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#gig workers benefits
squaredawayblog · 7 months
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A study provides new information about the people who work as nonemployee contractors for businesses and online services. 
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When the app tries to make you robo-scab
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When we talk about the abusive nature of gig work, there’s some obvious targets, like algorithmic wage discrimination, where two workers are paid different rates for the same job, in order to trick occasional gig-workers to give up their other sources of income and become entirely dependent on the app:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men
Then there’s the opacity — imagine if your boss refused to tell you how much you’ll get paid for a job until after you’ve completed it, claimed that this was done in order to “protect privacy” — and then threatened anyone who helped you figure out the true wage on offer:
https://pluralistic.net/2021/08/07/hr-4193/#boss-app
Opacity is wage theft’s handmaiden: every gig worker producing content for a social media algorithm is subject to having their reach — and hence their pay — cut based on the unaccountable, inscrutable decisions of a content moderation system:
https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/10/e2e/#the-censors-pen
Making content for an algorithm is like having a boss that docks every paycheck because you broke rules that you are not allowed to know, because if you knew the rules, you’d figure out how to cheat without your boss catching you. Content moderation is the last place where security through obscurity is considered good practice:
https://doctorow.medium.com/como-is-infosec-307f87004563
When workers seize the means of computation, amazing things happen. In Indonesia, gig workers create and trade tuyul apps that let them unilaterally modify the way that their bosses’ systems see them — everything from GPS spoofing to accessibility mods:
https://pluralistic.net/2021/07/08/tuyul-apps/#gojek
So the tech and labor story isn’t wholly grim: there are lots of ways that tech can enhance labor struggles, letting workers collaborate and coordinate. Without digital systems, we wouldn’t have the Hot Strike Summer:
https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/02/not-what-it-does/#who-it-does-it-to
As the historic writer/actor strike shows us, the resurgent labor movement and the senescent forces of crapulent capitalism are locked in a death-struggle over not just what digital tools do, but who they do it for and who they do it to:
https://locusmag.com/2022/01/cory-doctorow-science-fiction-is-a-luddite-literature/
When it comes to the epic fight over who technology acts for and against, we need a diversity of tactics, backstopped by tech operated by and for its users — and by laws that protect workers and the public. That dynamic is in sharp focus in UNITE Here Local 11’s strike against Orange County’s Laguna Cliffs Marriott Resort & Spa.
The UNITE Here strike turns on the usual issues like a living wage (hotel staff are paid so little they have to rent rooming-house beds by the shift, paying for the right to sleep in a room for a few hours at a time, without any permanent accommodation). They’re also seeking health-care and pensions, so they can be healthy at work and retire after long service. Finally, they’re seeking their employer’s support for LA’s Responsible Hotels Ordinance, which would levy a tax on hotel rooms to help pay for hotel workers’ housing costs (a hotel worker who can’t afford a bed is the equivalent of a fast food worker who has to apply for food stamps):
https://www.unitehere11.org/responsible-hotels-ordinance/
But the Marriott — which is owned by the University of California and managed by Aimbridge Hospitality — has refused to bargain, walking out negotiations.
But the employer didn’t walk out over wages, benefits or support for a housing subsidy. They walked out when workers demanded that the scabs that the company was trying to hire to break the strike be given full time, union jobs.
These aren’t just any scabs, either. They’re predominantly Black workers who rely on the $700m Instawork app for gigs. These workers are being dispatched to cross the picket line without any warning that they’re being contracted as strikebreakers. When workers refuse the cross the picket and join the strike, Instawork cancels all their shifts and permanently blocks them from new jobs.
This is a new, technologically supercharged form of illegal strikebreaking. It’s one thing for a single boss to punish a worker who refuses to scab, but Instawork acts as a plausible-deniability filter for all the major employers in the region. Like the landlord apps that allow landlords to illegally fix rents by coordinating hikes, Instawork lets bosses illegally collude to rig wages by coordinating a blocklist of workers who refuse to scab:
https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2022/10/company-that-makes-rent-setting-software-for-landlords-sued-for-collusion/?comments=1
The racial dimension is really important here: the Marriott has a longstanding de facto policy of refusing to hire Black workers, and whenever they are confronted with this, they insist that there are no qualified Black workers in the labor pool. But as soon as the predominantly Latino workforce struck, Marriott discovered a vast Black workforce that it could coerce into scabbing, in collusion with Instawork.
