#The Three Princes of Serendip

[noosphe-re]

Etymology of ‘serendipity’

serendipity (n.)

"faculty of making happy and unexpected discoveries," a rare word before 20c., coined by Horace Walpole in a letter to Horace Mann dated Jan. 28, 1754, but which apparently was not published until 1833.

Walpole said he formed the word from the Persian fairy tale "The Three Princes of Serendip" (an English version was published in 1722) whose heroes "were always making discoveries, by accidents and sagacity, of things they were not in quest of" [Walpole].

Serendip, (also Serendib), attested by 1708 in English, is an old name for Ceylon (modern Sri Lanka), from Arabic Sarandib, from Sanskrit Simhaladvipa "Dwelling-Place-of-Lions Island."

Attention was called to the word in an article in The Saturday Review of June 16, 1877 ["An ungrateful world has probably almost forgotten Horace Walpole's attempt to enrich the English language with the term "Serendipity." etc.]; it begins to turn up in publication 1890s but still is not in Century Dictionary (1902) .

—https://www.etymonline.com/word/serendipity

#quote #etymology #serendipity #The Three Princes of Serendip #Sri Lanka #Ceylon #Persian #Arabic #Sanskrit #language #linguistics #fairy tale #Horace Walpole

[thelastofthebookworms]

My tag for this series is 'fairy tales'.

#polls #fairy tales #folktales #culhwch and olwen #culhwch ac olwen #the firebird and princess vasilisa #noori jam tamachi #the tinderbox #the snail bride #ureongi gaksi #cola pesce #nicholas fish #the three princes of serendip #the wolf and the fox #the witch in the stone boat

[radedneko]

But do you know what the strange thing is? Even though the truth sometimes disappears from sight, in the end it will reveal itself once more. And that is what happened in this case.

~The Three Princes of Serendip: New Tellings of Old Tales for Everyone by Rodaan Al Galidi; trans. Laura Watkinson; illus. Geertje Aalders

#quotes kelly likes #the three princes of serendip #rodaan al galidi #fairy tales

[isuckatwritingsobenice]

Infernal Shadows

Synopsis: Being one of the most powerful overlords in Hell, you like to keep up with colonies and overlord plans. Recently with the new extermination date out, you hold your annual gala sooner than usual. You hadn’t expected to get in the middle of the already heated feud between the Radio Demon and the head of Vox Tech.

Warnings: She/Her pronouns used for the reader, mentions of blood, voodoo?, Angel Dust being a horn-bag, Reader is referred too as Madame to the public. Vox and Alastor feud because I live for it.

Song for this chapter: The world we knew by Frank Sinatra.

A/N: I wanna make this a three part short story, so if anyone is interested in being tagged in the second part just let me know!! I hope you enjoy!!

Word count: 2655

Navigation!! // Masterlist!!! // Serendipity Writes (event) // Part two

Getting an invite to the annual crimson ball, hosted by yours truly, was nothing but an honor. Every overlord and every sinner in the pride ring waited anxiously for a letter. A black card with white letter in a cursive font stating ‘You have been personally invited by Hells biggest designer. The list of the gala was simple. The usual overlords, Zestial, Carmilla Carmine and her daughters, Zeezie, Rosie, Fredrick Von Eldritch and Bethesda von Eldritch. Alastor who had came back after seven years of hiding god knows where, and by special request, the three vee’s who had never attended the gala before. Then it becomes a bit more political.

Next on the list was the Goetia family, inviting the recently divorced prince with his daughter. Inviting Lucifer and Lilith, though they only ever came when everyone was gone. Then was their daughter Charlotte, who got a plus one as a special perk of being the princess of hell. Husk because he had been an old friend of yours before his status of Overlord was taken from him by none other than Alastor. He was also given a plus one, though he usually never brought anyone extra. Sir Pentious was a candidate, but ultimately scrapped from your list of invites as you felt he was too childish.

The gala was tonight and everything was going smoothly. Preparations were almost done, the foyer was spotless just the way you liked it, and everything seemed to be falling into place. You stared at yourself in the mirror. You had spent months designing your perfect dress for tonight. Everyone attending the gala knew there was only ever one color off limits, because you always wore it best. The color black always suited you perfectly. No one could wear it better than you.

Back at the hotel, Charlie felt guilty for using her authority as princess to have people help her get ready for this gala. Based on what Alastor had told her, there would be a lot of political powers and fellow overlords there. She wanted to look her best if she was going to pitch the hotel to them. She needed more people on board with the project, maybe someone who didn’t think it was complete and utterly ridiculous joke like Alastor did.

“How do I look?” Charlie asked as the makeup and hair artists stepped away from her. Charlie stepped out, allowing Vaggie to get a better look at her in a tailored charcoal gray suit, a departure from her usual vibrant red attire. The jacket, adorned with subtle pinstripes, accentuated her frame, while the crisp, white silk shirt underneath added a touch of formality. Completing the ensemble, she wore a black tie with a discreet pattern that hinted at both elegance and authority. The ensemble was a strategic choice, projecting confidence and a readiness to engage with the political powers present at the gala for the sake of her hotel. Vaggie smiled and hugged Charlie deeply, their embrace making Charlie feel a little less nervous about the whole ordeal.

“Charlie you look amazing. What happened to the red?” Vaggie asked, before Charlie just chuckled.

“Well, I wanted a change for tonight. I’m always in red, and I feel like they’ll take me more serious if I’m not walking in there with my usual attire. Besides, you read the invitation, ‘formal attire, look your best’.” Charlie said. Vaggie nodded, and Charlie pulled back from the hug to admire Vaggie in her dress. She was wearing a sleek and modern grey dress that gracefully embraced the formal occasion. The dress, with its tailored fit and subtle shimmer, exuded class. The knee-length hemline added a contemporary touch, and Vaggie had decided to pair it with black heels to complete the ensemble. The choice of grey complemented Charlie’s charcoal gray suit, creating a coordinated yet distinct look that would surely make an impression at the gala. Charlie felt her cheeks heat up taking in her appearance, her long hair gently pinned back, the loose pieces of hair framing her face.

“Aww, Vaggie you look so pretty!!” Charlie said excitedly. Vaggie just smiled, ignoring the way her cheeks heated up at Charlies compliment.

“I agree, you look good vagina.” Angel said mockingly, causing Vaggie to glare at him. Charlie just gushed.

“Angel be nice. This is really important for the hotel.” Charlie explained. He just nodded, tilting his head back and downing a bottle of liquor. The staff however was interrupted by Angel making a purring sound at Husk, who was dressed in a nice white suave dinner jacket, with perfect cutouts for his wings, along with some sleek black trousers and some black dress shoes. The match, he had a black silk lapel.

“I can think of another place that suit would look.” Angel said, leaning onto Husk. He rolls his eyes, bottle in hand.

“Do I even wanna know?” He asks, and Angel just grins.

“On my bedroom floo-“ Angel doesn’t get to finish, being shrugged off by Husk who just walks away with a shake of his head.

“Oh my gosh! Husk you look amazing!” Charlie squealed in delight. Husk just smiled softly before setting his drink on the bar counter.

“It appears everyone is ready.” Alastor said, the focus of the room shifting to him. Niffty was at his side studying his outfit from head to toe.

Alastor emerged in an ensemble that deviated from his usual eccentricity, opting for a more formal yet captivating look. A deep red velvet tailcoat adorned his frame, its luxurious texture catching the light. Dark-red lapels, meticulously piped with gold, added a touch of opulence. Underneath, he wore a perfectly tailored crimson dress shirt, the power emitting off of him. Suddenly, the room grew just a tad bit darker, the shadows of the room stretching just a bit. Complementing the ensemble, he chose a pair of well-fitted black dress pants, allowing the bold red hue to take center stage on his appearance. His choice of footwear shifted to polished black oxford shoes, a departure from his usual pointed-toe boots. The finishing touches of the outfit included a matching red silk bowtie, neatly knotted at his throat, and black leather gloves that added a refined edge. Alastor’s presence was commanding, radiating an air of formality while retaining the distinctive charm that defined him. The room was captivated by the Radio Demon’s unexpected transformation into a vision of refined class and style.

“You took forever for that?” Niffty said, before Angel Dust tossed a pillow at her.

“Shut it you. We, we are keeping,” Angel said, hands waving around Alastor, “to whatever this is.”

“Style.” Alastor said confidently. Vaggie just face palmed while Charlie clapped her hands together excitedly.

“Okay, I think everyone’s ready. Should we head out?” Charlie asked. Vaggie nodded, before Alastor dug the invitation out of his coat pocket. Standing near a wall, he traced the symbol on the back of the card on the wall. “Uh, Al? What are you doing?” Charlie asked. He grinned, putting his hand flat on the wall. The symbol began to glow green, before it opened a portal. On the other side, was a large house. The grand Victorian mansion stood as a testament to opulence, its imposing facade adorned with intricate wrought-iron black railings and embellished balconies with hints of chains. Tall, arched windows with stained glass panels framed the exterior, allowing glimpses of the soft glow emanating from within. The entrance, marked by a sweeping staircase, welcomed guests with ornate, carved intricate detailed doors. Charlie, Vaggie and Husk followed Alastor through the portal, Charlie waving goodbye to Niffty, and Angel. Sir Pentious was most likely hiding out in a room somewhere with his egg boys.

As guests approached, they marveled at the meticulous details of the architecture – elaborate moldings, corbels, and friezes adorned every corner. Ivy-clad walls added a touch of nature’s grace, intertwining with wrought-iron lampposts that cast a warm ambiance over the meticulously landscaped gardens.Inside, the grand foyer unfolded, revealing a sweeping staircase adorned with a rich, mahogany handrail. Crystal chandeliers hung from soaring ceilings, their light refracted by ornate mirrors that lined the walls. Plush Victorian-era furnishings, upholstered in rich fabrics, adorned the parlor rooms, creating intimate spaces for guests to gather and converse.Every room whispered of a bygone era – intricately patterned wallpaper, gilded frames displaying classical art, and the faint fragrance of aged wood and lavender.

The air was infused with a sense of refinement, transporting guests to a time when elegance reigned supreme. The Victorian mansion, a splendid backdrop for the gala, promised an evening steeped in grandeur and charm. In the middle of the exterior grounds, a grand fountain of blood took center stage. Its sculpted marble figures spouted blood into the air, catching the moonlight in a dance of liquid elegance. The fountain, surrounded by manicured gardens and flowering shrubs, became a focal point for guests as they strolled through the outdoor spaces, the gentle sound of cascading blood adding a serene touch to the gala’s errie atmosphere.

The overlords arrival made the event much more real. Alastor hums to himself as he walks around the outside grounds. There are servants of all kinds walking around with glasses of champagne. Rosie is sitting on a bench, plucking thorns off a rose. Alastor smiles to himself, happy to see a familiar face he know he can confide in.

“Rosie dear! So nice to see you.” Alastor said with a smile. She smiles at him, teeth razor sharp.

“Do you think you’ll be getting a seat tonight?” She asks, snapping the rose off its stem and tossing it to the side.

“Well of course I will. It’d be a mistake if I wasn’t.” Alastor said with a smile, crossing his legs as he sat down next to her. Sinners from all over the pride ring were socializing outside of the large mansion. He knew you were inside finalizing preparations and possibly screaming your head off. Overall, the air was chilled with a comfortable atmosphere. Well, it had been comfortable, until a loud noisy vehicle stopped at the front gates. Everyone’s heads were turning, Rosie and Alastor looking at each other with strained smiles. Stepping out of the large limousine were the three vee’s, vulgar music blaring from the vehicles speakers as the three made their way through the now open gates. Reporters lined the edges of the gates, trying desperately to see the overlords inside and to try and sneak into the gala, which was starting soon.

“Mr.Vox! Mr.Vox!” News reporters shouted. Velvet was busy taking selfies of her and her outfit, her assistant following close behind her. Valentino was busy looking down at everyone, smoking his usual, while taking his long strides next to Vox, who was in the middle of the three.

On Vox’s right was Valentino, who donned a captivating look for the gala. His tailored white suit boasted a jacket that reached just above the knee, a subtle departure from his usual floor-length coat. The crimson silk lining peeked through, adding a luxurious touch to the outfit. The coat, reminiscent of his extravagant style, also had a vivid-red hue with his signature white fur trim at the wrists. The black and white striped fur trim along the center-front added a distinctive flair. A gold chain and love-heart-shaped broach fastenings adorned the coat, creating an opulent yet alluring look. Finally, he wore polished black heeled boots, maintaining the sleek and captivating allure that defined Valentino’s presence. The familiar color scheme remained intact, blending sophistication with a hint of provocative charm for the grand gala.

On Vox’s left was Velvet, who had spent months perfecting her outfit for the gala, in hopes she’d be invited of course. She had begged the boys to keep a good public appearance, in hopes they’d be recognized and invited to the crimson gala. Velvette, deciding to ditch her usual style, embraced a lavish and over-the-top look that represented her brand. Dressed in a knee-length dress, the garment had a striking blend of black and red hues. The dress, fitted at the waist, flowed into a voluminous skirt, creating a sense of extravagance. The bodice of the dress featured intricate lace detailing. A white collar adorned with a velvet bow added a playful yet mature flair. The sleeves, a fusion of burgundy and white patterns, contributed to the overall lavish aesthetic she had been going for. Her accessories took on a more refined form. Velvet gloves, adorned with delicate lace, graced her hands, and a pearl necklace adorned her neck, adding a classic touch, completed with maroon heels, each step resonating with a sense of grandeur. Velvet’s transformation into this upscale attire reflected her desire to make a statement at the Crimson Gala.

In the middle, and the brains of the three vee’s, was none other than the head of Vox Tech, Vox himself. He wore a sleek and modern dark blue tuxedo, tailored with precision. Of course he could only have the best. The suit featured subtle futuristic patterns that enhanced his ‘perfect’ sense of style. To complement his high-tech vibe, Vox wore a light blue undershirt with an upside-down broadcast symbol. Vox's gala attire seamlessly blended power and control with his technological edge, creating a memorable look in shades of dark blue, which in his opinion, was the best color.

Upon seeing Alastor, Vox’s eye twitched noticeably. The gates shut behind the three vee’s, closing off the gala to the public. The overlords begin to get closer together unknowingly, Zestial finding a comfortable corner to watch things play out. Carmilla and Zeezie stand close together, whispering to one another as both Rosie and Alastor stand from the bench. Vox, Valentino and Velvet make their way to the Radio Demon and his colleagues.

“I see the grandpa’s were invited.” Velvet says with a scoff, scrolling through her phone.

“So disrespectful.” Carmilla says under her breath, looking away from the three vee’s.

“Hm, interesting, and I was beginning to think the only interesting thing tonight would be the dinner.” Bethesda said, her brother nodding.

“Well, it seems the children brought their play date to the public then.” Zeezie says. The other overlords laugh and Valentino sneers at her.

“Well an idiota like you would think so. Then again, don’t you all do the same with your diapers?” He asked, puffing the smoke into her face. She growls at him, fists clenching at her side, but Carmilla stops her.

“Didn’t they say this was an adult only gala?” Carmilla asked, Rosie chuckling at her words.

“Oh can it grandma.” Velvete said. But Vox remained silent, having his own personal staring match with Alastor, whose smile was stretched ear to ear, teeth on full display.

“I thought this gala was meant for real talent?” Vox asked, stepping closer to Alastor.

“Well it was until you showed up.” Alastor said with a smile. “There’s no originality in copying someone else.” He tuts. Vox narrows his eyes, face twisting with anger as he steps closer to Alastor again.

“You wanna tell me something, you old piece of-“ Vox is stopped, the lights to the exterior of the mansion dimming. The lights behind the large front doors opening slowly. Two tall black shadowy figures stepped from the door, smoke at their feet.

“Thank you all for your attendance. As we know, the annual Crimson Gala is held every year, and this year is no different. With the new extermination date, important decisions must be made. Tonight, ten individuals will be selected to sit at Madame’s table where she will discuss private plans on how to move forward.” The two said in unison. Everyone fell silent as more shadows appeared, each one sitting on the sides of the steps. Lights around the staircases began to light up, and people began making their way up the stairs.

“Well~ this should be fun.”

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin alastor #alastor x reader #hazbin charlie #hazbin angel dust #hazbin vaggie #hazbin demon #hazbin vox #hazbin hotel rosie #alastor #helluva boss vox #vox x reader #vox hazbin hotel #alastor and vox #hazbin hotel vox #overlords #hellaverse #yandere alastor x reader #yandere alastor #yandere Vox #yandere Vox x reader #yandere hazbin hotel #yandere hazbin hotel x reader #isuckatwritingsobenice infernal shadows #isuckatwritingsobenice

[nichuuu]

Scatterbrain

Word count: 18k+

They say it takes a village to raise a child. 

To raise a girl as fine as Jang Wonyoung, you’d probably need 3 whole villages.

Two of those three villages would be used to train the way she walks because it’s perfect: classy, poised, elegant. The other one would have to work on her outfits because god would she need those. Hopefully the village doesn’t operate a Shein style manufacturing line. She’d hate that.

Her face is the definition of “striking the gene pool lottery”, and so is the rest of her body. Lanky arms and legs; toned, slim tummy; big, bright eyes that glimmer under the flashing lights. Personally, you like her “you’re on camera” smile the most. She knows this, and she always makes it a point to shoot it your way as she struts towards you. She stops half way to get a flute of Champagne, make that two actually, then grabs another. Those long legs can cover one hell of a distance, and they bring her right to you in a matter of seconds.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” she hands you the Champagne flute in her left hand, and the rings on it shine in the light, “cause it’s starting to feel like you’re just stalking me now.”

Of course, it’s the snarky remarks that open the conversation. Jang Wonyoung, airheaded as ever m’lady, and you sip on the Bubbly that she’s very nicely delivered to you. Wonyoung is, of course, a little bit of an airhead in your books (only because she believes that you’re always there for her, nothing else), and it’s never not hilarious to watch her draw her lips into a thin line. It’s not the first time she’s hearing this from you; it certainly won’t be the last. You can’t control where you’re posted to, but you know for a fact that you’ll see her again a couple months down the road.

Cause your meetings with Jang Wonyoung are through pure serendipity really, and you certainly will start calling it that after you read that one story. You know: the one where this guy cheats on his idol girlfriend, who he has a tense relationship with, with another idol that he happens to meet just about everywhere. There’s 0 communication between the two of you when these types of events come around, and neither of you know if either of you will be there or not. Actually, it’s just you really; neither of you know if you will be there. 

“Here for Kwon Eunbi again? Or are you finding someone else?” This question of her’s is customary at this point. Never once has it been perfunctory.

“Well, I was actually here to try and catch an interview with Jo Yuri, but I guess you’ll do,” you reply. Wonyoung scoffs—so I’m second place then?—and you have to assuage her oh-so-damaged ego, “you’re making this inference on your own Princess. I never said anything remotely close to that.”

And it’s that smile on her face that makes you want to kiss her really. It’s gorgeous, it’s cute, it’s beautiful. She’s given you that damned smile so many times that you could probably draw it from memory, though you’d definitely butcher it. The dress is certainly doing it justice, and you watch it brush against the skin of her legs as she shifts her weight to the other foot. I’ve never been that good at inferences. You’re far better than me, Prince, and she’s playing with her hair: twirling and untwirling it around her finger. That ribbon atop her head… Her stylist certainly knows their stuff.

