't expecting it to spread as much as it did + had to turn off reblogs for my own peace of mind 2 keep terfs away from my blog, but it's nice to know there are still people getting something out of it. also appreciate the book rec--that definitely sounds up my alley + i'm excited to check it out!

and i'll do my best to answer your question about hp, but i'm gonna put it under a cut because i know this is a contentious topic + i have a feeling my answer's gonna get long--so if anyone doesn't want 2 read abt my conflicting hp-fandom thoughts, just scroll away please xx

so, quite honestly, i'm in agreement with you that the entire franchise is tainted by jkr. the truth is that it was never really my intention to join the fandom--i read a single fic because it went viral on tiktok, then decided to rewrite the fic from another character's pov just for fun. at that point, i hadn't read any other hp fic and had never been involved in any kind of online fandom space, and although i'd read the hp books + watched the movies growing up i hadn't touched them in years + was so far removed from the franchise that i vaguely remembered hearing jkr had said some terfy stuff, but wasn't aware of the extent to which her politics were like. actively and significantly causing real-life harm.

anyway, i'd done a rewrite for fun of another story i liked and had posted it on ao3, and that had received a handful of people commenting + talking about the story with me as i wrote but had remained pretty self-contained + small. i was expecting the same sort of thing with the hp fic i rewrote, but instead someone posted about it on tiktok and it went viral, and then suddenly there were thousands of people reading every ch update and hundreds of comments. like i said, i had never been involved in an online fandom space before, so i sort of awkwardly stumbled into it and tried to figure out what i was doing as i finished up writing the fic. this was at a point in my life where i'd recently moved to a different country and had to go back in the closet after being publicly out for years, and this online fandom space became my only queer community and a bit of a lifeline in that way. i started making actual friends and talking to people + getting more deeply involved in the community aspect of things.

at the same time, i started actually educating myself on jkr + her politics + her impact, and the more i learned the more uncomfortable i became with being part of anything hp-related. now, i've been writing hp fic for almost two years and 'active' in the fandom for ~one and a half, and despite being grateful for the friends i've made and treasuring the space i've been able to cultivate, i've become increasingly disenchanted with 'the fandom' as a whole and have increasingly found it to be a hostile space, so i've sort of taken a step back from broader engagement and more + more have limited my interaction to just my mutuals here on tumblr. unfortunately, i think many of the 'bad parts' of this fandom are somewhat built-in because of the source material; there are a lot of people who agree with jkr's politics to varying extents and that can make it kind of a miserable place to be sometimes. i know many people insist that hp can be completely removed from jkr, but i don't think that's the case, and i've talked on my blog before about the fact that her politics are built into the very foundations of the text, so i think it's necessary to acknowledge her influence if we want to actually engage with hp at all in a way that isn't just perpetuating her politics.

all that being said, the point i'm at currently is that i'm not really sure that this fandom is a space i want to be a part of forever. again--i understand how it can be lifeline for some people and a queer community they might not have elsewhere, because that's been the case for me. but for me personally, as much as i value my own carved-out space, it doesn't completely outweigh the negatives that i have found myself coming into contact with more and more in this fandom. writing hp fic is also something that i keep strictly separate from 'real life,' contained solely in this online space, because i know that any engagement with hp is a red flag for many, many trans people and i don't want to bring it outside of this space. within this online space, i don't keep it a secret that i write hp fic; it's right at the top of my blog so that anyone who wants to can easily block and unfollow me. i only post my fics on ao3, where they are clearly tagged as harry potter fanfiction, and i only post about hp fic + fandom stuff on this blog, which was specifically created for that purpose. i've requested that people no longer post about my hp fics on platforms like tiktok where the algorithm could send it out onto anyone's fyp, and that request is also in my pinned faq. keeping my hp fic as contained as possible to only people who are already engaging with hp fic is one way that i try to mitigate any harm that might be caused by my fics contributing to hp's ongoing popularity.

the other ways i try to mitigate potential harm are by actively discouraging people from giving any financial support to hp + jkr and by being very vocal about my politics on this page, so that anyone who is following me will be getting pro-trans and anti-gender essentialism politics along with any hp engagement. i also don't engage with hp uncritically; i am specifically critical of the shitty politics in the books both in my posts on this blog and my fics themselves. i don't make it a secret that i think the books are politically rotten all the way down through to the foundations.