Now, all of this isn’t just sleazy, it’s illegal, a violation of Section 7 of the NLRB Act. Historically, that wouldn’t have mattered, because a string of presidents, R and D, have appointed useless do-nothing ghouls to run the NLRB. But the Biden admin, pushed by the party’s left wing, made a string of historic, excellent appointments, including NLRB General Counsel Jennifer Abruzzo, who has set her sights on punishing gig work companies for flouting labor law:
https://pluralistic.net/2022/01/10/see-you-in-the-funny-papers/#bidens-legacy
UNITE HERE 11 has brought a case to the NLRB, charging the Instawork, the UC system, Marriott, and Aimbridge with violating labor law by blackmailing gig workers into crossing the picket line. The union is also asking the NLRB to punish the companies for failing to protect workers from violent retaliation from the wealthy hotel guests who have punched them and screamed epithets at them. The hotel has refused to identify these thug guests so that the workers they assaulted can swear out complaints against them.
Writing about the strike for Jacobin, Alex N Press tells the story of Thomas Bradley, a Black worker who was struck off all Instawork shifts for refusing to cross the picket line and joining it instead:
https://jacobin.com/2023/07/southern-california-hotel-workers-strike-automated-management-unite-here
Bradley’s case is exhibit A in the UNITE HERE 11 case before the NLRB. He has a degree in culinary arts, but racial discrimination in the industry has kept him stuck in gig and temp jobs ever since he graduated, nearly a quarter century ago. Bradley lived out of his car, but that was repossessed while he slept in a hotel room that UNITE HERE 11 fundraised for him, leaving him homeless and bereft of all his worldly possessions.
With UNITE HERE 11’s help, Bradley’s secured a job at the downtown LA Westin Bonaventure Hotel & Suites, a hotel that has bargained with the workers. Bradley is using his newfound secure position to campaign among other Instawork workers to convince them not to cross picket lines. In these group chats, Jacobin saw workers worrying “that joining the strike would jeopardize their standing on the app.”
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Today (July 30) at 1530h, I’m appearing on a panel at Midsummer Scream in Long Beach, CA, to discuss the wonderful, award-winning “Ghost Post” Haunted Mansion project I worked on for Disney Imagineering.
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If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this thread to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/30/computer-says-scab/#instawork
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[Image ID: An old photo of strikers before a struck factory, with tear-gas plumes rising above them. The image has been modified to add a Marriott sign to the factory, and the menacing red eye of HAL9000 from Stanley Kubrick's '2001: A Space Odyssey' to the sky over the factory. The workers have been colorized to a yellow-green shade and the factory has been colorized to a sepia tone.]
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Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg
CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en
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vivalabunbun · 1 year
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Midnight Piano Interlude in D Minor, Op. 1
Summary: Growing pains don’t go away the moment you reach adulthood, instead it goes by a different name: Regret. 
Word Count: 17.9k ( I have a problem, no I cannot fix it)
Tags: Alhaitham x Fem!Reader, Pianist!Reader, Aspiring musician!Reader, Slow burn, Slow fic (look at the word count), Heavy Angst, Smut(r18+), NSFW, MDNI, Modern AU, Childhood Friends AU, Childhood friends to lovers, friends with benefits to lovers, a lot of memories from the past, Fluff, Second chance romance, TW: Character death (Alhaitham’s grandma), TW: Themes about regret and low self-confidence, Heavy adult themes, gifted kid burn-out, toxic family, unhappy childhood, unhealthy relationship dynamics, unhealthy coping mechanisms, Service top! Alhaitham, mutual pining? kinda, unrequited love? sorta, slightly obsessive!Alhaitham, Soft!Alhaitham, Alhaitham is not faultless his current views have been formed through trial and painful error. 