“Think I’ll win an award this year?” Her question draws you away from your thorough examination of her. You take a moment to think, and you have to say, it depends, but I think you could definitely get something in some category. She gives you this inscrutable look, and she’s chuckling to herself as she looks at the crowd and sips on her champagne. You can guess what she’s about to say next: quite the crowd today, huh? And you’d reply, “Don’t think that they’re all here for you”, and that would prompt her to shoot back with, “Then who are they here for? You?”. 

But of course, when do things ever go according to plan?

“Have you thought about my offer?” she asks, and you’re caught off guard. 

Cause here’s the history between you two: Middle school best friends, always kind of inseparable. She was the beauty queen, it girl, and she still is; you were the writer, head of the school magazine, and you’re pretty much writing for the rest of your life. Wherever you went with her, rumours followed—Are they dating? I think they’re just friends. Maybe she’s trying to be the front of the magazine?—but you never thought much of it. It was just a simple friendship to you, nothing more. 

Then the kiss she gave you in high school changed it all.

It was a party, hosted by one of your mutual friends. She kissed you, and no, it wasn’t a Spin The Bottle forfeit, nor was it a dare of any sort; it was a sincere, tender kiss in the garden—unprompted, and away from any prying eyes and soft like silk chiffon. You have to admit, the sensation had your brain mired for a minute or so. But when you came back to your senses, you kissed her right back, and things got complicated after that. 

No one knew of it; it was your little secret. Wonyoung became closer than ever, and next thing you know, she declares the two of you “exclusive” but not dating. It’s because her agency has that funky dating ban thing, and Wonyoung was desperate to find a loophole, albeit a little complex. Of course, you’re willing to stay “exclusive” with Wonyoung in secret, but you started to worry that it can’t stay this way for long after the two of you get out of high school. 

But as fate would have it, your career paths meet at the crossroads, and now you see her every other month or so. You still text her when you can, and the “exclusive” relationship has sustained. Now that she’s an adult and she’s bringing in mad bucks for the agency, she’s informed you of some changes in her contact. From there, the offer was birthed, and you have left it unchecked for the past four months or so, “grey ticked” as she liked to call it.

“You haven’t texted in a while, thought you died,” she continues, leaning on her elbows against the table. “Thank god you’re alive, huh?”

You hoped that she’d just forget about it, but she’s more of a mnemonist than you give her credit for. An award show is the last place you expected to be caught off guard by Jang Wonyoung, but she’s definitely a master of surprise. I uh… I haven’t really thought about it, is a lie you tell her and yourself. She smiles enigmatically, downs the rest of her Champagne. 

“Let’s talk about it tonight,” she touches your chest, and it’s soft like silk chiffon, “you know where to find me, Prince.”

She struts off to join the rest of her members, stops halfway to return her Champagne flute, then looks back at you over her shoulder to give you a small wave. You sip on your Champagne as the silk brushes against her skin. 

It’s a heavy breath that leaves your mouth, and it’s the rest of the Champagne that goes in.

*

302.

Gold lettering, black plaque. It’s grand, pretty elegant. Suits her well. 

Then the door opens. 

In her bathrobe, Jang Wonyoung shoots her “you’re on camera” smile. You’re earlier than expected—she lets you in—Matter of fact, I thought you might not show at all.

And it’s a must to quip back, “thought you’d be asleep by now you big baby.”

When the door closes, it’s straight to work, and here’s how that normally goes: kissing, undressing, foreplay, then finally—fucking. Not that it has to follow that order or anything, but it’s the unspoken schedule that Wonyoung’s written up. God forbid anyone goes against what the princess is comfortable with, not that you’d ever try to either way. Your voice is barely a mumble past her lips—aren’t we supposed to talk about something?—and Wonyoung’s quick to dismiss any queries, “later. There’s always time for it later”. 

So it’s the kiss that’s pulling you back into her. Her front teeth capture your bottom lip, pull, drags it back a little like she’s trying to unwrap you like a present. You hold her waist, and with gentle hands, you push her back against the wall. It’s not that you’re trying to get control or anything; you’re just attempting to give her something to work with, a place to rest as she starts to work on the buttons of your shirt. 

“Are you already naked underneath that?” you whisper, though it’s more of a drawl than a whisper. In response, she momentarily stops with your buttons to slide a section of her bathrobe away, giving you a good look at a column of her naked, milky skin. 

In short: Yes, she is very much naked under that robe.

“Don’t get distracted, my prince. Eyes up here.”

“You’re the one that made me look, princess.”

She’s evidently struggling with the last button of your shirt, and you have to let go of her for a moment to help her get it done. Then it’s off with the shirt, and she flings it against the door for convenience sake. Your belt’s next, and that’s taken care of before you can even say, let me undress you Princess. It does make her hesitate at the clasp of your trousers for a bit. Just for a bit.

“I’d like,” her fingers are moving again, and they’re awfully quick at unfastening your pants, “for you to unwrap me on the bed instead.”

How raunchy of her. Makes you want to try her on.

Your pants fall. Your hand slithers into the bathrobe. Her jaw drops. Wonyoung my darling, and your fingers have captured one of those perky breasts, the right one to be exact. How do you ever—it’s light pressure to the nipple for you; it’s mind melting for her—get away with being such a big slut? Look at you, I’m barely even squeezing here. You’d like to save that face she makes in a supercut of her other memorable faces: eyes wide, mouth agape and her chin tucked into her neck. Frame it up, take a step back, admire it. It’s the face of someone who’s pent up, the expression of a needy girl who’s been aching to get some dick. Maybe if you guys had met a little sooner, she wouldn’t be this sensitive. But now? A twist of your forefinger and thumb is all it takes to draw a cry out of her, a little more pressure is enough to rain hellfire upon her. What a crazy-hot mess she is; only god knows how to clean her up and get her sorted out.

Open mouth straight to your ear, Wonyoung lets out a breathy gasp. In your fingers, the stiff peak rolls between the pads—back, forth, back, forth: motions that make her weak in her knees. It’s with great effort that she pulls your face back to hers, captures you in her quivering lips. Elegance has long been thrown out the window by now, and it’s not going to be returning for quite some time, as if you ever need it at a time like this. She’s barely holding herself up at this point. Where did the prim proper Jang Wonyoung go? 

The answer’s in her kiss—gone, dusted, she was here just a minute ago though. She’s grasping at whatever inch of your skin she can find, and her nails are definitely gonna be leaving marks on the sides of your neck. You let out a small, wry laugh as you silently observe her behaviour, watching her implore without speaking, badger without requesting. It’s an art form really, the form of expression for the horny and desperate and bratty. When her hands grip your face and her nails sink into your cheek, you pinch a little harder and relish the pleasant vibrations that are sent into your mouth as she gasps. Her palms press into your jaw, and they’d probably crush it if you press any harder. Her feet patter against the wood as she starts to direct you to the bed. You kick off your shoes together with your pants. 

It’s definitely a sight to take in: Jang Wonyoung in a massive king size bed, a thin bathrobe being the only thing between you and that wonderful body being the bathrobe. Maybe if she wasn’t in this state she’s in, she’d gesture to you with a come hither motion, and invite you to remove the fabric from her body. Instead, she opts for a spine tingling mewl, and that’s your invitation to her body. It’s hardly an insinuation; the fact that she wants to be unwrapped like a present is undeniable, she used the word unwrap herself. The bunny knot holding the two pieces of fabric is symmetrical—has Wonyoung’s fingerprints all over it. If it weren’t for the fact that she’s watching you with a half-open mouth, maybe you’d compliment her on her efforts a little, maybe even call her “princess” a couple more times before you properly ruin her.

(But she’s already ruined, ruined by a mere bit of pressure to the nipple. What else can make her tick now?)

Her body is at your mercy and it, quite literally, jerks as you start to pull at the knot, undoing it centimetre by centimetre, millimetre by millimetre, inch by inch. You want to see how long she can watch for, how long she can witness herself be undressed in a painfully slow fashion. Needy as she is, she’s patient as she watches one end of the rope grow longer. 

Longer. 

“Do you want me to speed this up, baby?” The smirk on your face would earn you a pout from her if her nerves weren’t in a bundle at the given moment.

“W-Whatever you want,” she answers, and her voice is brimming with breathy arousal. How are you getting away with all this? She’d grab your wrist and pull by now if she wasn’t so damn needy right now.

You give a dry laugh. “Then I’ll keep at this then.”

Longer.

“Fuck. Just pull it all the way already.” She looks you right in the eye as she begs you to hurry, and now you can see the need brimming in those large, round eyes, the ones that stare back at you with soft intensity, if that’s even possible. She’s good at mixing emotions into her stare.

“I thought you said—”

“Just fucking do it!”

Slack.

And the knot comes undone, and together with it, the robe falls off to the sides of her body—it’s beautiful. Never have you taken so much pleasure in undressing her, but you sure-as-hell have taken this much time to admire that wonderful, slender frame. From your standing view over her, you get down to her level to get a better look at her. It’s all part of the game of course: the way you look her in the eye, the way you touch her jaw ever so slightly to turn it towards you. The kiss is sickly sweet, and she’s starting to taste more and more like that cherry lipstick you gave her when you saw her some time ago at another event. Into your mouth, she lets out a sonorous moan. Your fingertips brush along her skin, slither down from her collarbone to her cleavage—down to that flushed pink region between her equally flushed thighs. Almost instantly, the tip of your digits are coated in slick fluids, and you raise an eyebrow at the girl on the bed.

“I literally touched you.” It’s amusement permeating your voice more than anything. In the sheets, she squirms in the slightest, eyes locked on your fingers that rest against that dripping heat and breath caught in her throat. You know that if you were to shift your finger in the slightest, you’d trigger a chain reaction that you have no power over. Her legs would clamp, her abdomen would tense, her eyes would roll. In the midst of it all, she’d maybe scream, or maybe she’d moan; either way goes. As far as you’re concerned, she’s needy as fuck at the moment, and she’s not going to let anything stop her from cumming.

“Yea, well… I can be sensitive.” Her defence is hardly a solid one, more of a perfunctory reply. Her head’s far from able to formulate a quip to throw back at you; that ability went out the window together with classy Wonyoung. “Put them in.”

You go against her request, and your fingers start to skirt the edges of that swollen, pink slit of hers. A crime—you’re going against the princess’ wishes, but realistically speaking: she can hardly be called a princess at the moment, so why comply? 

A portion of the bathrobe is still clinging on to her breast. You use your other hand to push it away, and the split second of contact makes her flinch. “Jesus. You’re so fucking turned-on right now,” you can’t help but muse, all while your fingers retrace te outline of her swollen lips. She’s shivering, she isn’t breathing quite right. “Do you want to moan, baby? Do you want to moan like a good little slut for me?”

And she fixes you with a glare. “F-Fuck you… Put them in.”

No “please” this time. Shame. If she were more polite, you would’ve obliged; now you’ll just have some more fun with her. 

Your thumb finds the swollen nub, and a little brush is all you need to get her straining like a psycho in a straitjacket. What will I ever do with you Wonyoung?—and she’s getting wetter by the second—You look so pretty when you’re so needy, you know that?—why would you ever, for a second, think that she’d be as refined as the last time? She doesn’t play with herself when she needs to get off; she waits till she sees you again to get off on your cock, your fingers, your mouth. Sexting was off the table, she wants you to be physically there, driving her insane as she lets herself come undone. 

“You know,” and you’re almost laughing as you watch her face twist even further, “that I could do this forever right? I could just lie here, tease you for as long as I want… Or maybe that’s what you want?

She’s messy, so fucking messy. Juices are starting to soak the bed—you can feel it as your fingertips round the bottom of her slit. Housekeeping would certainly question the spot, and the two of you wouldn’t be there to reply anyway. Her cheeks are flushed, the veins of her throat are popping. It takes a considerable amount of effort to stay this composed, but you know that she’s breaking more and more. With each round your fingers make, cracks start to form along that perfectly sculpted face. The fine lines on her forehead begin to show as her brows start to furrow. Strained sounds are coming from her throat as the urge to moan is slowly winning the battle against her will. She wants control, but she can’t have it when she’s a wet, hot mess next to you. She’s being bratty for the sake of it. Your fingers are your leverage against her. It’s killing her. It’s delighting you.

And just like fine China thrown against concrete, her will shatters. 

“Please! Put them in!”

And your fingers stop just at the top of her pussy. It feels like a long minute, but she isn't about to take another second of this. Her thighs clamp against your arm. Her fingers wrap around your wrist in desperation. She begs again. And again. And again. And again, again, again. The bed starts to creak as you start to move your fingers down her lips, down to the very end of her cunt.

God is she dripping.

“Will you moan for me?” you drawl huskily. A finger, two, three rest themselves against her heat. 

“Yes.” There’s barely any of her original self left in there. “Please just—”

The fingers breach her opening. She screams, a high-pitched, keening cry. The noise makes your cock strain in your boxers, and you have to grit your teeth as her inner walls wrap tightly around your intruding digits. A moment of stillness comes, a moment where she’s just breathing raggedly, struggling to process this pleasure that’s racking her body faster than she can comprehend. She’s a ticking time bomb of nerves; the slightest movement in this state could send her into perdition, and she’ll barrel past that point of no return faster than both of you can imagine. God, she’s sensitive. God, she’s a mess. 

The chuckle that departs from your mouth is one of perverse pleasure. “Baby,” you whisper, right into her ear as she struggles to catch her breath. She squeezes her eyes shut, and you watch with a grin as her chest rises and falls. The grip on your wrist is a vice, knuckle-white and unrelenting. She’s begging you, with her eyes, to start moving, and you have to tell her, “I can’t start till you let go of me, baby.”

And it’s with reluctance that she slips her hand off your wrist, but that hand won’t stay empty for long. You guide it to her own breast, and with a soft whisper, you tell her to squeeze. She’s servile. She complies without protest. Her eyes slowly open themselves, and you relish the way they’re lust-glazed appearance looks under warm light while her breaths level themselves out. For a moment, there’s calm. For a moment, it’s tender.

Then your fingers start to move. All hell breaks loose.

Everything she did to calm herself quickly becomes futile; it becomes undone as her back arches in a way that catches your breath in your throat. Your fingers graze her walls, pressed into each other as they slowly draw in and out of her. And mind you: you’re going slow, slow enough to make her feel every bit of your fingers brush against her insides. But it’s enough to make her curse, enough to get her mewling like a damn kitten while her hips start to rock, rubbing her clit against the base of your palm. There’s no way to describe how needy she looks; her want is beyond words, and you’ve barely even started. Three fingers is the most you’ve ever put inside her. Clearly, it’s working wonders for her.

And now you yourself have to admit: you’ve wanted her for some time now. Since the last time you saw her, you’ve fantasised about that slim tummy twitching, about holding that snatched waist once more, about those long legs wrapped around your neck while your tongue and fingers turn her into a pliant plaything. For weeks, you’ve wanted nothing more than pulling Jang Wonyoung apart, reduce her into a withering mess wherever you guys are and get her screaming till she’s sore. You can’t even begin to describe what you’ve done with her in your dreams, nor can you ever convey how it feels to desire her as much as you have. So, you put all of it into action, sordid sentiments channelled into your fingers that are making those cute features twist and contort in perverse pleasure. She’s rambunctious, and her juices are quite literally soaking your hand, spilling the strongest sillage of lust all over the bed. 

“Why do you always have to be so fucking messy?” You’re really just trying to see how much you can get away with at this point, though the answer seems to be: just about everything. Your fingers start moving faster. You love the way her cheeks are starting to flush even more. “Are you always this wet? Or is it just for me?”

The squelching is lewder than you can ever imagine. The sound of her slick, wet heat being breached by your fingers is enthralling. Add the sounds she’s making into that and you have the ultimate erotica audio that can bless mankind. She’s panting, she’s moaning, she’s whining—she’s doing it all really, and you’re just using your fingers. God knows how she’ll react once you’re inside of her, rock hard meat stretching her out instead of a few fingers fiddling around in warm walls. 

But hey, the sounds she’s making are ever so erotic, and she’s definitely making your blood flow to all the right places. She feels out of place; you can’t put your finger on what’s wrong in this whole thing. It’s probably a small detail, something you’d overlook over the sight of her chest heaving as air shoots out and gets sucked back into her mouth, her whole body straining and convulsing against the bed while you get a thumb on her clit and rub at a languid tempo. Probably something miniscule, not worth mentioning because all your attention is focused on the look on her face (you want to mess up the makeup so badly it’s almost frustrating). And no, you’re not trying to make her cum in five seconds; she’s just really riled up—bundle of nerves and trigger happy. Probably hasn’t been treated this way in a while, probably hasn’t had three fingers twisting around, sliding in and out of that tight wet hole slow enough to make her feel every bit of skin against her walls; fast enough to make her combust if you were to speed up, in, like, forever. 

“I–I…” She’s quite literally mewling, and the sharpness in her voice is so cutting that it makes an incision in a bag inside you that’s keeping all the perverse thoughts at bay. The thoughts are leaking out now, and it’s almost impossible to stuff them back in. You want her against the glass: tits against the window and ass in your hands while you pump and pump and pump into that slick tight hole; you want nothing more but to pick her up and have her lock her legs around you, tight frame flushed against you while you nail her against one of these walls that surround you; you want to unhinge that jaw and watch that pretty mouth—now parted to let the stream of moans flow—take your cock in and out between those kiss-swollen lips and watch the drool leak out the corners of her mouth. Shit. It’s killing you. Jang Wonyoung, dolled up. She’s killing you. 

(No way in hell are thighs meant to be this hot, and lips are not  supposed to look this delicious. Yet Jang Wonyoung somehow goes against every fucking norm, fights it naturally and effortlessly and wins like a seasoned warrior. So just for her case: her thighs can be this hot and flushed, and her lips can look this fucking appetising. You kiss her; it’s sloppy, it’s lewd, it’s hot and everything in between. Mark her neck, mark that row of skin above her right collarbone, mark her everywhere. Cusses are flying—god forbid her agency finds out about the things hse says while she’s getting fingered. She's making a mess out of herself. She’s making a mess out of you.

Fingers, just fingers and she’s already looking like this: hair fanned out, frazzled, looking like she just went through a car wash and yet somehow has her make-up intact. Fuck. You want to watch the mascara run, watch it streak while she tears up as she’s choking down cum and she’s struggling to take in air. Pretty little princess, messy and glacially being turned into some improper slut. It’s hard to not smirk while you ruin her with the same fingers you use to type articles about her—fingers that sing praises and can also make her moan enough to make her throat hoarse.)

The rhythm of your hand makes her body roll. Her toes–painted over, fresh manicure—curl into the sheets. Doe-like eyes stare back at you, plump red lips part to gasp your name, throat muscles strain trying to  curse and moan at the same time. The fingers are gliding in and out and in and out and she’s begging you to not stop (like hell you ever would) in those choke up little sobs while she’s—

Oh fuck baby I can’t I can’t I can’t — Anything. I’ll do anything. Please just let me cum. I’m so fucking close baby. Please just let me fucking cum. I’ll be a good girl. I-I promise I’ll be a good fucking girl for you just… Fuck!