none of this is to say that there's, like...a Right Way to engage with this content or a set of rules that, if followed, Absolve All Shittiness. this is just an explanation of the personal evaluations i've had to weigh when it comes to deciding how i'm going to interact with content that is fundamentally opposed to my own politics. and again, i don't blame people who think that any amount of engagement is morally untenable and completely block it out. this is a growing source of cognitive dissonance in my own life, and i'm increasingly considering whether/for how much longer i want to continue to write fic + be involved in hp fandom. but for the time being, i'm still here + still writing fic, and i guess my feeling is that any harm that fic causes is a drop in the bucket, and even if i were to stop writing it wouldn't necessarily have a huge impact either way. i'm just some random guy online like everyone else; even though i talk about politics, that doesn't mean that i'm asking to be held up as some sort of moral standard, nor do i think anyone should be expected to be 100% politically perfect in every action they take--like, for me, writing hp fic kind of falls into the same category as like...eating mcdonalds even though i think factory farming is fucked, or buying + wearing makeup sometimes even though i think the beauty industry is fundamentally corrupt, or paying to see the new guardians of the galaxy movie in theaters even though i think marvel movies are us military propaganda. i don't think "no ethical consumption under capitalism" is an excuse to completely abandon any attempt to mitigate the harm our actions might cause, but it does matter to me the way in which someone is engaging with a fundamentally broken/corrupt piece of media beyond simply whether or not they're engaging at all. at the end of the day, it's up to everyone on their own to evaluate where they draw the line on hp, and i am not looking to make that judgment for anybody else considering that my own thoughts + feeling about it are still changing.

#ask

22 notes · View notes

riverwriter · 6 months

Text

20 Questions Game

Thanks for the tag @suzyq31

How many works do you have on AO3?

2. What's your total A03 words count?

1,044,549

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Only Harry Potter, though I’ve written for others that were never published.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

A Second Look: Her best friend's life was a mess and she would have done anything to make things better for him and his sons. So, when she found her former enemy in a similar situation her heart went out to him as well... and the beautiful blond baby in his arms didn't hurt his case. It was certainly enough for her to give him a second look.

An Unexpected Malfoy: Once upon a time Hermione Granger literally ran into Draco Malfoy in a bookshop. His mother sees a connection between her son and the muggleborn that she can't ignore and determines to get to know the girl. An imagining of how things could have gone if Hermione had been taken under the wing of the Malfoy family.

A Few New Looks: Glimpses into Draco, Hermione, and Scorpius' life as a family. A sequel to my story, "A Second Look."

The Beginning of Everything: Draco extracted a box from his pocket and flipped it open to reveal the most exquisite ring Hermione had ever seen. She gasped. "No Granger, I meant I literally have a proposal for you," he held her gaze as he spoke. "What do you say? Marry me and help me put one over on the Ministry. I know you're dying to stick it to them." This is a fic which is ostensibly about a marriage law.

Calla: She had been missing for more than ten years. But then she had dark magic cast on her in the Department of Mysteries, and that insidious curse did more than just injure her physically. It revealed a secret, a truth. Hermione Granger could finally be recognized as the girl she’d been at birth: Calliope Nott.

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I try, but not always.

6. What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I don’t think anything I’ve written would qualify. I”m all about the HEA.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Haha, see above.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Yep, it seems to be, unfortunately, part and parcel to posting things on the internet.

9. Do you write smut? If so what kind?

Yes. I was very shy about it at first. I think I’ve relaxed but it’s still not a major aspect of my fics. (Just not my style.)

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

I don’t. I’ll never say never but the closest I’ve ever come is “The Other Side” which is heavily influenced by the TV show “Fringe.”

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I’ve had fics posted on other sites without my permission, but as far as I’m aware, nobody has ever taken credit for my work.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

People have started but never finished. It’s one reason I have stopped granting permission for translations.

13. Have you ever cowritten a fic before?

Haha yes, unfortunately my cowriter and I live too far away from each other that we couldn’t make it work. It’s been years but we still talk about trying to figure out how to finish it. (fingers crossed)

14. What's your all-time favourite ship?

I spend most of my free time writing Dramione so I suppose that’s the answer. But I love so many ships, even outside of the HP fandom.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

Yeah, I refuse to admit that will happen. Unless you count “Various and Sundry” because-by its nature- it has no beginning and no end.

I16. What are your writing strengths?

When I get going I am very plugged in. I occasionally wake up and scribble a thought down so I don’t lose it.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Action scenes. And I stupidly wrote a huge fic that concludes in a…battle. If any of you wonder what I’ve been doing for years, it’s been figuring out my own brain.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

I’m not a fan. Also not a fan of writing out an accent.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Bones. But I was never brave enough to post any of those fics.