Authors Note: This is very experimental. I almost didn’t want to post it, but I just believe even the most stoic person isn’t without their past mistakes and regrets. Alhaitham doesn’t understand most forms of art... but he does value music. Enjoy. 
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There was something off about this stanza, but you just couldn’t put your finger on it. A cup of now room-temperature coffee was on your dining table, next to the sheets of music you were currently editing. Tapping the end of the pencil on your lip as you shut your eyelids. You played the notes on the paper in your head. 
It was an early Saturday afternoon, so you still had plenty of time before you had to go to your gig. It was a ritual on Saturdays that you would edit and write your compositions. A peaceful way to transition out of your lowly officer worker identity, and into the pianist you were. The thought of spreadsheets would be slowly replaced by lines of musical notes. 
At this moment there were no emails to be answered. No shallow dry small talk from nosy cubical neighbors. No long meetings in uncomfortable chairs about irrelevant projects.
Just the low hum of your refrigerator accompanying your experimental melodies. It was your time to embrace your aspirations that were contained to only two days every week, but it was worth all forty-eight hours.  
The fingers on your free hand tapped against the chipped lacquer table, envisioning the keys of your keyboard currently stationed in the crowded living room. Your fingers stilled as your eyes fluttered open. You found the error, crossing out the D major scale and changing it to D minor instead. Yes, D minor fits the somber tone of this piece much better. 
Excitement bubbled up inside you, that small tweak had finally solved that bothersome feeling that had been vexing you the whole week. Oh, you felt it, you were in the zone now, inspiration and motivation were just flowing undisrupted through you. Quickly gathering up the sheet music, you sauntered to your keyboard, sitting down on the cheap pull-out bench. 
There was no reason to worry about a noise complaint when it was in the middle of the day, but to follow social etiquette you made sure to lower the volume on the keyboard to just barely above mute. It was time to put everything together, you put your hands into position eager to press down on the smooth keys to finally hear the composition you had worked so hard on-
“Be careful with that! My unfinished models are in that box! Don’t just slam it down!” A voice boomed from the hall outside your door. 
The sudden disturbance cut off the flow within you, fingers hovering over the keys. Of course, asking for peace and quiet in this dust heap apartment complex was a luxury the residents couldn’t afford. You inhaled deeply as you straighten your back.
It’s fine, it sounds as if a new neighbor is just moving in. You were used to this, just continue forward. 
“Oi! Could you not just dump everything into the entranceway? How am I supposed to get through?!” You could hear the shuffling of boxes. 
“Most people would be grateful for the help. Especially, when the help-seeker is someone who has yet to pay five months' worth of rent.” A box was dropped onto the floor.
“I just told you to be careful! It’s fragile! And I was busy saving up to move, I’m sure me moving out is well worth the rent money.” 
“Brilliant rebuttal. Is this the same explanation you give the bank when they call inquiring about your debt, Kaveh?” 
“And this is why I cannot stand people like you!-”
Your fingers were pressing down with force on the keys, yet you couldn’t hear any melody over the theatrical bickering taking place in the hall. The inside of your cheek is currently being abused by the grating of your teeth. It appears that social etiquette is dead, killed by narrow-minded individual interests. 
The two voices continued to bounce off the wall, more accurately it was mostly one thunderous voice followed by a deep tone dripping with sarcasm. Your ears weren’t even processing the words being thrown around, their focus all on the impending tinnitus developing. 
You needed to bring a stop to this now, lest it develops into a regular performance. Your thighs pushed back the flimsy seat, lips deep in a frown. The flow was ruined. 
Unlocking the deadbolt that detained the door, you looked straight ahead as the rusting hinges sang their chaos, ready to bring a stop to this public disturbance. 
“Can you please keep your voices d-” Your sentence died at the tip of your tongue.
The sight in front of you stopped you dead between your doorway. The blond-haired man’s head snapped towards you, eyes slightly apologetic. However, his face wasn’t what you had set your sights on, no, it was the familiar face of the ashen-haired man. A face you haven’t seen for seven years, Alhaitham.