—blue screening on your fingers: lost in the sauce or whatever. Pliant plaything, docile doll. You’re certain she hasn’t gotten off in at least a month if the way she’s taking it is any sort of yardstick. She’s far beyond drenched, far beyond salvation and way off the deep end of the “needy” pool—drowning herself in her own sea of sighs and gasps and moans and loose phonics that slip out of her mouth. Ostinato of your fingers squelching in her cunt; half time rhythm of the creaky bed; melody of the chorus of Jang Wonyoung’s voice—music to your ears.

And there’s lots to unpack from the moment you locate that soft spot at the top of her pussy. There’s a lot of cussing, a lot of jolting, a fair amount of whining and your name is thrown somewhere in that mix. You find her lips, she kisses back, one of her hands grabs your arm, nails dig in and stay there. Flurry of actions, filthy language—fucking hell, someone stop her.

Bottom line: lots of action. You find it congenial to start from the part where it quite literally ends her world. Once your digits curled up into that sensitive patch of flesh, it was all over for her.

You can pinpoint the exact moment where the orgasm rips through her body, the exact moment where her muscles seized so perfectly that her back arches. The pulse around your fingers is strong, walls tight around your digits and your thumb gently rubbing on her clit while the pleasure rolls through her body, molten iron libido converting the feeling between her thighs to electricity that makes her short circuit. The moan is breathy if anyone’s asking, and the look on her face—twisted, perverse satisfaction: superimposing need and want—has a whole foot over the line of pornographic. Wires are fraying in her head, her vocal cords are strained, she’s ruining the sheets with her juices; you’re complicit in every damn part of this, and guilt is the last thing on your mind.

Then her back falls back flat against the mattress, and the sheets ripple as her body makes a dense thump against the bed, punctuating the sigh she releases into the air. Nerves are unbundling themselves. She’s sweaty and panting. Your fingers are beyond soaked.

“Messy,” you muse, slowly drawing your juice slicked fingers out of her cunt. You bring them to her mouth. She languidly tastes herself, sweat-darkened sheets hugging the muscles of her shoulders and lining her ribs. She looks so tiny in the bed if you looked over the fact that her legs were dangling over the edge of the mattress, and that’s easy to do once you lean in for a kiss.

(It’s not hard to slip your tongue into her mouth, and there’s barely any fight left in her as you roll her nipple between your index finger and thumb. The sweat-matted hair sticking to her forehead adds a nice touch to her face.)

“Such a good girl.” Your tone is warm as you praise her, and a hand moves to cup her cheek in an act of tenderness. Her eyelids flutter shut. She puts the weight of her face into your palm. 

“Do I get my reward now?” she whispers, and it’s more of a plea than a question really. You take a moment, not to think, but to drag out the suspense for a little more before you give her an answer. You take guilty pleasure in knowing that you could keep her on tenterhooks for the whole night—the only thing stopping you is the throbbing of your cock in your boxers and the look of sheer need on her face. If you could: you’d drag this out a little longer, maybe tease her a little and call her more names. You still could do that, but you’d much rather fuck her instead. 

“Where do you want it?” your thumbs hook into the waistband of your boxers and hook them down. Your cock springs free from its cottons confines, and Wonyoung’s eyes instantly dart to it. She may be a little obsessed with your cock, but only a little when she’s depraved (which is right now). Before you can even react, she has your shaft in her hand, lanky fingers wrapped around it and pumping it with considerate strokes. 

“I want a big load in my ass.” she requests, far from innocent and banking more towards improper, which seems to be a pretty big theme of hers tonight. “I’ve been wanting to feel daddy’s  hot load leaking out of my ass for a long time…” The strokes delivered to your length grow firmer and firmer by the second. “Please?”

The spikes of pleasure her small hand delivers to your system is really making it hard to say no at the given moment. Of course, she’s well aware of it, and she’s definitely feeling so damn smug right now. And so with a very clouded mind, you nod. She smiles smugly, unaware that you’re about to fuck that smug little smirk rig of her pretty face. Conveniently, she’s already on her back—it’ll make the process so much easier. 

“I take it that the lube is in your bag?” You raise. She grins and nods. 

Sure enough, you find it in the exact same place as it usually is: side pocket, right next to her lipstick. You toss it towards her and move around her, slip her ankles over her shoulders. She lies still, unmoving and obedient as her left calf goes past her head, then her right. You lean forward, and she gasps as she's almost bent her completely in half. She’s flexible; this position won’t bring any harm to her, but it is congenial to ruin her asshole and leave her sore for the next day or so, which is exactly what she wants, but probably not how she imagined herself getting it. She cracks open the lube, and with precision, squirts a generous amount of it on the tight ring of her ass, making eye contact with you all the while as the clear liquid gathers at the puckered ring of muscle. The tube is discarded to a side when she’s done, and she uses her hands to spread her asscheeks for you, inviting you to take your liberties with her hole.

“Come on Daddy,” she urges you. “Come fuck this ass,” she continues, her hands spreading her ass cheeks even wider as you start to line yourself up with the tight ring. “Wreck this fucking hole Daddy, I can fucking take it.”

To hear her say those words was almost enough to have you cum right there and then. You press the tip of your cock at the open, gaping hole of her ass, swirling it around the entrance, collecting more of the copious amounts of lube around it. She was generous with the amount of lube she dispensed; you're about to be generous with the strokes you're gonna make inside that ass.

(She yelps when you slide inside her ass. God does it feel so fucking divine.)

She is so tight and wet and hot that you think you could’ve cum with your first thrust inside her. Her pussy was tight and hot, but her ass was even tighter and even hotter. Even though your cock was slick with lube, it did close to nothing to keep the sheer tightness of her asshole from clenching around you like it was a really small glove. It wasn’t the first time you’ve been inside her ass, but it sure as hell felt like a novelty every single time you entered that tight ring of muscle. Fuck. The heat, the tightness—sublime. You think you could cum in a matter of seconds if you didn’t have self control.

“Go!’ she hisses, through the pain and discomfort. “Fuck me. Fuck my ass!”

You would have been happy to stay there, buried balls deep in Wonyoung’s ass, but her own words goad you into moving—slowly at first, but with a steadily increasing pace, you begin to fuck Wonyoung’s ass with long, slow strokes. She hisses—part glee, part discomfort—as your shaft starts to pump itself in and out of her ass. You draw yourself out till only the base of you tip remains inside of her, and then you thrust back in, hard, hard enough to make her yelp out in pained pleasure while she grits her teeth and watches your rock hard shaft fill her ass. It's a perverse show for her, and it brings you a sort of dark satisfaction in knowing that past all that discomfort she’s feeling, she loves the way your cock stretches her out and fills her defenceless little hole. 

With her ankles over your shoulders, you’re practically spearing yourself vertically into her ass, fucking her deep and making her feel every inch of your throbbing meat inside of that hot, tight hole. Every penetration is punctuated by a deep, guttural groan from Wonyoung, sometimes a curse, or something along the lines of: fuck. So fucking full. You know for a fact that the pained sounds you hear now will turn into airy gaps of pleasure once she gets used to the discomfort, and that she’d probably be a mewling mess by the time you reach the stage where she can take you in and out of her ass with only pleasure in her system and no pain. For now, you’ll settle with the pace you have—slow, long strokes in and out of her ass while she squeezes her eyes to block out all sensations distracting her from enjoying the sensation of her ass being filled with cock. You have to admit that she’s doing a great job at it, and your praise vocalises itself in the rather harsh form of, “what a good little slut.” 

(And here’s something interesting you noted: never once in this whole thing did she ask you to stop, nor did you ever think about stopping to let her adjust. If this was anyone else, you would have given them a moment to breathe upon entering, and you certainly would be checking on their wellbeing throughout it all. 

Thing is—the two of you know her too well to know that you could only dream of stopping once you got started with her, and it could only end in two ways. 1) You cum in her. 2) You cum on her. Edge her and you’ll never get the end of it, you would know. The last time you pulled a stunt on her like that, she left you tied to a chair with a vibrator taped to your cock till you were begging and a cummy mess. It wasn’t pretty. She could dominate if she wanted to, but she preferred to be a manipulative brat instead.)

It’s not long before she’s desensitised to the pain, and your slow pace is not enough, no, not for Wonyoung. Next thing you know it, she hissing for you to go faster, fuck her harder—I told you to fuck my ass Daddy. Don’t hold back on me now—and deeper. She swears, all three languages that she knew strung together shabbily like they were put together on some shitty production line and thrown out at random—and while you made little sense of the sounds coming out of her filthy mouth you knew what they meant.

Harder. Faster. Rougher.

Then you fuck her ass. Hard and fast.

You almost surprised yourself with the liberties you were taking, drilling in and out of her butt with the same speed and depth that you would use with her mouth and pussy.

“Yes!” she shouts—a loud, full shout. “Yes! Fuck me like this! Pound me, fuck me until you cum in my slutty little ass!”

You grunt in reply, because it was all you could do. The faculties of human language have long since abandoned your grasp and ability, and nothing else exists in your mind except the thought of filling her tight, hothole with warm, white semen. Her eyes lock with yours and you only find that they’re full of need, nothing else (not like she’s capable of displaying any other emotion at the moment). The rest of you, every fibre of your being, was focused on pounding Wonyoung’s tight little hole as hard and fast as you possibly could. Her ankles bounce helplessly behind your head, her knees press into her shoulders and her breath is ragged; sweat drips off your forehead and onto her tits, and your hot breath mixes with hers as you struggle to keep yourself propped up with your arms.

In short: the two of you are sweaty and messy (one more so than the other. Take a pick, not sure if there’s a prize for guessing right), victims of lust and slaves to pleasure. You blame Wonyoung just because you can.

For a few delicious moments, there is absolutely nothing in the world aside from the tight hot sheath of flesh around your cock, the warm flesh of her legs against your shoulders and the strands of sweat-slick hair that fly just about everywhere, all topped with the lewd, filthy, obscene words spilling from Wonyoung’s mouth. For a few delicious moments, she feels nothing but the feeling of her tight hole being stretched and used by the cock that turns her face into a wrought outlet of pleasure while she lets filthy words and exclamations spill from her lips. 

Try as you might, you couldn’t have it last forever. Not when you were already so turned on from watching her writhe and twitch under your fingers. Not when the sheer, pure pleasure overwhelming you was more than enough to cause you to cum at any moment.

And when she orgasms for the second time, her ass tightening exponentially around you—there is little you or anyone else could have done to stop the inevitable.

“I’m gonna cum in your ass, Wonyoung,” you hiss through gritted teeth, your lust and pleasure-addled brain on the edge of losing all comprehension.

“Cum with me! Fill me!” 

And so you do it, burying yourself hilt deep inside the quivering woman’s asshole before filling it with the last of your cum, giving her every last drop you had left in your body, leaving rope after rope inside her sore, well-used, cum-filled asshole. You almost black out, and you quite literally have to dig your nails into the sheets while Wonyoung’s own orgasm takes over her body, making her twitch and her ass contract—milking every last bit of cum from your throbbing, twitching length till it was nothing but a dry, hard rod inside of her creamy asshole. 

There’s silence that is punctuated by both of your ragged breaths. She looks at you, you look at her. And the two of you can’t help but chuckle at the mess you’ve made of each other. You want to remember the way her nose wrinkles as she teases you, “you fucking animal”, and you want, so badly, to burn the image of a sweaty, weary Jang Wonyoung, folded in half beneath you like she was a piece of origami paper, panting and gasping as a fresh load of cum spills out of her ass. 

It takes energy, but you bend down and kiss her, letting her sweaty calves slide off your equally sweaty shoulders as you do. She’s satisfied, for now, and she pulls you down next to her on the hotel bed with one hand and gathers the cum leaking out of her ass with the other. 

“Look at this,” she whispers, and your eyes train themselves on the pearlescent, sticky, slimy, fluids that run down from her fingertips slowly. “You made such a big mess inside my ass,” she chides before bringing her fingers to her mouth and sucking your cum right off her fingers like it’s a delicacy. “Now I have to clean all of this up. You’re lucky I like the way your cum tastes.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Um… Ew?”

Wonyoung smirks and gently nudges you with her left foot.

“It’s okay,” she tells you, all smug and everything. “I know you love the way I taste too.”

* In the dark, her small hand creeps around your torso and grasps yours. 

“You’re awake, aren’t you?” She’s whispering right into your ear, and it’s a sensation you want to be able to hold on to for the rest of your life. “I know your eyes are open.” The feel of her small fingers rolling the knuckle of your index finger sticks itself in your head like a post-it. “ I can hear and feel you tossing, you know?”

Okay. No dodging. 

The sheets stay still as your shoulders turn. You roll over, face her, and you really just want to capture the way the night lights paint her face: doe-like eyes reflecting glimmering pools of moonlight, warm yellow light painting her cute-yet-so-fucking-gorgeous face in a manner that not even Van Goh could copy, lips parted slightly as if in mid speak. She’s right there—you can kiss her if you really want to.

“Are you still mad at me?” She asks, tender with her tone. “I know that I fucked up, okay?” You can tell that she’s not even trying to look pitiful at the moment, but the way her face is sculpted really makes you want to just hold her to your chest and stroke her hair. Sincere are her words—heart heaved into her mouth. “I don’t blame you if you’re still mad. It’s your right. But… Just hear me out? Please?”

If you were mad, you wouldn’t have let her hold your hand the way she was now. If you were mad, you would’ve pretended to be fast asleep; ignore her pleas and just close your eyes and fall asleep. Alas, you can never stay mad at her for too long.

“I was… Never really angry, Wony.” Your tone is a lot softer than you would ever expect, but you know it’s because you probably needed this talk more than she did. “I... I’m sorry if it came across that way.”

And she studies you for a moment, lets the sound of your breathing fill the space as she furls her upper lip into her front teeth, and it’s a perfect moment for you to try and understand what’s happening in her head. She’s a complex creature really; understanding her is like finding a meaning that everyone can agree on when you look at abstract art.

Down below, you can still hear the cars moving through the street. Billboards and screens are still on, and from the window in your bedroom, multi-coloured lights filter into the room past the blinds like moonlight through bamboo leaves. The sheets you lie in are fresh, and they feel nice and smooth against your skin, and they smell like roses. The mattress creaks a little as Wonyoung shifts her weight, and you have to admit that you’re half-drunk on the scent of her shampoo. 

“You must have been scared,” she whispers. “I’m sorry. I got really emotional. I… I shouldn’t have walked out. I’m sorry.”

You didn’t know how to reply to that. Not now at least. Maybe it’ll come to you the next morning.

You give her a sweet smile. You hug her to your chest. You want to remember how she feels in your arms.

*

The gentle trickle of water down the arch of her spine is really something—a steady stream flowing down her back, running over the muscles of her shoulders, the curve of her breasts and fraying at her plump ass. You can’t remember the last time you showered with her, but you certainly remember the view being this good. 

In the shower of room 302, Jang Wonyoung lets the warm water hit her skin from the rain shower nozzle. Her hair—wet and freshly shampooed (and conditioned)—sticks to her back. Creamy skin glistens, small beads of water affix themselves to random parts of her body, stay there for one or two seconds, then roll down in streaks, almost as if they too were admiring Wonyoung’s well-sculpted figure.

Slim fingers grasp locks of hair. She lifts and looks over her shoulder, the whisper of a grin on her face as she shoots a beckoning wink. “Are you gonna help me soap my back? Or are you just gonna keep staring at my ass?”

“Don’t you have to, like, turn off the water first?” you ask, and you already know what she’s gonna say, but you just want to hear her say it. For memory sake.

“Mmmm.” Her humming as she ‘ponders’ reverberates in the shower, floating over the sound of water from the shower head falling to the floor like rain. “No… Adds to the atmosphere, don’t you think?” 

Ah. There we go.

“Then could you at least step back?” you request. This shower is comically huge—long length, breadth about the same length as your arm span. In the space, she looks so tiny, but you know for a fact that she could probably walk to the other end of the shower in a stride. You’re not one to disregard the facts, but you do like to live with a bit of imagination.

Wonyoung chuckles, low and sonorous. She pushes her hair over her shoulder, then—painfully slowly—walks back till she’s out of the stream of water. Water wastage is the last thing on her mind. She stops when she feels your hands on her back, and she looks over her shoulder, expectant. You move your hands and the soap lathers as it’s spread. You start from the centre of her back, rubbing gently in the section where the muscles of her shoulders meet and working your way outwards and upward to her shoulders. Then it’s down from there, your palms moving in small circles and covering every inch of skin.

“You’re good at this,” she mutters, watching with intent as your hands start to trail to her lower back. “Maybe you should’ve been a masseuse instead of a writer.”

“Uh… Patronising much?” You chuckle, watching as her back muscles twitch a little when you apply gentle pressure. “The pay’s about the same,” the soap makes patterns across the area above her ass—spirals of foam that stick to her skin like styrofoam flowers. “The hours are probably the same… But I don’t think I can live on rubbing someone’s back really hard. I Think I’ll just save this service for you, but only for when we meet.”

Humored, Wonyoung offers a giggle, high pitched and cutting above the sound of water striking the floor tiles. She shifts her weight to her right foot, making her body slant a little. Her skin is soft under your palms. Your hands are going lower and lower, slowly spiralling towards the curve of her ass that’s literally just a centimetre away.

“You know…If you take up my offer, you can do this for me everyday.”

Your hands slow to a stop. You raise your head a little to find her searching for your gaze over her shoulder. “Oh?”

“Yea.” Her voice is low, like a mother trying to persuade her child to eat their vegetables. “Every night, we can be like this: you soaping my back, us chatting… Doesn’t it sound wonderful?”

Your lip furls behind your front teeth. “Yea… It really does.”

And in her gaze, you sense her sensing your apprehension. “What’s stopping you from taking it up then?”

(For context, here’s the deal proposed by her company: the two of you go public with the relationship, get clout for the company, and Starship will let you lead your lives together—no qualms, no disturbances. She can visit you whenever, live with you, appear outside together with you like it’s a regular Tuesday night; you get to date the girl you fell in love with all those years ago for real. Only issue: once you get the last stroke of your signature out on the contract, you practically agree to blurring the line between your private and public life. Press will be all over you like ants after you step on their nest, you probably won’t get to enjoy a cup of coffee in peace, everyone will suddenly want to curry favours with you… Was it worth the sacrifice?)

You find it hard to meet her eyes, and so your gaze affixes itself on your hands. It’s not like you don’t love her or anything, but your apprehension makes you feel like shit. It shouldn’t be this hard to say yes, yet the idea of selling your life of privacy to live a life with her makes you screech to a halt at the crossroads. Sometimes (in these moments), you wished that you didn’t always make decisions with your head and your heart. 

As the shower continues to run, Wonyoung slowly turns around. One hand finds yours, the other gently takes you by the chin and raises your eyes up to her. She’s tall, and the two of you are staring eye to eye; same height, different trains of thought.