20. Favourite fic you've ever written?

“An Unexpected Malfoy” It’s my baby and probably always will be.

This part gives me anxiety, because I never know who to tag, so anybody who wants to participate, please do! (And if you want to tag me, do that as well, because I’d love to read your responses)

#fanfic writing #riverwriter #hp

14 notes · View notes

chloeinletters · 1 year

Note

hello! I love your work & your writing--as someone who is doing exactly the kind of thing I want to do (balancing substack + tumblr + internet identity/irl work) I was wondering if you could tell me a lil bit about how you came to the decision to link the two, and if there's anything you changed abt your tumblr use in doing so? tysm for your time!!

Hi!!

This is a really interesting question and I will try and be concise though I am not always good at that. Largely I was someone who was always sharing their writing online and during the pandemic I felt the desire to really take it more seriously as publications began closing and my options felt more limited. I was also like, I've essentially finished all my creative writing classes so why should I hold off from being a "writer."

A part of that did involve, in some ways, changing and reworking. I feel my motives in regard to social media is always how can I make this the easiest possible thing for me. I always want it to be easy and fun to do especially since I work full-time outside of writing for all my stuff. I didn't want it to feel precisely like a second job and I wanted it to be accessible to me on the go.

I changed my presence online in a kind of way. When I thought about what would be easy the easiest thing was like how can I be myself? Which I think is what makes So I had the handle chloe in letters reserved across most if not all platforms and I slowly began to establish myself on each. Instagram was probably the hardest and took the longest to figure out as far as the presentation. I began to experiment in early 2021 and I switched to a more casual personal approach so that it was easier and more me rather than a kind of steril homogenous vibe I had before which didn't really lend itself to, what I think is important in writing, which was feeling connected. It was also difficult to maintain.

Then one day I was on my way home from work and I wrote something in google docs and took a screenshot and I was like yes this is it. That was like in early 2022 so it took me a good year to get there! and then it was like wow its so easy to just....take a screenshot of my work wherever its posted and share it across all platforms. Most platforms support this kind of sharing of words really seamlessly. So in establishing myself one place, it was also easier to establish myself elsewhere. I wanted to take each social one step at a time so I could learn to juggle them all with practice rather than going all out on each. Substack first, then tik tok, then Instagram, then tumblr, then twitter. Since I had experience in most of these from my personal use of them it was pretty seamless to figuring out what to post.

All in all its a long process of linking. I mean I struggled with algorithms with readability, with length etc etc but there's a real learning curve and I think its one of those learn through doing. I don't think anyone has to join the internet in a fully formed way to begin with the process of finding your footing in its large capacity. The bulk of my following came from the period in which I was working out how I wanted to be ~online~

I wouldn't say I changed anything in terms of compromising myself either. I think if anything this has been a really thorough look at how can I really be myself. What feels good for me, what feels like me so that when people do find me it's consistent because it's always just who I am as a person. I don't wish to sound arrogant in saying that I think a big part of what is likeable about my work is the authentic (as much as social media can be) presentation of myself. Maybe yes I am more tender on twitter and funnier on Instagram or what have you, but its not a widely different shift because I have really gotten to the heart of myself and my desire. Which is honestly hard with social media and the idea of aesthetics.

I also think a big thing in linking everything was again this idea of who is going to say I'm a writer if not me? I really began this with a sense of the world is falling apart and I thought someone was going to pluck me from a sea of candidates and coronate me into the vast net of people who write for the internet. The fact was I wanted to be a writer so I decided to be one. And every day since has been a question of what kind of writer do I wish to be. ALl of that changes, it all changes all the time, but I feel more capable of it because I spent so much time trying to find a way to present myself that felt true and real so I know how to identify when some things don't serve me anymore or are old stories I am still telling myself about who I am.

I hope this answers your question! I feel like I kept rereading your ask and confusing myself on what you were asking so it was not concise at all. I also hope it doesn't sound bleak I think the technical stuff on algorithms and such was a big part of my life at the beginning but really again it's boiled down to how can I make this easy since everything else is so hard. It's become less of a science and more of a joy. Even if it sounds like it's all very complex it's only because I am a work in progress as always!

28 notes · View notes

Last Seen Blogs

axelmcsm

axel community center

malepresentingleg

Don't judge me I'm a fangirl

mizuki90

Untitled

myungtaro

nope

gunkout

Oh, bitch, I'm fabulous!