Those same disinterested teal eyes shifted their focus onto you, and it paralyzed every muscle.
The silence was deafening now, not a single inch was budged by anyone. Like a frozen snapshot in time. His gaze was heavy, it was suffocating so your eyes switched over to meet with rudy irises instead.
The blond man’s attention flickered back and forth between the two of you, taking note of how his companion’s eyes never left your frame. His lips pressed into an awkward line as his head slowly turned towards the boxes behind him, finally reading the room. 
“I’m going to start tidying up.” The blond didn’t perceive the desperation sent his way by you as his figure disappeared behind a closed door.    
Now it was just you and Alhaitham. Finally reunited after seven long years apart in a decrepit hallway. The gurgling of the aging pipes and shuffling of feet from floors above  accompanied the scene. Your body was still frozen in the midst of emerging from your apartment, and his tall figure was still stationed right across the narrow hall. 
What were the last words you said to him that day many years ago again?
“I hate you, Alhaitham. I hate you for ruining my life.” 
A hand hidden behind your back clenched into a fist as you recalled that embarrassing memory. Sharp words directed toward a younger version of the man in front of you. Words birthed from irrationality and wounded pride.
Now your brain had once again latched on to this core memory, you were certainly going to be kicking your blankets tonight. What a mortifying souvenir of the past. 
The past anger and frustrations were all but lingering smoke in your hair, your heart couldn’t recall the heat of how they burned the bridge down. They say time heals, and it's true.
The years apart had gradually soothed over the tender wounds on your ego. With the pain subsided your brain was clear enough to review the moments that lead to that outburst, and it made you die internally. 
Should you just apologize right now? To alleviate the creeping guilt traveling up your shoulder, and so your poor blanket won’t be kicked as hard tonight. Can a small apology really travel across the full length of the seven-year-wide rift that had formed? Your lips stayed firmly shut, there was your answer. 
Alhaitham took a step towards you, instinctively your body shuffled three more steps away, widening the berth between your bodies. His movement paused, teal eyes peering down at you as you looked at the space behind his head. No words were said. 
This awkward scene was very reminiscent of your introduction to the ashen-haired man many years ago. 
Your parents, esteemed researchers working for a renowned corporation, had moved into a new neighborhood. The house was much larger than your old home, large enough to house a grand piano in the living room. 
“It’s about time you start learning the piano.” Were the orders your parents had given you, sitting your six-year-old self at the intimidating instrument. 
On the same day you were introduced to your new duty, you were also introduced to the neighbor’s kid. The only other kid on the block filled with prominent academic figures from the nation’s top university. A grey-haired boy was standing by the side of the older lady, while you clung to your father’s slacks. The boy’s bored teal-eyed stare made you advert your eyes to your pretty shoes. 
“This is Alhaitham, he is the same age as you. Say hello.” The stern hands of your father broke your grasp on his slacks and pushed you towards the boy named ‘Alhaitham’. 
“Alhaitham, won’t you greet our new neighbor?” The older woman’s wrinkled but kind eyes motioned to your nervous frame. 
“Hello.” Greeted a flat voice. 
Your tiny hand found its way back to your father’s slacks, grip wrinkling it even more. You were physically unable to utter a single noise. After what felt like an eternity of staring at your shiny sneakers, your father’s hand tug you away. The adults were now having a small conversation, mostly your parents apologizing for your shyness and the older professor laughing the matter off. 
“There is no need to apologize, children are fickle sometimes. But I hope that she and Alhaitham will get along. You are always welcome to visit, little one.” Her eyes peered at your restless form. You liked her eyes, they were warm.
That night you sat through a long lecture from your parents about your rudeness toward the grandma. All you could do was bow your head, back perfectly straight on the plush new sofa. You were sent to bed with no dinner that night, told to think about how your actions would reflect upon your parents. 
The invasive memory triggered by this sudden reunion left a bitter taste on your tongue. The taste that you’ve purposefully been fleeing from all these years. Now with his presence so burdensome, it was dragging your thoughts down deeper. You needed to put a stop to this before your head disappears under the water. 