The hand on yours guides you to her breast. Eyes locked with yours, she lays your palm flat against her tit. The skin beneath your fingers is slippery, but it doesn’t remove any of the familiarity from the sensation. Then she squeezes, and the flesh spills out between your fingers like putty. She gasps—airy. 

“Don’t you want me?” She whispers, and it’s raunchy more than anything. It isn’t aggressive, but it’s certainly blurring the line between demanding and caring. “Don’t you want to be able to fuck this pretty little pussy every night?”

She’s really far from home base. “Wony…”

“Don’t you love owning me?” She’s squeezing harder. Her knee twitches. Sopa’s spilling out of your fingers. You’re certain that you’re gonna mark her. She doesn’t care. “Don’t you want me all over you? Every night?”

“It’s not that Wonyoung.”

“Then what’s on your mind?” She’s not prodding for an answer, nor is she trying to demand a reason for your silence. She wants to understand you, to internalise what’s going on inside your head. You have no reason to lie.

“Will it all really be okay?” you ask sincerely. “My family, my life… Will… Will it all really be…”

She understands where you’re coming from (if the relieving of pressure around her own breast is any indication), and she’s starting to tune herself to the frequency of your worries. “If you’re wondering if you’re gonna be harassed—you won’t.”

“Yea but—”

“I promise you: I will do everything I can to make sure that you will be safe. You and your family–if so much as a finger is laid on any of you, I will quit.”

“Wonyo—”

“No one will intrude on you. You won’t have to live with the flashing lights. I give you my word: I will make sure that everyone who wants to invade your privacy will leave you alone. You and your family will all be left alone.”

If it’s possible for sincerity to ring clear, Jang Wonyoung has absolutely made it happen. Sweet like honey; she’s left you feeling like you had a spoonful of it. And just for good measure, she steps closer and repeats once more: “I promise.”

Considering that your hand was at the left side of her chest, this was really a “I swear. Hand to my heart” type of deal (whether it’s intended or not is purely up to your discretion). 

And as you gaze into those eyes, you want to remember the way she gazes at you softly, gently, tenderly. If it weren’t for your hand on her tit, you would’ve considered this one of the more tender moments you’ve shared with her. Not that it’s not or anything… Just that it’s a little hard to call this a loving moment when you can literally feel her nipple poking into the flesh of your palm at all times of the conversation.

“Are you sure you won’t land yourself in trouble?” you ask her, and she’s quick to scoff.

“Of course. I make too much fucking money fo those higher up fuckers to not listen to me,” she reminds you. 

Well… Then that settles about everything then.

“Okay,” you tell her. “Okay… I’ll do it.”

The corners of her lips play up in a smile. She leans in, kisses you—no tongue, closed mouth—and lets the hand keeping yours at her breast fall. Long arms wrap around your waist and she pulls you close, flushing her tight frame against your body. When lips part, she whispers a soft I love you, a sparkle in eyes that lingered for a moment.

But only for a moment.

Then—without you noticing—her hand snakes down and grips your rapidly hardening shaft, and she squeezes. This time, the line between demanding and caring is clear as day, and she’s chosen to play her ball to the court of demanding. With a gleam in her eye, she begins stroking with her closed fist, and she pumps your stiff length at a slow but steady rhythm, adding an occasional twisting motion to her wrist, corkscrewing her fingers around your cock, increasing the pleasurable shocks she was sending through your system with each pump of her hand. It was almost like she wasn’t the sweetest, loving girl in the whole world just two seconds ago.

“Jesus fucking…” You can’t even finish your sentence. Your teeth grit. Your fists clench. It’s hard to breathe. “Maybe… A little bit of a heads up next time?”

She smirks proudly, watching as you tilt your head back and let out a groan. “Where’s the fun in that?” And gently, she pushes against your chest, guides you to the wall. When your back presses against the cool tile, she presses herself against you. She leans in, hot breath on your skin, and then the feeling of her lips against your jaw almost makes you yelp. She kisses a path down your jaw, paves a way towards your neck to get cheeky: sucking, nibbling, licking the skin of your neck while she keeps the movement of her hands slow and considerate. The shower continues to run.

Do you know—she breaks contact with your skin for just a second—how fucking horny—her breath’s tickling your ear, sending shivers down your spine—you make me?—and she squeezes a little harder around your shaft, not enough for it to hurt, but enough to feel you throb in your hand and make you gulp a little. She starts going faster—jerking, fucking pumping your length in her closed fist, and it’s almost impossible to keep your eyes open; your eyelids flutter shut. Your head rests against the wall, a sigh slipping past your lips. It’s filthy really—down from the way she catches you off guard to the way she makes your skin sore after she’s done feasting. Almost every interaction with her in a private space is as X-rated as this; it’s hard not to get into a situation like this around her. You know: a situation where the two of you are naked and getting really touchy and actively trying to get each other as many times as humanly possible. 

“Fuck yes baby…” you rasp, your nails starting to eat into your palms as she the sound of her hand sliding up and down your dick starts to cut above the steady stream of water. With each rise of her hand, the pad of her thumb plays with the head of your member, and when it sinks down, she twists her wrist in a screwing motion. Rinse and repeat; up and down and up and down and fuck. “You’re so fucking good at this.”

She hums in reply, and she has your earlobe between her teeth the next second, nicking you mischievously, sending small pricks of pain shooting through your system as she adjusts her grip on your cock without ever breaking her motion. Next thing you know, your tongue is inside your ear, and she’s leaning in so close that when you open your eyes, you’re practically looking over her shoulder, looking down the curve of her back that glistens with moisture and soap bubbles.

“I love this cock so fucking much,” she whispers, a bit of a hiss in her words as she takes the head of your cock between her forefinger and thumb and pinches lightly. “It stretches me out when I need it.” her fingers start to trail down your slipper shaft, letting the smoothness of her palm rub against your whole length, “fills me when I want it.” She’s milking the precum out of you, making you all leaky and squirmy as she starts pumping faster. “And it’s so fucking big that I can choke on it. You know how much I love being choked.”

She chooses that last bit to make eye contact with you, and she’s practically served you what she wants next on a silver platter. The next move is clear cut and simple; no words need be spoken. You were going to fuck her—and you mean properly fuck her—with a hand wrapped around that small throat. How you were gonna do it was still a mystery, but you figured that it’d slowly come to you, but it will definitely be related to the mirror and the sink outside and the mirror in front of it. At once, you reach over to the handle of the shower, and you turn it down to the handheld showerhead mode. Wonyoung bites her bottom lip, perverse glee painted all over her face as you use it to wash the soap off her back. She’s watching, waiting, probably drenched down there and aching to be stuffed full of cock.

She’s almost shaking with excitement as you finish washing all the soap off her body. You’d hardly consider her clean, but it won’t hurt to hop back into the shower again once you're done with her. The shower door swings open and you’re cupping her pussy, dripping wet while stumbling out with her, lips locked on hers and her hand on your cock as you push her against the sink of her hotel room. From the moment her mouth opens and let the moans pour out while you rub her clit to the moment her hand leaves your cock to cradle your face, she’s practically radiating need from the pores of her skin. You can’t help but playfully remark, “you’re such a fucking loser”, while your thumb thumps against her clit and sends pleasure tearing through her system. Weak in the knees, she holds on to you for support.

And the moans (those fucking hair-raising moans), they tumble out of those plump lips like marbles down a ramp, and they mix with the sound of your lips smacking against her skin as you start to leave a trail of kisses down her neck, doing to her what she did to you in the shower; you give her a taste of her own medicine, and the way she’s titling her head back to let you mark her freely makes it almost seem as if it’s the intended outcome of her actions. It’s like she knew that you would get back at her, and it wouldn’t come as a surprise if you ever find out that she gets off on knowing that she can manipulate you in her own bratty ways—get you wrapped around her finger and have you doing all the things she wants you to do without having to tell you. Not that you have something to gripe about it, but you’re just so amused (and that’s just one word to describe how you feel) by how she goes about her ways.

“Come on,” she manages to whisper, all while you’re busy sucking on the skin just below her collarbone till it’s sore. She has a lot of pride in her voice for someone who’s quite literally quivering. “You know you want to fuck me. Give me a good creampie again.” 

You lift your head for a moment, and you take in the look of almost childlike excitement on her face as your hand finds its way to her throat. It’s perverse excitement, that lewd exhilaration of knowing that she was about to get what she wanted, and albeit a little messed up, it was pretty hot in its own way. When your fingers gently wrap themselves around her throat, you can feel every muscle in her body tense in anticipation, as if she didn’t get enough from the bedroom earlier.

“Up on the counter baby. Let me see how messy you are down there,” you whisper.

She knows what to do, and she has herself propped up on the counter and engaged in open mouth kissing. She doesn’t need you to tell her to spread her legs, and she definitely doesn’t need you to tell her how cute she sounds when your fingers slip inside of her, feeling around the mess you’ve made of her and coating your digits in her fluids. Your index and middle finger are slick with her juices when you retract them from inside her, and you can’t help but chuckle. 

“Messy as ever,” you muse, making a show of sucking her juices clean off your fingers. She’s sweet and borderline tangy—a taste that you’re accustomed to, and you will never get tired of it. She’s biting down on her lower lip, the skin wrinkling under the pressure of her front teeth as she makes a sound that’s close to a purr. 

“You made the mess.” She has her eyes locked on yours as you raise an eyebrow, prompting her to follow up after her first statement. Not that you didn’t know what was coming, but more that you wanted to gently coax it out of her, because it was so fucking hot to hear what she had to say next. “You clean it up.”

And you’re more than happy to oblige. She watches you with intent eyes as you sink down to your knees, waits with bated breath as you lower your face till the glistening, pink folds of her pussy are right in front of your face, flushed thighs around your ears. Her excitement is almost palpable, and you can hear the sharp inhale she takes when your palm finds its place on the inside of her left thigh, pushing gently to give you better access to her heat (you’re really just trying to drag out the tension if you were being completely honest with yourself). You lick your lips, lean forward till your mouth is hovering above her slit. 

“You better moan for me this time,” you tell her, and you’re making sure to make your breath hit her slick as you speak. “You have such a wonderful voice. Put it to use.”

Praise mixed with the slight hint of authority—it’s enough to make her nod furiously and implore you with doe eyes to just get on with it. With a smirk, your lips find the swollen nub at the top of her entrance. You suck on it. Hard. And almost at once, her thighs clamp around your ears and her hand is on your head, like it’s some sort of natural instinct for her when you’re eating her out. Keeping to her word, she cries out—keening, whiny and ever so fucking bratty, and it’s the the holy grail of every wet dream. Nothing in the world could bring you more satisfaction than that shrill, airy cry she lets out when the pleasure ripples through her body, and you’re just getting started. 

Your mouth opens and your tongue flattens itself against her folds, (She tastes so good. You want all of it, all of her) and you drag it up her folds, deliberately, painfully slow as you start to lick up that wet cunt. Her back arches; you can feel her struggling to keep a hold of your head; she throws her head back and lets out a gasp; her thighs clamp down a little harder around your head. The pleasure in her system builds up with the slow movement of your tongue, only rising and rising as you lick from the base of her slit to the mid section to the top. When the tip of your tongue flicks her clit, it's almost like an explosion, enough for her other hand to join its pair atop your head, enough to make her cry out in a perverse plea, “Daddy, please!”

(For the record: she’s wanted this from the moment you guys stepped into the shower. She’s willingly turned herself into some pliant little plaything, and she’s probably getting off so hard to it. Frankly, if she wanted to order you around, you’d be up to it, but this is what she prefers.)

And nothing else needs to be said really. You put your whole mouth on her—relishing the shiver that runs up from her thighs up to her body—and get right into making a wreck of her. You lick, you devour, you ravish her: working your mouth on her pussy, lapping up the juices that spill forth from flushed lips with broad, sharp strokes that make her body grow taut and her legs quiver. You tongue her clit, lick up sweet fluids, make her messy and needy and hot in all the right areas till she’s drilling her nails into the back of your scalp and pushing your face against her sweet slick. In half whispers, she tells you just how good you make her feel—oh Daddy I’m so fucking wet!—and you feel a dark part of yourself be fed by these lecherous words—Oh god oh fuck I’m gonna fucking cum if you keep… Fuck!—that leave her half-parted mouth and linger in the air, reminding you of just how wanton she is and how you’re the only person in the world she ever wants to fuck and be satisfied by. You’re hers; she’s yours—a relationship with Jang Wonyoung that any guy would kill for. 

“Daddy—” she gaps, her voice a whole octave higher than it should be as her nails turn into claws at the back of your head. “Fuck I’m cumming. Daddy I’m cumming!”

The pulsing of her pusy against your tongue grows. You continue licking, lapping. One stroke, two strokes—three. She moans, blue screens. You hazard a look up.

Nothing else matters. Only: the sight of that back arching off the marble counter, her thighs around your head trembling and quaking as her hips roll and her mouth parts in a silent scream. You’re certain that there’s blood being drawn from the back of your head, but you're more certain that she’s got enough heat in her core to melt molten iron but a lack of breath that makes her gasp for air as you lick and lick and lick your way into her. You can feel her orgasm getting closer by the second, it’s in her breathing, and in the way her hips are practically thrusting her into your mouth.

And just like the bathrobe from earlier, she comes undone—falls apart and ceases to keep control of her body. She tenses, her thighs go rigid around your ears. Her breath is caught in her throat, her eyes are closed. You stop your work, admire the way she glows as her body twitches and her face twists. Pleasure rips its way through her muscles, her nerves—splits her very being in half as the orgasm rolls through her system. She’s beautiful, and she’s a messy work of art that you’ve created. 

You rise to your feet as she winds down, and her hands leave your head to rest on the counter while her body struggles to process the aftermath of that orgasm. It’s not the first time she’s cum for the night, and it certainly won’t be the last. Her eyes open, and she instantly locs them on you as you brush back some of the hair that sticks to her sweat slicked face. You take her hand and give a gentle tug, and she slips off the counter obediently. You grip her jaw—tenderly but rough enough for her to like it—and tell her to turn around. Servile, she obeys, and in the reflection of the mirror, she watches as your hand snakes its way to her throat and grips it. You’re not squeezing, not yet. 

“I’m gonna fuck this pretty little pussy now,” you drawl, gripping your shaft in your hand and slapping it against her slit. The contact makes her shudder, but she remains silent as you place a kiss on her cheek. “Your face is gonna be so pretty when I choke you and fill you.”

“Yes Daddy.” Her reply is a whisper, a borderline drawl that’s airy and raunchy and makes your hairs stand on their ends. She’s looking at you through the mirror, plump lips slightly parted and eyes glassy. “Own me. I’m yours, forever.”

And you’re all too happy to hear that from her.

You slip into her, hilt yourself inside her in one swift motion. 

(Tight. Hot. Wet. So tight.)

She lets out a sigh, low and sonorous, harmonising with your own groan as you press her against the edge of the counter and make the fingers around her throat squeeze. The sound that leaves her throat is the sound of her sigh being truncated, and it delights that dark part of you. Being inside Wonyoung was otherworldly, as it always was, but here, in the bathroom of her hotel, on the night where you’ve agreed to seal a deal with her, she felt downright heavenly.  She squeezes her walls around you, her body thankful for the sensation of being filled by cock, if the intense tightness and slick wetness were any indication; she looks over her shoulder and bites her bottom lip. And when she has your gaze, she mouths something. 

Fill me.

The silence is deafening, but it’s all you need to hear. 

When you withdraw your glistening shaft for the first time you relish in the feel of her walls gripping you, not wanting to release you—but just as quickly they welcome you back inside as you penetrate her again. Soon you are pumping in and out of her at a slow, steady pace, her soft gasps turning quickly into long, drawn out moans as she is fucked against the marble. Her hands steady her body against the counter, her back arched in a way that lets you get a wonderful top-down view of her breasts as they roll together with her body. It’s a concerted effort, but she makes it seem effortless. 

“Be honest.” With the hand around her throat, her voice sounds a little hoarse. It’s hot. “Do you think about this, Daddy? About fucking me like a good little slut?”

“Wonyoung,” you reply, speaking through your gritted teeth. “You have no,” and you punctuate the sentence there with a deeper thrust into her tight slick, a thrust strong enough for her to let out a strained gasp. “fucking idea…”

(In the mirror, you watch as she curls her lips into her mouth and tilts her head back into your shoulder, like she’s submitting her whole being to you and letting you take liberties with her body. You take the invitation, and your free hand finds itself on one of her soft mounds and gives it a squeeze—rough but tender enough to elicit a low moan from her throat that makes your hand around it vibrate pleasantly. 

At the given moment, she’s doing all she can to make herself a pretty little fuckdoll for you, doing her best to encourage you to treat her rough, treat her like you own her. She wants nothing more but to feel the rockhard meat penetrating her tight little cunt stretch her out and fill her the way she wants, all while she’s begging and pleading obsequiously while being obsessed with your cock. It’s a lot to take in for her for sure, but she gets off on it, and you get off on it too—the fact that she’s being all needy and pleading just so she can implicitly tell you to fuck her till she’s raw and can’t fucking walk the next morning. The fact that she’s actually in control while being such a bottom. Bratty manipulation.)

“Then fuck me Daddy,” she tells you, almost pleading. “Use this pretty little pussy. I want it. I fucking need it.”

With her invitation to do more with her body, you’re more than ready to do what you’ve intended to do from the very start. You increase your tempo, and before long you are truly fucking her, drilling in and out of the tight hot warmth of her body with quick, deep strokes. With each stroke you don’t pull out more than halfway—you concentrate instead on pumping hard and fast, getting as deep as you could inside her given your standing position. She takes it well, like she was made for this. In her world, this was what fucking looked like, and it was the only definition that she was going to live with and she’d take it to the grave. She indulges in the roughness, the almost animal-like way your cock fills her again and again and again, all while she encourages you with cries and moans and sighs that are music to your ears. 

And a notion hits you: she’s going to make you fuck her till she’s the only thing you can possibly think about. She’s going to draw out every single primal urge within you, make you want her like she’s some form of drug and you’re the abuser, and then she’s going to get exactly what she wants—your cum in her pussy. You can’t let her win like that, you can’t. You can tell that to yourself now, but you’re not sure if you can remember it later, not when she practically reeks of the strongest possible sillage of sex. 

Her pussy throbs around you, pulse strong and just a beat behind your thrusts as you thrust yourself in and out of her slick walls, filling her up and drawing yourself out before filling her up yet again. Pure filth spills from her mouth, expletives, sordid sighs and cries and any sound or word that comes to mind. She's a quivering and squirming mess, and from the mirror you enjoy the way she’s almost writhing in against the counter. Ample breasts bounce with each thrust that shocks her body, and it’s almost hypnotic if it weren’t for the fact that that pretty face was stealing the show. The face that was marvelled, the face that was the source of jealousy, the face that was on the face of so many magazines and posters and adored by millions, if not billions—scrunched up, improper and so fucking lewd that it looked like it belonged in a porno instead of an idols face, and you take pleasure in the fact that your cock is ruining the face of a princess, turning her dissolute and so fucking needy that she was as good as a fan begging her for an autograph. This side of her was reserved for you, and only you—her duality is reserved for your eyes only. 

Her body is slick with sweat, rubbing against your own sweaty torso while her body rolls together with your thrusts. “Fuck—” you’re saying, but it comes out as more of a growl than anything given how hard yur teeth are clenching. Your fingers squeeze tighter around her throat. The slightly reduced airflow at her throat causes her pussy to clench even tighter around you—and the added tightness brings succulent pleasure to your mind that makes you think you’re going insane. You probably are at this rate. “This pussy. It’s so fucking good baby.”

Her reply is a strained gasp, but you get the gist of what she wants to say. She wants, so badly, to tell you how good your cock is making her feel, how well it fucks her, how well it fills her and stretches her and how it’s her favourite thing in the whole world. The squelch of your cock filling her pussy is loud, but not loud enough to drown out the smacking of skin against skin as you press more of your weight against her, pushing her a little more into the corner of the counter and a little more over the line of pathetic. She moans in response to your actions, and it’s telling you: fuck. Harder. It’s better when it hurts. 

And you can feel her juices leaking down the back of her thighs, wetting your crotch and making the smack of skin against skin louder than ever, almost as if it was an announcement: I’m being fucked like a good little slut and I love it. She doesn’t know what she’s doing to you,and for clarity, it’s something along the lines of turning you absolutely feral with her moans and the divine tightness of her pussy that makes you want to cum on the spot. Okay,maybe she is cognizant of how crazy she makes you when you fuck her, but you barely have the capacity to think, let alone rationalise wether thai girl in your arms that your chocking and fucking feel smug in knowing that she’s driving you insane. 

Oh and she loves it when you play with her tits. The way you fondle them is almost aggressive. Scratch that—it’s really fucking aggressive. You’re slapping her tits, leaving red marks all over the milky white skin and pinching and twisting the stiff nubs atop her breasts, all while she mewls and cries out in that strained voice that makes you throb even harder inside of her wet walls and makes you grit your teeth like your a dog waiting to chew on a bone. 

“D-Daddy,” she pushes out, past the fingers that close her airways and past her groans and moans and sighs. “Harder.” And your thrusts are starting to cut her off, but she has more to say. When it comes out, each word that she spits out is punctuated by a thrust of cock into her pussy, and it’s the hottest thing you’ll ever hear. 

Fuck.

You thrust deep inside her. 

Me.

Your cock drives itself deep into her, slicking itself with her juices.

Harder.

And if words could linger in the air, hers certainly would. 

You fuck her hard, and fast, and deep—hammering her into the counter, nailing her defenseless pussy with a pace that you would have thought was rough and callous were it not for the fact you knew this was exactly how she wanted it. All she can do is hang on, grasp onto the counter with a knuckle-white grip with her hands as you take your liberties with her body, fucking her as hard as you can, as deeply as she can take it. The cups on the counter shake, the toothbrush inside one of them shaking under the force. It’s loud,  but you hear none of it. You hear only the sharp sighs of pleasure that leave Wonyoung’s lips, and the wet slap slap slap of your crotch as it hammers her cunt again and again and again, your cock drilling her, pounding her, making her yours if you weren’t already doing that.

It takes a little long, but the haze of lust parts for a moment for you to realise that you're getting closer and closer to getting what she wants out of you. While the thought of burying yourself inside of that quivering, pulsing pussy to let it milk every last drop of cum from you is ever so enticing, that small part of you that wants to own her pushes you to fight against the urges. Not that there’s any harm in giving her what she wants, but it’s just that you don’t want to reward her bratty, manipulative tactics. She knew for a fact that she could tie you up and ride you over and over till you were dry—she’d done it before. But instead, she’s chosen to fulfil her needs in a less direct manner, maybe for fun or maybe just because she felt like it. 

“Yes,” Wonyoung hisses, spit flying into the mirror and her palms slipping on the counter. “Just like this Daddy.” And she’s making sure to make eye contact with you through the mirror, letting her eyes do most of the talking. If anyone’s curious, the look she gives you is saying, I’m your good little slut. Fuck me. Use me. Fill me. Please, and it's nothing short of hot and tethering far over the line of lewd. At this point, neither of you are in a state where you're capable of coherent thought, nor are you capable of thinking about anything else except each other’s bodies and the wet, lewd squelching of cock filling Wonyoung’s pussy. It goes on and on and on, a cycle of your hips hammering the back of her legs and your cock spearing deep into her cunt.  She takes it so well, drinking you in hungrily, coiling around your shaft like a snake as if it was begging for you to stay in her forever. The sight is enough to make your balls tingle and your toes curl, and your hand around Wonyoung's throat tightens to the point where the only thing that can leave her lips is a groan as her airflow is reduced. 

She’s tighter, hotter, wetter. Her pussy fits you like a glove, moulding around your cock as it pumps in and out of her at a pace that you had no idea you were capable of. The hand around her neck is nothing but an outlet of pleasure for you, and she’s loving it. “Such a good girl,” you mutter, watching from the mirror as her mouth slacks and opens while she’s being pumped full of cock. “You were made to take Daddy’s cock, weren’t you?”

Her equivalent of a yes is a sharp, strained groan—an amalgamation of phonics and whatever sounds the lack of air flowing to her throat permits her to make. She’s so fucking messy down there, and your cock is sliding in and out of her with ease, aided by her slick juices that coat your shaft and let it disappear and reappear from between her legs with ease. The motion is almost graceful if it weren’t for the fact that it was a sordid one, and you take a moment to admire the way your shaft glistens in the light of the bathroom while you fuck her the way she wants it: rough, hard and tethering over the edge of callous. If it weren’t for the hand around her throat, she’d be making herself hoarse with all the moaning she’d be doing.

And the hand around her throat is bringing her so much pleasure, if the way her pussy squeezes around you when you choke her is any indication. She wasn’t lying when she said she liked being choked. While she didn’t like gagging on your cock, she sure as hell loved it when your fingers clasped around the muscles and made her gasp. She liked the sensation of being deprived of air, be it when she was riding or when she has her kness buried into her shoulders and was being fucked into the bed like a slut. You were always afraid of hurting her, but when she shots you that look, the one that says, come on, you can do better, you know that she’s getting exactly what she wants, just the way she likes it. It was just a matter of how hard you squeeze around her throat before she either cums or passes out, though the latter has rarely happened before the former.

“Daddy!” she chokes, and you know exactly what she’s about to say next. So you release her throat from her grasp, bunch a lock of her hair in your closed fist and you pull back. Her eyes squeeze themselves shut. Her back arches deliciously, her voice now free to finish shat she’s aching to announce. “I’m fucking…”

You never expect her to finish her sentence. Wonyoung’s eyes open, and a gasp leaves her open lips. Her walls, already vice-like, tighten so hard around you that you think you might come there and then. You feel how close she is. 

“Fucking cum for me, Wonyoung. Cum around my cock like a good little slut.”

Wonyoung does as she is told—and the quivering, trembling orgasm she experiences is almost frightening in the way it overwhelms her body, turning her into a wet, hot mess. Her pussy tightens and pulsates, her fingers claw against the marble counter, and her entire lower body shakes violently, as though she had lost control of her nerves and muscles. For a few beautiful seconds she is utterly overwhelmed by the sensations, until finally she slumps forward in your grasp, breathing heavily. 

It's good. It's so good, but it's not quite enough to get you to your finish. Not yet.

(And if anyone’s asking: it’s not that the sex isn’t good. It’s mind blowing, amazing, and whatever word that can be used to describe “fucking incredible”.  She’s hot, so tight and fucking soaked down there. You’re horny, throbbing and on the verge of filling her full of your seed. But you’ve said it before and you’ll say it again—you’re not rewarding bratty manipulation. As tempting as it would have been to simply pound her from behind until you gave her needy pussy the load of semen she so desperately wanted, you knew that there was something even better that you could do.)

You pull out of Wonyoung, your shaft glistening under the hotel light. Her eyes are wide with shock as you withdraw yourself from her body, pulling her away from the counter—but only enough to have her lean back against you and not stand up completely. Her mouth opens to say something, but she's interrupted when you turn her face to you and kiss her. She moans into your mouth, and you swallow it, your tongue slipping into her mouth and massaging her own, lapping at the roof of her mouth as her tongue swirled around your own. You bite her lower lip, and it's not rough, but enough to get her attention. When her eyes flutter open, you whisper, "I'm not finished."

She nods, and you relish the disappointment in her eyes. You turn her around, push down gently on her shoulders. She goes with the motion, and you're not sure if you can ever get over the image of Wonyoung on her knees with her pretty little face staring at you with anticipation. You think about fucking her face, letting your cock thrust into the back of her throat over and over and over till you finally bury yourself inside and cum down her throat, but that would just be a repeat telecast of every other night with her. Spice things up; give her the liberty of creativity with your cock. 

And of course, Wonyoung perfectly understands what has to be done. You step up to her. She parts her lips and takes your cock right into her mouth. Grasping the base of your cock and pumping it with one hand while she gently cups and squeezes your balls with the other, Wonyoung quickly launches into a hard and fast blowjob, taking the top half of your cock in and out of her wet mouth with a rapid pace while her fingers work your shaft in a corkscrew motion, just like she did in the shower. The suction of her mouth is almost lethal, and the audacity she has to look up at you while she takes your cock in and out of her mouth is so exhilarating that it makes you weak in the knees. Your hand finds a clump of her sweaty hair, and you close your fingers around it, holding them in your fist. No, you weren’t going to push her head down onto your cock; you had to give her the space to work on her craft. 

And of course, she exceeds every expectation out there. Your eyes shut involuntarily, your brain unable to handle any sensations beyond the wet, hot cavern of Wonyoung’s mouth sealed tightly around your shaft with tight, soft lips. With the first entry into her mouth her wet tongue is pressed tightly against the underside of your shaft, lathering it with her spit. With each subsequent entry her tongue becomes more adventurous, beginning with quick swipes left and right on your shaft with each entry and ending each exit with a swirl of the tip around the head of your cock. While she tastes herself on your cock, letting her juices mix with saliva, her hands work in perfect concert with her mouth, one joining her lips at your shaft and pumping up and down, a twisting motion to her wrist while her free hand works gently with your dangling balls, fondling them with considerate fingers. She plays with them softly yet hastily, her fingertips working their magic between the sacs with expert attention.

You are content to stand there with your eyes shut, simply enjoying the feel of your cock pumping in and out of her mouth at a fervent pace, but a small part of you knew that you had to see it happening in order to truly believe it was all real—and so with a not insignificant amount of self-control, you force eyes open to watch the spectacle unfolding between your legs. Black locks bob up and down frantically above your cock, doe-like eyes glazed with pure lust staring right up at you as her cheeks hollow and her jaw unhinges even more to accommodate your length. 

It all becomes too much, and it hits you all at once—having her pump your shaft in the shower, eating her out then fucking her—and you quickly find yourself nearing that inevitable peak.

“Fuck, Wony—” is all you manage to say before your orgasm overtakes your world.

Wonyoung releases your cock from her mouth a split second before you erupt, shooting long, thick strands of hot semen all over her pretty little face. Her face glazes over in pleasure and you are all too happy to watch as strand after strand of cum lands on her cheeks, her pretty little nose, and finally her open mouth and jaw. You watch, through half-lidded eyes drunk with pleasure, as the thick streams of cum flow down her face, dripping onto her upper chest and those perfect breasts of hers. Her face is flushed and her mouth open, as though she herself was on the verge of orgasm (she probably was, and she was going to make it your problem as soon as she got your cum off her face).

You want to remember the way she wipes your cum off her face with the back of her hand, how she licks it all up like a cat licking its own paw before moving to clean the stray strands of cum off the tip and sides of your cock. You want to remember how she rises so gracefully even though she was a sweaty mess, and how she gently takes your hand and guides you back into the shower for another clean up.   

And back under warm water, you want to remember how she kisses you, and how she whispers, “next time, I want that big load in my pussy.”

*

“What?”

And it’s hard to meet Wonyoung’s eyes as you set down the papers from the doctor. You can feel her confusion, her frustration, her rage from across the dining table in your apartment. It isn’t pretty. Nothing about this situation is. 

“It’s a neurological disease,” you tell her, all while you’re looking at the MRI that’s in the middle of the table. You’re really just regurgitating what the doctor told you—it’s the only thing you have the capacity to do right now. “They ran their tests. They told me what I suspected. I’m losing my ability to read and write, to understand language. In 2 years—give or take —I won’t be able to express my thoughts. I’ll be spouting gibberish. What people say, what I see — on pages, street signs, everywhere — they’ll all be unintelligible to me.” She’s silent, and it unnerves you in every way possible. You haven’t even gotten to the worst part of it all. “My mental competence will deteriorate. I’ll have to live off a tube cause I’ll forget how to eat and drink. Dementia will follow shortly.”  

Now would be a great time for her to say something, anything to break this silence. But she is silent, unmoving and reticent in her seat from across you. You have no choice but to gulp and deliver, in your personal opinion, the worst part of it all, “By the time I forget how to breathe I… I would’ve lost all my memories by then.”

She chooses the moment after the last word leaves your mouth to pick up the MRI scan and look at it. 

“So… Everything we’ve built up till now will just… Disappear?” she whispers. She sounds hurt, scared and everything in between. You bite your lower lip. 

“Yes.” There’s no point sugarcoating it, it’s inevitable anyway. Face it now, sulk later… You think that’s the best way to deal with this piece of news. You hope that the matter-of-fact tone of voice that you’ve chosen doesn't betray how frightened you are by the prospect of losing everything you know. “We can’t stop it. It’s in my genes.”

She sets down the scan, and when you look up, you see the tears flowing down her cheeks and it makes you want to cry as well.

She stands up, shoulders her handbag and walks towards the front door. 

“Where are you—” you begin. “I’m going somewhere else to think,” she interjects. 

When she slams the door behind her, you feel like you’ve let her down in so many ways. There’s a burning in your chest that you can’t describe. The first hot tear rolls down your cheek, and you let the rest that well in your eyes flow down without resistance. 

You don’t want to remember what it feels like to be helpless—the emptiness, the rage, the sadness, the confusion is all so overwhelming. But you figure that you’ll have to feel it again at some point down the road. 

Might as well figure out how to cope with it now, when Wonyoung isn't there and you're all alone with your thoughts.

*

When you awaken later that night in your bed in the apartment, it takes you a few moments to determine whether the soft, slim body climbing atop you is real or part of some wonderful dream—but the familiar warmth of your girlfriend, and the soft, pleasant smell of her hair, convinces you that this was all real.

Wonyoung places soft kisses on your neck and jawline, before moving to your mouth and kissing your lips softly. You are still only half awake, but your senses and instincts take over, and you find your mouth welcoming her kiss and returning it with one of your own, your hands moving to either side of her hips and finding, to your surprise, that there was only bare skin there and no clothing.

“Wony…” you begin, as she deepens her kiss, her lips pressing more firmly against yours.

“Shhh,” she answers, “please. I need this. I need you, right now. Please.”

She’s suddenly reappeared after walking out on you, and you have yet to process the slew of emotions that have come your way. Part of you wants to stop her, to talk things out with her so that you could: a) figure out if she was still mad at you and; b) verify that she wasn’t drunk. But the part of you that formed the majority of your conscience knew that she needed comfort as much as you did, and that she needed something to assuage her and make her feel like everything would turn out alright. So you find yourself relaxing underneath her, letting her scent fill your nostrils as her tongue dances with yours.

She straddles you, and your hands begin to run up her naked body, up from her slim thighs to her chest where the ample mounds sat proudly, her nipples erect and stiff. She isn’t wearing any underwear, and your fingers brushing against the slick of her pussy is enough to verify that for you. She’s naked atop of you, kissing you like you just confessed your love to her or like you’re about to go on some mission and never return. It’s not lustful, but it’s full off passion and aims to soothe not stir. 

She breaks the kiss. Her eyes flutter open. In the dark that is pierced by the street lights of the city, you want to remember the way her eyes glimmer and shimmer as she breathes heavily. There’s no alcohol on her breath, and from the way she’s cradling your face, you can infer that she’s not mad at you in the slightest. 

“You okay?” she whispers, and her tone is soft and warm, like that time she spoke in the shower of her hotel about signing that contract with her company so that the two of you could officially start dating. It’s been some time after that, but you still hang on to the way her words made their way to your heart. “I didn’t mean to startle you if I did.”

You respond by nodding, and it’s enough to convey: I’m alright. You brush away the hair that falls in front of her eyes, and you really want to remember how silky smooth her hair feels in your hands. 

“What are you doing?” you ask her, making sure to keep your tone as warm as her own. She blinks, goes silent for a moment, then answers, “I’m making amends.”

She holds your gaze, you hold hers. The staring contest ends when you gently pull her in for another kiss, and you want to remember how she softly moans into your mouth while her thumb, smooth and tender, caresses your cheek.

When the kiss breaks again, her hands snake their way down to your sweats. You assist her in removing your shorts—a very clumsy affair: tangled hands and arms and lots of chuckling. But your cock does finally spring out from your boxers, the ones that have been discarded in the corner of the bed, together with her clothes. When it’s all done, you have the pleasure of witnessing the sight of her slim frame straddling you once more, long legs surrounding you on either side of your thighs while she peppers kisses on your chest. 

“I’m sorry I left you to deal with… Everything. Alone.”  she begins, “I shouldn’t have walked out on you like that… I’m sorry. I hope you aren’t angry”

And from your lying position, you lift a hand to cup her cheek. “We can talk later.”

She gets the message, but bends down and kisses you nonetheless. You’d probably have trouble falling asleep later in the night, and she’d wake up and you’d have this same conversation again. You’d rather have it later than now, not when the wound is still fresh.

Wonyoung lets a soft smile play on her lips. You are slightly aware of her raising her hips, her right hand finding its way between your bodies to grasp your wet, erect shaft, and line it up with her entrance. She breaks the kiss for the third time that night, searches your eyes for approval to continue with this. Was it make up sex? You didn;t know if it was for sure, but it sure as hell felt like it. What you do no for certain is: you’d like to experience this now, and you want to etch this in your memory for as long as you can before it fades with the rest of your mind. 

You give her the slightest of nods, and you feel the head of your cock press against her wet, tight opening. Slowly, carefully, Wonyoung lowers herself down onto your shaft, your cockhead parting her tight lips to impale her pussy. She gasps loudly as she impales herself fully, and she opens her eyes slightly to match your gaze. You brush stray locks of hair away to reveal her face fully, and you bring her mouth back to yours to kiss her deeply. As your tongues duel, she begins to raise her hips, drawing your shaft out of her body before lowering it once more, and soon she has found a soft, slow rhythm as she rides you, grinding her warm, tight body against yours. 

She raises herself upright and lets her hands rest on top of your chest. You’d like to save that face she makes in a supercut of her other memorable faces: eyes closed, lips slightly parted and the wisp of a smile on her lips as she rocks her hips. From where you lie, you watch as Wonyoung takes you in and out of her body with soft grinding motions, riding you slowly, enjoying every entry and exit of your shaft as it fills her over and over in slow, tender strokes that make her shiver. You watch as your shaft appears for a split second or so before driving back into her, each disappearance accompanied by a soft spike of pleasure. As always, she’s letting moans and sighs and gasps tumble freely from half-parted lips as she takes you in and out of her slowly, rocking her hips with innate grace and elegance. All you do is let your hands rest on her thighs, moaning softly to encourage her as she rides you lovingly, tenderly, a far cry from what you’re used to when it comes down to sex with Jang Wonyoung. 