So just like all those years ago, you disappeared from teal eyes. Not uttering a single greeting as the resounding click of your door was heard. 
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Exiting the automated glass doors, you could finally relax your shoulders. The sun was hanging in the sky this Wednesday evening, you were grateful that you were actually able to clock off work on time.
Your eyes scanned the unfamiliar buildings that decorated the landscape, all large and reaching towards the sky, light bouncing off polished windows. You were free to explore. 
Your job required you to attend a meeting about some closing of a deal between the two companies. Thus, the reason why you were currently in the midst of the upscale business district of Sumeru City. Opposing the rundown sector you called home, the sidewalks here were leveled and free of fissures. Many of the trendy shops that lined the streets beckoned you closer to their displays. 
With one glance over the price tags attached to the chic items your body instantly turned away. Of course, the prices in the yuppie part of the city would be out of your budget. 
Walking further down the road, you let yourself enjoy the warm breeze of Sumeru against your stuffy blouse and pencil skirt. Your skin has finally thawed out after being in that overly air-conditioned conference room. Turning onto a quieter side street you walked past the tantalizing smells wafting from the small cafes. 
The gig from last Saturday compensated you quite handsomely. Perhaps you could splurge a little, a reward for yourself securing a returning performance later this month. 
One particular cafe caught your interest, it was a combination of a bookstore and a coffee shop. The blackboard sign placed outside listed the daily specialties, and for once the prices of the drinks weren’t outrageous.
A small bell chimed above your head, welcoming you inside. After placing your order, you decided to peruse through the selection of novels the shop had on display. 
Most of the titles were of the new best sellers or latest academic papers. Your fingers brushed across the smooth covers, observing the different arts and fonts. It seems that you’ve wonder quite a bit down the rows, somehow ending up in a section filled with the simple cover illustrations of children’s books. You were far too old to enjoy such books now. 
Just as you turned on your heel to head back up the aisle, a brilliant verdant cover catches your eye. ‘Oh, so it’s still in print’, you thought. The Giving Tree, the title of the first book you ever learned to read. 
“Alhaitham is the same age as you, yet he’s reading scientific journals. You should learn from him.” Your mother’s eyes examined your round eyes looking back up at hers. 
Your small frame deflated even smaller, the bright aura that had been radiating off of you dissipated like morning dew under the harsh sun.
Just earlier you had your first piano lesson, the piano teacher was so excited to tell your parents how much potential you had, and how filled with talent you were. Their words made you perk up on the bench, the instrument no longer felt as frightening. 
The praise had left you in a good mood, so much so that you agreed to accompany your mother to the neighbor’s house. A book clutched in the hand that wasn’t held in your mother’s clammy grasp. You weren’t sure if you were in a good mood anymore.
The kind grandma led you to a small library where her grandson was, Alhaitham was curled up on the rug with a thick journal in his small hands. The thin children’s book in your hand paled in comparison. 
“Now, now. Alhaitham is just very passionate about reading. Your daughter is at the normal age where children begin reading, perhaps she’ll also gain a fondness if they read together. I think they’ll have fun together.” The kind woman gestured for you into the room. 
Your mother releases your hand, a cold look ushered you toward the empty spot next to the boy. Settling down on the other side of the rug, you glanced up quickly. She seemed satisfied. 
The grandma soon led your mother to another part of the house, continuing their conversation. You turned toward the boy next to you, he was too focused on the text in front of him to bother greeting you. 
Spirits a bit dejected, you opened the cover to your own thin book. It was your father that placed the book in your hands, telling you to start reading. As your eyes glossed over the figures that took up only a fraction of the page, you came across the obvious hurdle.
You don’t know how to read. No one had ever sat you on their lap and gone through this book with you, or any book really. 
The illustrations and script on the page taunted you, calling you to decypher their meanings and symbols. The pages were quickly flipped through until you hit the back cover, then flipped through once more until you were back to the front.
A foolish attempt for a miracle, that if you flipped through the book fast enough, somehow those scribbles on the pages will make sense. 