Through the night, your cock glides in and out of that perfect pussy, elicits moans and gasp and sighs and cute little cusses when you hilt yourself deep inside of her and tug a little at her hair. Her hands were always active, sometimes caressing your chest, sometimes on your jaw, sometimes behind your head as she snaked an arm behind your head to keep you locked where you were just so she could sneak in a kiss. You came in her mouth, her ass, her pussy. She came on your fingers, your cock, your mouth. She cussed a lot, almost passed out once or twice. You cussed a lot two, and you caught her when she almost rolled off the bed (the two of you laughed for a minute about that situation before you ended up spooning on the floor, her leg in the air and your cock pumping in and out of her while she had your back to you and your face in her right hand). 

Bottom line: it was wonderful, wonderful make up sex that ended with both of you sweaty and panting and wanting more from each other but you guys just don’t have that energy to keep going. It was a novelty for both of you, and you wanted to remember just how special she could make you feel, even in the impurest of acts. 

*

The flash of the polaroid camera is almost blinding, but you power through and keep your eyes open. Like a child that’s seeing snow for the first time, Jang Wonyoung watches excitedly as the polaroid emerges from the slot in the camera, and she’s all too eager to grab it and lay it face down on the coffee table in your apartment.

“I thought you’re supposed to shake it?” you ask, watch as she fiddles with the camera for a little bit before she snaps a selfie with her newest purchase. She gives you a look that basically translates to, “uh, are you dumb?” and waits for the next polaroid to emerge from the slot before she launches into her lecture. 

“Shaking the polaroid to make it develop faster is a myth,” the way she sounds so official and everything is so cute. You can’t help but smile a little as she sets the other polaroid down. “It shifts the pigments and blurs the photo, but an idiot like you would need a genius like me to tell that to you.”

The remark is clearly meant to be biting, but it’s nothing short of hilarious to you. “When did you become a camera nerd?”

“Ever since I got this,” she lifts the polaroid camera up and hits you with that you’re on camera smile. “Maybe I should do an ad for this brand. Increase their sales, you know?”

She leaves you to think on that and retrieves the first polaroid she took: a picture of you and her on the couch of your apartment. Not the grandest first photo, but hey, a memory is a memory, and you really are just focusing on cherishing those at the moment. As she leaves the couch to clip the polaroid onto the photo rack (a bunch of metal wires on a metal frame with wooden clips to hold photos) she just set up, you grab your journal next to you and flip it to the page you wrote on a few hours before. With your pen (that you now carry around just about everywhere with your journal), you scribble down a new part of today that you want to remember. It was her idea to journal down everything you wanted to remember. 

The entry goes right under the one about Wonyoung’s new camera.

She looks so happy with that new camera. Bet she’s going to go back to the dorm and show it off to all of her members because she’s a fucking child. I hope that…

And you trail off in your writing, What you wanted to say was just on the tip of your tongue just a second ago. Why can’t you remember it? It was literally just in your head a minute ago…

No. 

You shut the journal. It makes a soft yet substantial thud as the leather cover slaps against pages. You place your pen in your pocket, set the journal back down on the couch and stand up to walk towards your girlfriend, who is currently adjusting the angle that the wooden clip holds the polaroid at. She senses you walking up to her, steps aside and makes a space for you to watch her struggle. You would offer help, but you know that it removes half the fun for her when you do something for her. 

She fiddles around a little more, makes a couple of grunting sounds under her breath, curses a little, and next thing you know, she exclaims, “tada!” while pointing at the first occupant of the photo rack. You roll your eyes, throw an arm over her shoulder and look at the slightly blurry photo within the white frame. 

“With the camera,” she tells you, her tone soft and warm like… Like… Fuck. “I hope that we can help our memories live on. Sounds pretty deep huh?”

You can’t help but chuckle in agreement. You take a moment to stare at the two faces that occupy the space in the polaroid, and you hope to God that they will never, ever look foreign to you. It’s a futile prayer, you know, but a glass-half-full mentality is the best chance you have at not spiralling out of control. 

Wonyoung lays her head on your shoulder, silent and all sentimental as she closes her eyes and takes in a deep breath. She lets out a shuddering sigh, and you know that she’s trying not to cry, cause in this situation she’s the one that will end up hurt at the end of it all. You’ll forget the pain of forgetting; she’ll remember the pain of being forgotten. It sucks, but it’s just the way it is. You hug her, hold her close and stroke her hair. You don’t want to forget what she means to you, what you mean to her.

How many more polaroids left till it all ceases to matter?

____________________

Hello! Hope you guys enjoyed this fic. I'm a bit rusty so this one might be a bit funny, but hopefully the style of storytelling I chose didn't fuck you up too bad. Non-linear storytelling will be the death of me. Also: I kinda didn't edit this one too much. My bad hehe.

This was really more of a PSA to cherish the ones you hold close to you, because you never know when they will just disappear. Love the people close to you, cherish them forever.

~Lots of love Nichuuu

#jang wonyoung #wonyoung smut #ive smut #ive wonyoung #kpop #fanfic #writing #smut #nichuuu #ansgt

[fan-goddess]

Hi! I saw your kinktober post and I was wondering if you could do Aemond and a wife!reader with the breeding kink? Like they’ve been married for a while and they’re trying to have a baby now? Thank you and have an awesome day or night!

Authors Note: You’re very welcome love hope you yourself have an awesome day or night too! ♥️

This is shorter than usual, but hey it’s my fic!

Warnings: P in v sex, breeding kink, hints at possible issues to conceive, dirty talk, possible exhibitionism (if i miss any let me know!)

Taglist: @sofiyathecunt, @marvelgirl123, @sylasthegrim, @mochi-rose, @valeskafics, @humanpurposes, @watercolorskyy, @blue-serendipity, @omgbrcat

Your marriage to the Prince Aemond Targaryen, much to the surprise of many in court, was quite fruitful.

His touch possessed a softness that no other man had ever showed to you before, and his words showed nothing but pure devotion to you and your well-being.

It was a marriage that you had never expected to find love in, and yet not even a couple weeks after first meeting your betrothed, you and him found yourselves hiding between the tall looking bookshelves in the library, whispering loving words to each other in between sweet kisses placed on each others lips.

Eventually, when the night of the wedding finally came round, it felt as though you were truly witnessing the release of Aemonds inner dragon. That night, he made you feel things you would’ve never thought you would ever experience before. Love being one of them, and true lust and pleasure coming soon after.

His actions and words made you wish for the two of you to possess a physical embodiment of yours and his love for each other. It made you wish every night for a child.

Only it was now nearly a year since the night beginning your marriage, and no child bared fruit. You visited the maester every three weeks, and yet every time you visited you were greeted by him with a face of sympathy and a containment of bad news.

It was what you were walking back from now. Your head held low and your hand placed on your empty womb as familiar news weighed on your head for the unknownth time. You walked solemnly into Aemonds welcoming arms as he stood there waiting for you, and he softly stroked your back with a comfortingly fiery warm palm.

“Was it the same ñuha vēzos.” Aemond murmurs, his lips hovering over the top of your head as he kissed random areas of skin with a tenderness none other than you would truly know of him to possess.

“Yes ñuha jorrāelagon. But it is alright! For we may always try again and again! Until we know for certain your seed has taken root inside of me…” You say back, smiling slightly as you feel aemonds hands grip tighter slightly at your skin, while you yourself practically whisper the words in his ear.

“Do not go about teasing me like that ñuha vēzos, for if you continue I will not be a kind man tonight like I know you so love me to be…”

“Well maybe I wish you to be rough with me tonight my love. Maybe I want you to restrict me on our bed and fuck me till you are certain my womb is filled to the brim of your seed, and and that a child has been conceived. What if I was to want that, my dearest husband?” Your smile shows none of the sadness it held earlier, only of the depravity you wish to indulge yourselves in. Aemonds however, his usual face of neutrality holds does nothing to conceal the lust he feels in that moment.

“Then I suppose you will get it then, like the needy little whore you are…” Aemonds hands grip your waist firmly as he all but pushes you towards the bed, making it so you to fall onto it with a small surprised gasp.

His actions though only serve to make you more aroused as practically tears your clothes straight from your body, revealing yourself to him entirely whilst he himself is still fully clothed.

“Aw, is my little whore needy for my cock?” He grins, slowly beginning to undo the laces of his trousers, chuckling at the way you cannot stop yourself from staring at his erect cock.

“Come on little whore, answer me!” Aemond demands, leaning forward to brush his lips on your own, yet reviling when you try to connect them and his hand that somehow made it to the back of your head, makes it so you cannot. He even chuckles when you lightly whine from frustration, and the slightly pleasant burning sensation on your scalp from him pulling on your hair.

“I-I’m needy for your cock husband! I wish to have you fill me completely with your seed, however you may wish to do so!”

“Good answer…” Aemond growls, leaning back to undress himself entirely before sitting back up on the bed. He moves you slightly, but then comes the hot and heavy feeling of Aemonds cock filling you, and it all feels right again.

Your own moans are practically illegible. All of them involving heavy words that slide off your tongue like silk, with a couple odd moans in between.

Aemond though doesn’t have this same issue, as he continues to grunt dirty words and groans into your ear that makes you more desperate than ever for him.

“I’m going to breed you tonight ñuha jorrāelagon! I’m going to fill your whorish hole with my seed till it’s full and dripping of me, and your womb holds possession of our child. Our son and heir… do you want that ñuha jorrāelagon? To be filled with me? You know I love you, yes?”

��Yes! Yes! I-I love you too ñuha jorrāelagon! Of course I want that! I want that so much please fill me valzȳrys!” You whine. The pronunciation for the Valyrian on your tongue was weak as it drips of your tongue like a heavy slur, yet the meaning does not go to waste, as Aemond growls in approval at it and somehow manages to thrust harder and faster into you. Your whines and moans almost overpowering the sounds of yours and Aemonds sweat covered skin smacking against each other again, and again.

Your voice may have sounded wanton before, and yet with Aemonds new found passion and determination currently coursing through his veins, his cock manages to find and bully that rough patch deep within your cunt and suddenly, you reach a whole new level of volume.

It’s so loud in fact, that Aemond feels the need to place his rough palm over your mouth, which does very little to silence you.

“As much as I love your noises my love, I do not wish to share your glorious sounds with the guards who wait outside our chambers at this very moment. Do you think you could be silent for me ñuha jorrāelagon? Or do I need to help silence you the rest of the night?” It’s so condescending, so shameful to think that the guards could hear you outside these walls. Yet at the same time, sick thrill also manages to find its way up the length of your spine too.

If anything, it almost makes you want to be louder to show them all that it is your husband who you belong to you. It’s only him who owns your body and your love.

Your breath becomes heavy as Aemond continues to restrict your breathing with his palm, and yet if anything you find yourself loving it way more than you should. The feeling of Aemond overpowering you, controlling you in this way, was one of the best feeling you’ve ever felt in your marriage. In your life even.

“Oh… does my little wife like this? Her husband taking what he wants? Her husband taking her tight little cunt and leaving his seed deep inside of her?”

You can only nod quickly in agreement, yet when Aemond removes his hand you take in a few sharp breathes before quickly speaking.

“Yes husband, I love it! Please husband, I think I’m gonna cum! Please leave your cum deep inside of me, I need it so badly!” You whine, and the feeling of everything crashes down on you, as you cum hard on his cock. Aemonds beautiful groans being the only thing able to pierce the ringing in your ears as you can feel his own peak take over him, and his hot cum flooding your insides.

He holds you tightly, unrelenting in letting you fo from his grip. Even when you try to move to grab a nearby cloth.

“Aemond!” You whine. Not from frustration, but from amusement, as he huffs his annoyance at your movements into the skin of your neck. “I need to clean myself up! I’m all sweaty and disgusting!”

“That is where you are wrong ñuha jorrāelagon. You could never be disgusting in my view. You are beautiful…” His words are accompanied by small kisses on the spots he knows are your weakness, and if you were standing currently, your legs would have at this point given up on you. “You are gorgeous.. which is why, I am so obliged in keeping my cock inside of you, to make sure my precious seed stays inside your pretty cunt. All stuffed inside being held in only by my cock… I suppose I will need to fuck another load of my seed inside of you though. To make sure it takes…”

You feel like a whore as you nearly outwards moan at your husband words. He knows where to hit where you’re most sensitive, both with his words and with other things…

You cannot even dare to breath as you merely nod enthusiastically to his proposal. Smiling as you begin to moan once more from his cock, which has already managed to achieve full hardness, and now bullies that special spot inside you. Your lips move to claim his neck, and it all feels right as Aemonds sighs brush against your ear.

It most certainly feels right, as the next month when you visit the maester again, and he reveals for the first time with a smile, that you’re with child.

It most certainly feels right, as you hold yours and Aemonds daughter in your arms, moving so the both of you could affectionately kiss the top of her head, that already is littered with gorgeous silver curls.

“She’s beautiful…” Aemond murmurs, unable to take his gaze from her as she sleeps peaceful in your arms. “She takes after her mother in that…”

“Oh no dear husband…” You deny, choosing to lovingly look at the sight of him gazing at her with such rare softness. “She takes after you in that...”

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen/reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen imagines #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond #prince aemond #prince aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond smut #aemond targaryen fic #house of the dragon smut #my kinktober #kinktober 2023 #kinktober #my works #ewan mitchell #aemond fanfiction

[rrcraft-and-lore]

I wish more people read old old OLD stories to learn where so many come from.

Like Zadig, by Voltaire. It led to the evolution of the detective novel/story. It also features an adaptation of The Three Princes of Serendip, a story out of Serendippo/Ceylon/Sri Lanka 3 princes features nesting stories. A serendipitous (where the word serendipity comes from) adventure. It's a picaresque before the word picaresque (from the Spanish, Picario), but anyways. It's shared/in conversation and evolutionary storytelling in action.

Zadig is believed to have inspired Poe with The Murders in the Rue Morgue.

But origins of this train begin in Sri Lanka.

A story about just a wild zany fun adventure of three princes. And this old story features a great deal of detective work and analytical thinking from the pov of the princes.

You've probably seen the inverse in popular media/games.

A murder happens, one of three brothers is blamed. You're asked to sus out who did it. Only here, they're asked to defend themselves after being blamed for stealing a camel they've never seen however, they are able to make deductions about the camel based on context clues in their environment, each prince having noted different things to help clue them in to the specifics about said camel, and unifying their findings. --the princes are later spared as someone else finds the camel wandering in the desert.

But yeah.

Storytelling (its history and traditions) is neat as fuck when you study it.

#edgar allan poe #the murders in the rue morgue #zadig #zadig & voltaire #voltaire #storytelling techniques #short story #short stories #narrative #storytelling #publishing #narration #traditions #history #history and traditions #The three princes #old stories #interesting #interesting stuff #interesting facts #the more you know #interesting interesting #fascinating #neat #til #cool stuff #writers life #writers and poets #writers on tumblr #writers community

[countercharmd]

It's all coming back to him, whether he likes it or not. Standing on the fringes of a crowd, his humble golden mask hardly seems like enough to hide his identity. No one approaches, though, asking about what in the world had happened to him, or how his mother was. Somehow, in this court, he is completely and utterly anonymous.

The music starts up with a felicitous sort of fanfare, and Serendipity finds himself a bit startled to find the people round him drifting off to dance in pairs. The familiar one-two-three of the waltz is quickly found in the fantastic shoes of the dancers. As the song goes on it's easy for the prince to turn and slip off, unnoticed...or so he thinks.

Serendipity gets a few steps into his escape before someone approaches. He pauses, and gives a huff that is half-exasperated, half-amused. " Oh -- you're asking me to dance, are you? "

#open. #v; canon. #//very open.....i was just having a hankering for some more Fancy shindigs #//w the drama of a masquerade!

[geralddurden]

Umbrella Pharmaceuticals - Chapter 29

Alexander, in the passenger seat, got out of the car driven by his personal chauffeur. He opened the right rear door to let his mother out onto the pavement. Elizabeth leaned on him and her stick to help her up. The twins were the last to exit on the same side. Christopher Ward, headmaster[1] of Watford School, and housemaster[2] Herbert Cornwall were waiting for them at the entrance to Northumbria House.

Northumbria House was one of three all-boys boarding schools, accommodating fifty of the one hundred and fifty pupils enrolled at Watford Preparatory School[3], founded by Arthur Ashford in 1931 for boys aged eight to thirteen from all walks of life. An abandoned ninth-century monastery outside Hexham was bought and converted into a school by the twins' great-grandfather. Watford was the only preparatory school for Jacob's Circle[4], the patronage network and secret society founded by Veronica Ashford and Rupert Campbell for the Jacobite faction[5] in the 19th century. Originally set up to educate the descendants of Arthur Ashford, the Second World War prevented Alexander from becoming the first of them, as the family was exiled to Canada. A generation later, serendipity gave the honour to Alfred.

Alfred went to the back of the car and opened the boot. With some difficulty he grabbed a bulky, light leather suitcase. Because of his small stature, it was the chauffeur who closed the door. Crestfallen, he ran to join the adults and his sister at the door of the boarding school.

“Lady Ashford.” Ward curtsied and kissed Elizabeth's right hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you again.”

“The pleasure is mine," Elizabeth said.

Cornwall imitated Ward, and then they shook hands with Alexander and Alexia. The last was Alfred as a prospective student.

“It is a pleasure to see you again, prince[6].” Ward greeted him with a broad smile.

“A pleasure, sir” he replied. He was still reluctant to believe that for five years he would live in seclusion with a hundred and fifty other boys in a monastery, cut off from the outside world and his family except during holidays, and with no other life than that of a hermit.

“Alfred.” Alexia snapped out of her reverie. “Go.”

Alfred picked up his case from the floor and crossed the threshold. In the lobby, which was empty because they had met an hour before the reception, Ward and Cornwall began to clear up some confusion with Alexander and Elizabeth.

“Ignore his courtesy title,” Alexander said.

Alfred set the case down quietly.

“Although he has dual nationality, we prefer him to be considered British rather than Dutch,” said Elizabeth.

While the adults chatted, Alexia was distracted by the spartan furnishings of the room. There was nothing so austere at Ashford Hall, not even the apartments of the manor's staff. Alfred looked down at the hideous shoes he was forced to wear, along with the rest of his uniform: tan and undecorated, shorts he wouldn't take off until he was twelve[7], jumper and suit jacket.

“This will be one of the last boys' courses; we are planning to make it co-educational to attract new talent and double the income.” Ward spoke to Alexander and Elizabeth.

“This is what my grandfather always wanted,” Alexander remarked.

Alfred walked over to Alexia and took her hand. Alexia returned the gesture but continued to scan her surroundings. Alexia was about to leave for the United States of America, for university. In a fit of selfishness, Alfred shouted that it wasn't fair, that he wanted to go to university too. Elizabeth intervened to explain that this was not possible, that they were different and that Alexia needed another kind of attention. His grandmother sympathised with his suffering and admitted that it was difficult to understand, but this was not enough to appease the child. Unsure what to do, Alexander and Elizabeth ignored him until he calmed down on his own. Between his first tantrum and the second, they went on a summer holiday to Utrecht, where Alfred tried hard to forget the source of his dismay. The peace was shattered when, on their return to England, Alexander reminded Alfred that he was going to prep school. In the second outburst of selfishness, Alexander took him in his arms and sat him down in an armchair.

“Alfred. Listen to me.” His father's voice was unusually firm and raised. “Stop crying and listen to me.”

Alfred wiped away his tears and sniffled to listen to his father. Alexander gripped his little hands tightly, but without hurting him.

“Alfred. You're going to be the next Earl Ashford and chief of the clans[8]. Will that be your attitude?” Alexander drew his arms towards him. “Is this the posture of a ruler? Is this the posture of a Stewart?”

Alfred choked back tears.

“No...”

“Is that the posture of a sovereign?” he repeated.

“No!” he shouted.

Alexander loosened his grip and then hugged him.

“I trust you,” he whispered.

Alfred didn't cry again. He packed his bag according to the school handbook and got into the car with his family. That was his destination.

“Ik houd van jou.”[9] Elizabeth kissed him on the cheek.

Alexia hugged him. No words were exchanged. They didn't need to.

Alexander stroked her fringe and kissed his cheek, just like his grandmother.

“Alfred will come back,”[10] he said goodbye.

Alfred stood alone in the hall.

“Welcome to your new home,” Ward congratulated him.

[1] Dean or director of a public school in the United Kingdom.

[2] Director of the boarding school where the pupils of a public school in the United Kingdom reside.

[3] Preparatory School, a private primary school for children between the ages of 7 and 13.

[4] In reference to King James II of England and VII of Scotland, deposed in 1688 with the Glorious Revolution and from whom the term Jacobin is taken.

[5] Jacobin was the name of the supporters of the House of Stuart after the replacement of this dynasty by the House of Hanover from Germany, following the death in 1714 of Anne of Great Britain without an heir to the throne. In this work of fiction, Jacobin is still the name given to the followers of the legitimate heirs of the House of Stuart residing in the United Kingdom, the Campbell-Douglas-Stuart and the Ashford-Campbell-Douglas-Stuart. The Stuart followers are concentrated in Ireland, Scotland and the north of England.

[6] A title by which the Jacobin faction indiscriminately designates all legitimate heirs of Anne of Great Britain by their status as pretenders. The designation is informal and internal to the faction and has no legal recognition in the United Kingdom.

[7] In the UK, it is customary for young children of the upper classes to wear only shorts until they are twelve or thirteen, when they are considered 'grown up' or attend public schools, at which point they begin to wear long trousers. In this sense, long trousers on children are considered to be something typical of the suburban middle class.

[8] From the Scottish clans Campbell and Douglas, the headship of which is shared between the Ashfords and Campbells.

[9] I love you in Dutch.

[10] "Charlie will come again" verse from The Skye Boat Song.

#resident evil #alfred ashford #alexia ashford #alexander ashford

[mimisempai]

You are my favorite serendipity

Summary

Hob asked Dream to come early when he would pick him up at the end of his class, because he was going to taught something that might interest Dream. Dream did not expect to hear Hob tell the story of their first meeting.

Notes

Flufftober Day 27 - Serendipity

On AO3

Rating G - 1946 words

Dream entered the classroom and sat down discreetly in the back row. Hob had mysteriously told him the night before that he should come a half hour early because he might be interested in what Hob would tell at the end of his class.

"Today I'm going to end the class with the history of the word Serendipity."

Hob sat on the edge of his desk and began his explanation.

"Serendipity is the gift of making, by chance and sagacity, an unexpected and worthwhile discovery, especially in the sciences. It is a polysemic notion whose meaning varies according to the period, the context and the language used. The word, initially English, was created in 1754 by the writer Horace Walpole from the Persian tale The Three Princes of Serendip.  This is what he himself said, ' I once read a silly fairy tale, called “The Three Princes of Serendip”: as their Highnesses traveled, they were always making discoveries, by accidents and sagacity, of things which they were not in quest of: for instance, on the them discovered that a mule blinds of the right eye had traveled the same road lately, because the grass was eaten only on the left side, where it was worse than on the right—now do you understand Serendipity?'"

Dream amusedly saw Hob pretend to yawn at the end of his explanation, then the teacher asked his students, "I ask you the question asked by Walpole, now do you understand what Serendipity means?"

Obviously expecting their negative response, Hob continued, "Then let me tell you a story. It begins one summer evening in the year of our Lord 1389 in a tavern, the White Horse Tavern. An ordinary man, let's call him Robert. So Robert was drinking, a little too much, with his companions. And when you drink a little too much, you tend to talk a little louder. So our Robert was proclaiming loudly that he wouldn't die, because death was stupid."

Dream found it hard not to hold back a laugh at the way Hob was talking about himself. 

Even though what he was saying had happened centuries ago, the memory was vivid in Dream's mind.

"I just think maybe it would be good for you to see them on their terms, instead of yours."

Death had insisted on dragging him into this tavern and now he was forced to endure the inane chatter of all these humans when suddenly a voice sounded louder than the others.

"Look, I've seen death."

He and his sister turned together to the person who had just said these words and listened with curiosity as he continued, "I lost half my village to the Black Death. I fought under Buckingham in Burgundy. It's not like I don't know what death is. Death is... stupid."

Dream and Death looked at each other, and as his friends laughed at him, the man continued in his insolently confident manner, "Nobody has to die. The only reason people die is... is 'cause everyone does it. You all just go along with it. But not me. I've made up my mind."

Dream and Death looked at him again as the man paused before adding firmly, "I'm not going to die."

Dream and Death looked at each other again as the man replied to his companions who continued to mock him.

"You don't know that. I might get lucky. There's always a first time. There's so much to do, so many things to see. Women to swive. Ale to drink. People to drink with."

Dream, annoyed by this human who had such low aspirations, asked his sister, "Why would any sensible creature crave an eternity of this?"

Death replied with that little smile of his, "You could find out."

Dream inquired, "How?"

His older sister replied, "I could grant him his wish."

Dream couldn't help but respond with a mocking tone, "Do that, and he will be begging for death within a century, I assure you."

Death did not lose her smile and replied, "This will prove very interesting."

They turned their gaze back to the man who continued to debate with his companions and Death asked, "Are you gonna tell him, or should I?"

Oh no, Dream wanted to tell him himself, to see if his confidence would persist in the face of him. He replied, "I shall." and walked over to the merry band.  Once facing Hob, he stared at him for a few seconds until the man turned his gaze to him and Dream asked in a composed manner, "Did I hear you say you have no intention of ever dying?"

The man chuckled slightly and after a brief hesitation replied, "Uh, yeah. Yeah, that's right."

Dream continued, "Then you must tell me what it's like."

As he chuckled again, Dream added, knowing full well the effect his words would have on the man, "Let us meet here again, Robert Gadling, in this tavern of the White Horse in a hundred years."

While his friends laughed outright, the man looked at him with a serious expression on his face and a slight shock in his eyes at the call of his name. 

Dream looked at his sister who nodded and then, looked back at the man who continued to stare at him before smiling and answering, "Don't mind them. A hundred years' time, on this day?" 

Dream could see that the man still believed it was a joke, but that the shadow of a slight doubt remained. This didn't stop him from answering seriously, "I will see you in the year of our Lord 1489, then." finishing with a cheeky smile and a challenging glance that Dream held until he turned to leave.

When Dream came out of his reverie, he realized that Hob had come to the same part of his story.

"Robert watched the man leave, a strange feeling in his mind, a question in his head, what if it were true? Well, he knew it when a hundred years later he met the stranger who would meet him again a hundred years later and so on, creating a special bond with this person he didn't know from Adam. So can anyone tell me how this story illustrates the word serendipity?"

A student raised his hand and Hob nodded, "I'm listening."

"Well the man, Robert, in 1389, was drinking and joking with his friends and probably didn't expect a stranger to come along and give him the gift of immortality, so to speak, so that's his serendipity."

Hob agreed and replied, "Quite so. But let's take it a step further, don't you think that his serendipity is also the bond he creates with this stranger by meeting him every hundred years?"

A young girl on the other side of the classroom raised her hand.

"Yes Alice?"

"Professor, does your story have a happy ending? Do Robert and his friend still meet every hundred years?"

Hob smiled softly and replied, "Well, imagine a mysterious stranger coming to you and daring you to see him again in a hundred years to tell him what it's like not to die. Imagine this stranger coming back to you day for day a hundred years later to listen to your life story and then listen carefully before making an appointment to meet you a hundred years later. Imagine that he is there again a hundred years later and you are proud to tell him about your achievements and, even if he doesn't seem to care, you know that you will be there in a hundred years to meet him again. Because that serendipity, that serendipity has become a drug. So even if, a hundred years later, you are at the lowest point of your life, the most miserable, you will be there, if only to see the emotion and surprise, even if fleeting, in that look. Hoping to see that you have touched his life as he has touched yours.  Then nothing can stop you from seeing him again a century later, not even exterior scheming or your own mistakes, if only to see the spark in that gaze."

As Hob went through their encounters, Dream saw in flashes those moments unfold in front of his eyes.

Hob continued, "You will still be there, a hundred years later, to finally read the approval and even affection in those eyes. Even if you will be the one to jeopardize your bond because sometimes you have to tell your friends the truth. Because you want to meet him as an equal and not be the object of an experiment anymore. Risking a lifetime of endless loneliness for the sake of the one you consider your friend. And you would be willing to wait another hundred years of solitude just to finally see the hurt and loneliness you read in that gaze disappear. Just to welcome him back with a smile. Just to see him smile back at you."

Seeing that he had gotten a little carried away, Hob paused for a moment before resuming, his students hanging on his every word, "To answer your question Alice, I think they are still meeting and more importantly I am certain that now they are not waiting a hundred years to see each other."

Just in time, the bell announcing the end of class rang and Hob announced, "Don't forget to turn in your homework for the next class, I won't wait a hundred years to grade them."

The students giggled and exited the classroom one after the other. Dream approached Hob who was finishing putting his things in his bag.

He asked softly, "So I'm your serendipity?"

Hob looked up and smiled, "You doubt it?"

Dream, checking first that the door was closed, took Hob's hand in his and brought it to his lips before answering, "Well I think you're my serendipity too."

Hob replied with a mischievous little smile, "Explain this to me, Professor Morpheus."

Dream chuckled softly then tying his arms around Hob's waist he said softly, "Imagine, you walk into an inn, urged by your big sister to socialize and you're dying of boredom listening to the uninteresting talk around you when all of a sudden there's this guy who talks louder than the others and says he doesn't want to die. Then you challenge this guy to meet you in a hundred years and he takes the challenge with an irresistible smile. Wouldn't you give anything to be there every hundred years? No matter the smile, no matter the circumstances? Just to see this? Even if he annoys you sometimes? Even if the smile is wavering... Even if it smells like danger... Just to see that sweet smile that is only for you... And while you can't be there because of outside forces, once you're free, in full possession of your faculties, wouldn't that be the first thing you'd want to see? To finally be able to smile back at him?"

He smiled gently at Hob as he finished his tale. His lover raised his hand and stroked Dream's smile with his thumb as he whispered, "It seems I need to add a paragraph to my story then."

Dream kissed the thumb on his lips and said softly, "It's an endless story anyway. A story that has a happy ending with no ending. All that's left is the happiness."

Hob laughed softly and, grasping Dream's hand, he said in a cheerful tone, "Come on my sappy lord, let's hurry back so I can show you how happy I am."

"Who is the sappy one now?" retorted Dream as he followed him.

They were still laughing as they left the classroom.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Dreamling Flufftober here

Dreamling Masterlist here

#the sandman #the sandman netflix #dream of the endless #hob gadling #dreamling #dreamling fic #centennial husbands #centennial boyfriends #morpheus #morpheus x hob #hob x morpheus #flufftober2022 #flufftober

[chronicas]

i wanna know more about aoc: cryptadia ik it’s in the same universe as aoc but like that’s all i rlly know and i’m so curious bro

so aoc and aoc: cryptadia take place at the same time. both stories are kicked off by the same thing: the knight rosetta. after she shows up and ruin’s akira’s day, she turns around and makes things difficult for not-so-local teens serendipity and kuri. the teens stumble on the fight between kuro akamatsu (akira’s dad) and rosetta. which sets off a big long chain of spoilery events that lead to three additional teens joining adderdeen’s very own night watch, a crew of dedicated weirdos who try and keep their very weird little town safe and unaware of how weird of a town adderdeen truly is.

the main cast of course consists of four people with plenty of their own secrets to hide.

serendipity grace vulcan, a member of the esteemed house chernobog. she’s essentially considered “vampire royalty”. she was sent to adderdeen by her adoptive parents to learn under master alchemist, james emperor. she’s got the most magical know-how of the group, problem is.. she can’t really do magic on her own, which means she has to navigate her abilities as a witch very differently than others. (epic and poggers autism allegory)

prince kuri is the crown prince of itania, a far off planet in the andromeda galaxy! after his home planet becomes a target of the izebellian empire, his mother sends him off to be protected by the high magic council of genesis, who decide to place him under the protection of one james emperor. so james now has TWO little royal teens to take care of! kuri never really had friends his own age back on his home planet, so living on terra gives him the chance to be a teen, even if he’s not used to all this “earth culture weirdness”. PLUS!! HE GET’S A BRAND NEW VAMPIRE BIG SISTER!!

qwynn vandale (yeah that’s really how you spell it) is a monster hunter in training, but if you ask her, she’d leave off the “in training” part. out of a family of six, she and her mom are the only ones who AREN’T werewolves… much to her annoyance. qwynn works her ass off to prove to her family she doesn’t need claws and fangs to take on the toughest monsters adderdeen has to throw at them. but the truth is, he family never thought she had to prove anything at all, they’re already proud of her. qwynn’s story is mainly one of self acceptance. plus.. she really IS a pretty badass monster hunter.

salem “mothman” graves is a perfectly normal human guy and not a huge moth creature. at least.. that is what he is trying very VERY hard to convince everyone in adderdeen of now that he’s a local celebrity as the town’s favorite radio show host. as founder of the adderdeen night watch, mortician, radio show host, AND full time older brother of the antichrist, this guy has his work cut out for him. him and his rag-tag group of misfits have the duty of keeping everyone living in a supernatural hotspot from learning the truth about the world they live in.

i always talk about these four characters more than the story itself because the story IS these four characters. all their crazy nonsense adventures and their friendship is what this story is truly about. and boy.. do i have my hands full trying to tell all those stories. wouldn’t give it up for anything though. it’s a story that ought to be told.

#and sid hmu over discord if you want my ancient thumbnails of the first volume of cryptadia #this goes for anyone with my discord actually… #i will find them. #ophidian lore #array of cicadas: cryptadia

[blackeberry]

É incrível pensar que são 5 meses. Os cinco meses mais maluco e agitados da minha vida toda e eu desejo e espero que continue assim. Porque com você tudo fica tão melhor e tão maravilhoso. É bom demais sentir esse amor por você. Quero crescer e amadurecer com você até

O que é Serendipity:

Serendipity é uma palavra em inglês que significa uma feliz descoberta ao acaso, ou a sorte de encontrar algo precioso onde não estávamos procurando.

O termo serendipity foi criado no século XVI pelo escritor inglês Horace Walpole. A palavra teria sido retirada de um conto chamado "The Three Princes of Serendip", personagens que sempre faziam descobertas acidentais usando sua sagacidade. Serendip seria o nome árabe para a região onde atualmente é o Sri Lanka.

Acrescentado do sufixo ity, a palavra em inglês vira um substantivo abstrato. Como responsability (responsabilidade) que vem de responsable (responsável).

Portanto, serendipity seria a propriedade de quem age como os príncipes de Serendip, ou seja, de quem encontra soluções criativas e inesperadas para problemas de forma sagaz.

Serendipity é quando de repente, e sem querer, alguém descobre algo que o faz mudar de vida, a solução para os seus problemas, a resposta para as suas perguntas. É semelhante ao eureka alegado aos cientistas.

Serendipity é a forma criativa de lidar com uma situação, encontrando um resultado inesperado para determinado caso. Tem a ver com o fato de identificar oportunidades em problemas ou situações inóspitas.

A tradução indicada de serendipity para o português é serendipidade. Mas a palavra é um anglicismo, ou seja, um uso emprestado da língua inglesa para o português, e não tem uma correspondência exata de sentido. Em alguns dicionários de Língua Portuguesa é definida como "o dom de atrair sorte". Mas no original, seu significado é mais complexo, como descrito acima.

Meu bem tem uma explicação muita linda que eu queria que você lesse comigo. Então quando vir esse post me chama pra gente ler junto. Aqui ó o site 👇.

https://efeitobts.wixsite.com/efeitobts/post/an%C3%A1lise-teoria-a-letra-e-o-comeback-trailer-de-serendipity-m%C3%AAsloveyourself

#Spotify

[beyondtheplenty]

MEET OUR FIGURES.

ALL THE FACES - IMPORTANT FIGURES.

//SCHEHERAZADE. In the wake of his wife’s infidelity, the King executes her and pledges his hatred for women. He decided to marry a new woman every day, and have her executed at dawn to ensure her unbreakable fidelity. Many women succumbed until the day Scheherazade became the King’s new wife. Knowing she was in danger, she decided to tell stories to the king and to stop at crucial moments in order to survive day after day. This tactic lasted 1001 days, during which she told many fantastic and moralising stories that eventually softened the King’s heart and he fell in love with her and did not execute her. This figure is a creative character, at the origin of many worlds and myths, born of danger and fear. A condition of survival, arising from day to day, in the cages of a man who is stingy with his stories; he will never stop asking for more. So, although she creates, she remains the slave of these stories, like a necessity or a need that she cannot betray. Scheherazade truly becomes a free creator when she is no longer obliged to create in order to survive, no longer obliged to cling to her stories in order to exist. An interesting parallel can then be drawn with the TikTokers, creating to be part of the world, obliged to renew themselves in order not to sink into the anonymity of the cloud.

//PRINCES OF SERENTIP. This is an old Persian myth in which three young princes are sent by their father to discover the world and learn. In the form of a quest, these young princes criss-cross the world and encounter numerous situations that they have to deal with. They use their intellect, rational capacity and observation to overcome the various challenges they face. In spite of their well-developed knowledge, they revel in their often unexpected discoveries - not very rational ones, as it were. These figures offer an interesting vision of knowledge and the quest. Indeed, this myth recognises a certain value in unexpected discoveries; it has contributed to the modern understanding of the term ‘serendipity’, which refers to the happy discovery of something valuable or beneficial when one has not specifically looked for it. In this way, we find a form of quest, somewhat forced by their father, in which they don’t really name a goal but find many things - close to the Parliament of the Birds.

//CERES. This figure, linked to Roman mythology, symbolises fertility, maternal love and agriculture. Ceres is very close to another mythological figure, Demeter. She is the centre of many festivities, often linked to the seasons and happy events. Her characteristics allow her to be described as a creator, making plants grow, giving life; creation and production. The city of Palermo also takes its name from her, as a symbol of fertility, benevolence and creation. Its root *ker- refers not only to agriculture and creation, but also to creatures. Its symbol also comes close to life, to birth - a place of renewal, of rebirth.

//HARPY. Birds, or more often eagles with female bodies, symbolising punishment and divine chaos. Hostile, nervous figures with strong associations to flight. They are a kind of danger, with sharp, imordinate claws, which can even turn out to be more or less good oracles. They are agents of chaos, obeying a greater entity; deities. They are a kind of face, with an absurd body that has no real consciousness but reveals itself to be a tool or consequence of a greater whole. Objects of chaos and punishment, they annoy and annoy by the multitude. We could see it as these agents, these outputs (the third face), autonomous yet unconscious as a lost object whose information (oracle capacity) is not absolute; it reveals no truth or reality. It is like an effect of this mass of uncontrollable information, a divine or computer punishment. What’s more, it can be considered as data, information that is eternal; it cannot die and cannot be tamed. We are victims of these harpies that won’t let us go.

//WINE. The drink of Christ, the drink of the evening, the drink of social occasions and decadence. Its ethymology reflects the fact that it is made from «trouner», «courber» or «plier». It is therefore a clear image of a liquid with a metamorphic, transformative effect. Wine, a liquid like oxygen, fills space by taking the place of air. Underwater, in a position of intoxication, man no longer gives any value to this pathetic world. What’s more, he’s not alone. This table is full of his joyful companions, who are enjoying this divine brew just as much as he is. They are also of the world, and drunkenness becomes a condition; they escape the vertigo that expresses the end of their world. They are no longer earthly, they swim and float in this liquid.

//CLOUD. The image of the cloud can also be understood as that of mist, like a thick scarf spreading all around the world. It defines exactly that which is indefinable; it has no form, it has no definition, it has no finitude. It is an open and oppressive conditoon, which Palermo opposes with a lie and its closed condtion of the place of «all knowledge». The fog gradually dissipates for these travellers, but not for the world, which remains plunged in uncertainty and ignorance, seeing only a few metres ahead. The cloud represents this mass of information, this abundance and profusion, this whole. It is in this way that each being determines and defines its own sphere of air in this tumultuous cloud - we understand here that it is accessing its own reality. This same reality is only a tiny part of this whole, of this cloud. The creators are both victims and creators of this monster that suffocates and swallows them up. Indeed, their creation makes it grow, like their own reality, but they never achieve full awareness of the shape of this cloud because it does not depend entirely on them as a single individual.

//ORACLE. The figure of the oracle is defined as a messenger of the divine, between men and gods, as a bridge between the two worlds. It is also an allegory of a path, a path towards the divine. It is a divine guide with the power of prediction, and therefore strongly linked to the future. The place that this being maintains with the divine, in this case the cloud, gives him the possibility of hoping to increase his skills and knowledge as a path towards a state beyond his human condition - he carries an image of transcendence. He expresses himself as a guide, but also as a prophet with visions of the future - he is compared to the creators of our world, who feed off the divine aspect of the cloud and nourish it from this union. The oracle is a man who makes a pact with the divinities with the sacrifice and the curse of seeing the events of the future.

//CERBERTUS. This figure, approaching a three-headed dog with a snake-like tail, is the guardian of the world of the dead. He stands between these two worlds, proud and powerful, keeping things in balance. The symbolism of his three heads is not very clear, and symbolises many things (past/present/future, birth/life/death, spirit/body/lady, multiplicity/complexity, etc.). Between these two worlds, his presence at the gates of the Underworld serves as a warning and reminder of the consequences of mortality. He finds himself constantly between these two worlds without belonging to either of them, striking a balance between the living, the dead and both. It can be seen as an image of the creators, who maintain a balance through their position between the world of humans and that of the gods (the position of the oracle), while remaining close to the abyss (hell); a delicate position. His three heads also reflect the creator’s diagram, with its three faces, three personalities. Cerbertus is neither evil nor good, he is imprisoned in a task by a form of responsibility; the balance of worlds.

//SUNYATA. Sunyata is a central concept in Mahayana Buddhism, particularly in the Madhyamaka and Zen traditions. The term ‘Sunyata’ is often translated as ‘emptiness’, but its meaning goes beyond mere nothingness or absence. Sunyata represents a profound and nuanced philosophical and spiritual idea. Sunyata refers primarily to the emptiness of existence inherent in all phenomena. In Buddhist thought, all things are considered to be of dependent origin, devoid of an independent and unchanging essence. This means that nothing exists in isolation or has a nature of its own. It emphasises the interconnectedness of all phenomena. Nothing exists independently; everything depends on causes, conditions and relationships. From this point of view, the concept of an independent, self-existent self or substance is an illusion. Sunyata transcends the dualities of existence and non-existence, of being and non-being. It goes beyond the limits of ordinary conceptual thinking, which tends to categorise everything into opposites. In short, Sil is a profound Buddhist concept that highlights the emptiness of existence inherent in everything, emphasising the interconnectedness, dependent origin and transcendence of dualities. The term is used to designate the start of a new quest, in contrast to the previous quest for fulfilment; here, the search is for emptiness, the emptiness that lies beyond all things.

//USHNISHAVIJAVA. Ushnishavijaya, also known as Ushnisha Vijaya, is an important Buddhist deity, particularly venerated in Tibetan Buddhism and other Vajrayana traditions. Ushnishavijaya is a goddess associated with longevity, healing and the removal of obstacles. Her name, ‘Ushnisha’, refers to the crown protuberance on the Buddha’s head, which symbolises supreme enlightenment. Ushnishavijaya is often depicted as a peaceful deity with three faces and eight arms. Her central face is white, symbolising purity, while her right face is red, representing fierce compassion, and her left face is blue, symbolising wrathful protection. Each of his eight hands holds various symbolic attributes, including a vajra (a ritual object symbolising spiritual power), a wheel, a bell, a bow, an arrow and a lasso. Ushnishavijaya’s attributes symbolise various aspects of his compassionate nature. The vajra and bell represent the union of wisdom and skillful means, while the bow and arrow are associated with his ability to dispel obstacles. The wheel is a symbol of the dharma (the Buddha’s teachings), and the lasso represents his power to attract and unite beings with the dharma. His attributes and symbolism are in line with Mahayana Buddhism’s emphasis on compassion and the relief of suffering, making him an important figure in Vajrayana Buddhism. Central white face (Sattva): The central face is usually white and represents purity, compassion and tranquillity. This face embodies the peaceful aspect of Ushnishavijaya and signifies his ability to pacify and bring calm to the minds and hearts of devotees. In Buddhist symbolism, white is often associated with purity and wisdom. Right side red (Rajas). The right side is usually red, symbolising fierce compassion and determination. This face embodies the wrathful or fierce aspect of Ushnishavijaya, which is protective and aims to subdue obstacles and negative influences. Red is associated with the energy, intensity and dynamism needed to overcome challenges. Left side blue (Tamas): The left face is typically blue and represents power and strength. This face embodies the protective and transformative aspects of Ushnishavijaya, enabling it to overcome obstacles and dispel negativity. In Buddhist iconography, blue symbolises wisdom and insight. Taken together, these three faces reflect the many facets of Ushnishavijaya’s compassionate response to the suffering and challenges faced by sentient beings. They demonstrate his ability to adapt and respond to diverse situations with wisdom, compassion and skillful means. In this way, we obtain a divine figure, greater than the oracle, who uses these three faces in a spirit of protection, compassion and benevolence. This is a completely different dimension to that seen previously in these oppressed creators, who are seen as cerbertus. We can understand this figure as one of evolution, going beyond understanding and beyond fulfilment. As these creators reach this absolute knowledge in the daze of the wine that surrounds them, they become gods.

//EDEN. Eden is often described as a lush and beautiful garden, often referred to as the «Garden of Eden» or «paradise». It is typically depicted as a place with abundant vegetation, rivers and a pleasant climate. Eden is associated with abundance and wealth. It is described as a place where all the needs of mankind were met without toil or hardship. Fruit, vegetables and other resources were readily available. There was no conflict or discord among its inhabitants. In the biblical story of Genesis, two important trees are mentioned in Eden: the tree of the knowledge of good and evil and the tree of life. The forbidden fruit of the tree of knowledge led to Adam and Eve’s expulsion from Eden. Eden is often seen as the symbol of humanity’s original innocence, unity with God and a state of spiritual perfection. In relation to the eyes, Eden irises are an opening towards this truth and this place; the Garden of Eden. In the context of Palermo, this garden refers to the garden that has been allotted to us as a place of closeness to God. It also speaks of abundance and peace, strongly linked to the fullness and calm felt by its inhabitants; that fundamental goal of the quest for the absolute. To see through Eden means to conceive of an absolute reality, which can be a truth linked to the place itself (non-absolute). It is only in this condition, in this divine place, that man can conceive of other faces; beyond knowledge, to discover the face of others and his own.

//TE DEUM. The «Te Deum» is a Christian hymn of praise and thanksgiving. Its name comes from the first Latin words «Te Deum laudamus», meaning «We praise you, O God». This hymn is often used in liturgical contexts, particularly in the Catholic, Anglican and some Protestant traditions, to thank and praise God for his greatness and blessings. The «Te Deum» is traditionally attributed to Saint Ambrose, archbishop of Milan in the fourth century, and Saint Augustine, although its exact authorship remains uncertain. It is one of the oldest Christian hymns still in use today. The song goes like this We praise you, O God ; we acknowledge you as Lord. All the earth adores you, the eternal Father. All the angels cry out to you the heavens and all the powers in them. The cherubim and seraphim sing without ceasing.

//BRAHMAN & ATMAN. Brahman and Atman are fundamental concepts in Hindu philosophy and spirituality, representing two essential aspects of ultimate reality and the self. In short, Brahman is the absolute, all-encompassing, formless reality that underlies the universe, while Atman is the individual soul, the deepest essence of a person. Hindu philosophy teaches that the ultimate goal of life is to realise the identity of one’s individual Atman with the universal Brahman, thus achieving spiritual liberation and freeing oneself from the cycle of samsara. This realisation lies at the heart of the quest for moksha (liberation) and is a fundamental concept of Hindu spirituality. Here we see a clear transcendence, going beyond the world while going with it. Individuality is added to the cosmos, opening the doors to a new world; a new quest. Beyond the whole, beyond plenitude, there are many other things that are represented here by this union between Brahman and Atman. A duality that is both necessary and yet must form a union - a pact.

#figure

[alwayspsychicwizard]

Serendipity

Serendipity can be described as an unexpected and fortunate discovery or event that takes place without being deliberately sought out. It is a happy and beneficial happening that takes place as a result of chance.

Serendipity often involves "luck":

... seemingly random events or situations occurring beyond one's control, often viewed as favorable or unfavorable.

Serendipity often involves coincidence:

... a remarkable concurrence of events or circumstances that have no apparent causal connection.

Randomness is often attributed to luck, but the reality is that certain factors, such as prior actions, heavily impact its results.

Explain how without an open mind a person can't be serendipity

When someone has an open mind, they are more receptive to new ideas and experiences. This means they are more likely to notice things that others may overlook or dismiss, and more willing to see possibilities where others see limitations. An open-minded person is also more willing to take risks, try new things, and explore uncharted territory.

Conversely, someone who is closed-minded tends to cling to their existing beliefs and ideas, which can inhibit their ability to recognize and embrace new opportunities. They may also be less willing to take risks or explore unfamiliar territories, which can limit their chances of experiencing serendipity.

Therefore, having an open mind is important for enabling serendipitous discoveries, as it allows for more opportunities for unexpected, fortuitous events to occur.

A happy accident is serendipity

History Of Serendipity

The word "serendipity" was coined by the English writer Horace Walpole in 1754 and is derived from the Persian fairy tale "The Three Princes of Serendip."

The three princes were always making discoveries, by chance and sagacity, of things which they were not in quest of.

Therefore, the term serendipity came to mean a "happy accident" or a "pleasant surprise."

Finding something of immense value through an astonishingly beautiful circumstance of "randomness" ...

#standpoint #serendipity #writers on tumblr #writerslife #define #definition #wiped #wordporn

[stellabarak]

Intuition, Serendipity and the creative process

"I am interested to see what happens when a poem manages to get up on its own legs, how it develops its own capacity to move itself along..."

With this as an introduction, Seamus Heaney, Irish poet writes about intuition as a working methodology in his article Sixth Sense, Seventh Heaven (2002), published in the autumn edition of the Dublin Review. It is not unusual to read about the creative process from a poet's point of view: in fact I don't believe there is a separation other than that of materials, for artists. And even so, Heaney nominates words and language as his material of choice.

What exactly is the sixth sense, that he foresees developing into the seventh heaven? It is when, as he describes, is the reciprocal state that occurs between artist and material, or in Heaney's case, words and language continue to grow in a movement, or a happy state of unexpected supply. It is a blissful state of being, as he describes it, that further expands into a seventh heaven or the stage of the reward. Heaney relies on Wordsworth's descriptions, too. Of how to take a state of pure or raw emotion and gradually transpose that into your choice of materials, be it words, photographs, paintings, sculptures.

Heaney relates the creative process to the writings of Jacques Maritain who describes the creative process as one based on the actualisation of emotion, or inspiration.

As artists also know, the happy moment or happy accident is experienced as a state of flow, where the material starts as if speaking of its own accord, it flows freely between you, the maker and its own state of being. As Heaney puts it "it develops its own legs as if magically being able to move along by itself, with minimal intervention."

The state of pure bliss or creation, the seventh heaven, is a rewarding one. You've done all the major work by now, be it experimentation, research, feeling, recording, touching, sensing, smelling and now, everything starts coming together in a poem, or a sculpture or a painting or an installation.

In this iterative process, chance, mistake and whim contribute to the creative work in progress.

Which reminds me of another of my favourite words, Serendipity, coined by the father of Gothic, Horace Walpole in 1754 inspired by a FairyTale of The Three Princes of Serendip. What once went down as a brilliant, yet useless word back in the day, was rediscovered and appropriated. In fact, Serendipity, votes the UK's most favourite word in 2000.

It is by no chance then (no pun intended) that the word offered itself to the Hollywood feel-good movie Serendipity, (2001) starring Kate Beckinsale and John Cusack, set in New York.

In it, we see the plight of two characters whose love life is caught between the real life and the life desired. A chance encounter and a phone number scribbled inside the pages of a second hand book, forms the basis for them to eventually themselves, ten years later, and seal their love.

What is, then the definition of Serendipity? "The faculty of making happy and unexpected discoveries by accident"

Similarly to the poem standing on its own feet, serendipity leads to that seventh heaven or blissful moment of discovery and creativity, or as in the case of movie, love, magic even.

Here enter: The Magician:

Intuition and serendipity are also closely linked to card games and play. One of my favourite games is the Medieval art of Tarot and observing happy instances of synchronicity that occur in everyday life.

I have used the Magician, Card no. 1 of the Major Arcana, as a guiding principle. Transformed him on my screen, manipulating him to showcase as major star in my solo exhibition, The Magician (Gloam Gallery, 2021).

I am really happy that the work gets a second run ,this time as part of the Leeds Artists Show 2023, at the prestigious Leeds Art Gallery.

The group exhibition features the work of artists living and working in Leeds and is showcase of sculpture, photography, painting, moving image and installation.

Feel like a bit of a chance encounter with synchronicity, art and intuition? Go see the show at Leeds Art Gallery, on until April 30th 2023!!

#intuition #creativity #serendipity #poetry #emotion #artist #artisticcommunity #ceramics #contemporaryart #photography #installationart #leedsartgallery #leeds

[iseilio-blog]

為化學 所 魅惑

為化學所魅惑

白川英樹 - 維基百科，自由的百科全書 (wikipedia.org)

岩波新書 709 2001, 1, 19,

無機化學專家的麥克德爾米德、與物理的艾倫•黑格，再加上專注

於高分子有機化學 的我，三人共同研究，想辦法將 聚乙炔 變成

高導電率的東西。

我將 film 合成，再加入一些 臭氧；專門用語就是 dobing。如此

一來，原本只是半導體的電器傳導率，竟然一下子上昇了 10萬倍，

變成了金屬，就這樣打開了新導電高分子 的分野。

這樣的我竟然得到了 諾貝爾獎，或許就被認為秀才，或者秀才中的

秀才。其實雖然從幼稚園、小學、初中、高中，一路到大學的經驗，

一直就不是第一名，也不被認為是秀才，如果要說是什麼，也就只是

一個很一般，而不引人注目的學生而已。P . 9

Serendipity 在日文沒有直譯，而只用外來語。在稍大一些的日英

辭典是如此說明 ：「能夠在偶然中看出名堂的能力。」、「沒有刻意

探求，卻偶然的原因，有了很好的發現的能力。」搜尋 牛津英語辭典

有了這樣的瞭解：

「 這個詞，首先出現於英國作家，也是政治家 Horace Warpole

Horace Walpole - Wikipedia 於 1754年 給他友人的信件中，仿效

“The Three Princes of Serendip”希臘神話，所擁有的能力的

造語。Serendip，也就是現在 斯里蘭卡 的古名稱。在這個神話中的

王子們、並不是刻意去探求，而是在偶然與聰敏的助力之中，一再的

重層發現的物語。」

Horace Warpole 想要表現出他自己體驗的偶然的發現，因為沒有

適當的語彙，而借用了王子能力這個神話，使用了 Serendipity 這個

單字。因此，Serendipity 並不是探求結果的發現或發明。 P . 11

蘋果 與 Serendipity。偶然，就是說 無法預期，用方法也無法預知

什麼事會發生，卻好像隨時會有什麼事。然而認識這個偶然，去深入

的思索，以期待連結上發現、發明 ；這樣一個人，必需富有旺盛的

好奇心，或者深入的認知力與洞察力等等，是不可或缺的。

發明與發現 或許被認為只在自然科學、工學，與人文系的人沒有

關係，然而在文學與藝術，也是有 Serendipity，比如前述的 Horace

Warpole 就不是科學者，而是一個作家。

牛頓 看到蘋果掉落地上的偉大，在於繼續思索及至物體之間的引力，

及至太陽系的運動；蘋果掉落地上，只是一個契機、起點而已。

P . 15

試著改變 鉛、水銀，探求醫治萬病的 不老靈藥 的「鍊金術」也許

已經是古老的時代。被稱為近代科學之祖的 數學家、物理學者、

天文學者 牛頓（1642－1727）達 65萬字 親筆的手稿於 1936年 在

倫敦被大量拍賣，為了阻止文化財產四散，為代表二十世紀前半的

近代經濟學者 凱因斯 購入。

鍊金術進入十九世紀，由於 1000年 以上儲積的實驗結果與技術，

在化學基礎的貢獻受到肯定。在金屬的精鍊、染色技術的開發，以及

各種藥品的合成，鍊金術師們積累的遺產，也一直存在於現代產業

技術之中。P . 45

Schostakovich Quartet No. 8 - Jansen, McElravy, Rachlin, Maisky - YouTube