“Are you even reading?” Spoke a slightly irritated voice.
Oh, your loud turning must have distracted the boy from his reading. The flipping stopped, as you glanced at him seeing the disinterested eyes staring back, you looked away. The embarrassment this time compelled your mouth to speak. 
“N-no… I don’t know how…” Cheeks burned from shame, you could already feel that familiar sting in your eyes. Oh no, if you cried then mom might frown again. 
A sigh resounded beside you, Alhaitham shifted his body out of his comfortable position against his pillow. Oh no, is he getting up to tell mom about the dark secret you just spilled to him? You didn’t get him to promise he won’t tell, will he get you in trouble? 
“Give it here.” An expecting hand reached out, palms open. 
You blinked at the hand slowly, did he want the book in exchange for not telling? Obediently, you placed the small book into his hold. His teal eyes glance over the title quickly, before he lays the book open in the space between your two bodies. Your head tilted in confusion at his actions. But as soon as his tranquil voice read the word out loud, that confusion stopped. 
“Mmm… I don’t like the boy.” You crossed your arms in front of your small body, round cheeks pushed out in a pout.
Alhaitham just finished reading the story to you, he ran his small finger along with each word he spoke so you could follow along as well. His eyes connected with yours inquisitively, waiting for you to continue. 
“The nice tree gave him so much, and he never said ‘thank you’. And he left the tree alone for so long, the tree must have been so sad. He’s mean, a big meanie and… and…”
“Ungrateful.” Alhaitham finished your sentence. 
“Un-un..grateful?” You titled your head again, the unfamiliar word felt weird on your tongue. 
“Ungrateful. U-n-g-r-a-t-e-f-u-l. It means having no feelings of thanks, you can also say he’s selfish.” The boy answered your question before you could even ask it. 
You pressed a finger against your lips, turning the newly learned vocabulary in your head. Yeah, those words fit the boy in the story very well. Ungrateful and selfish. You looked back at the boy sitting next to you, a smile stretched your chubby cheeks. The grandma was right, reading with him was fun. 
“You’re really smart.” You beamed at him. 
“That means nothing to me.” He huffed, turning his face away. 
You could spy with your little eyes the red tint on the tips of his ears that peeked out from his ash-colored hair. 
“Hehe, and you’re funny too.” For the first time in a while, you giggled.
What a bittersweet memory, like the fragrance of the different brews traveling throughout the small shop. Yet, the nostalgia brought a small curl to your lips. You turned away from the book, only to flinch at what your eyes saw next. 
The boy from your memories is now a man standing adjacently. You must’ve been too lost in thought to notice his towering stature. 
After that tense reunion in the hallway, thankfully Alhaitham didn’t decide to knock on your door. Not that you would’ve answered anyways. He probably had already predicted your actions, and thus saved himself the time. 
He was dressed in a suit and but the tie was loose around his neck, he must’ve just gotten off of work. The path back to the coffee bar was just slightly blocked by his wide frame, you had to get past him. 
Teal-orange eyes converged with your stare, ah it’s too late to try and sneak past now. Alhaitham acknowledges your presence with a slight nod of his head, expression blank and unreadable. Once again you didn’t say a single greeting.
As if a merciful archon had been watching this pathetic interaction, an opportunity for escape was granted in the form of the barista calling out your name. 
“Excuse me.” Was all you could muster, hastily striding past him, body pressed against the selves so as to not brush against him. 
Before you the bell at the front chimed again to signal your departure, you made sure to leave some extra mora, more than the necessary amount. Done in silent gratitude towards the unsung hero of a barista. 
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It was now the last Saturday of the month, meaning it was time for your return performance. In your bathroom mirror, you smoothed out any stray hairs, straightening out your black performance garb.
A sacred ritual to slow the beating of your jumping heart. It’s a bit silly to admit, but no matter how many times you’ve performed, your nerves always went haywire. A terrible habit that made its way to adulthood. 
The tavern you were performing at was quite a popular joint among the locals of Sumeru City. The nice wooden and homey interior gave many city dwellers their taste of nature in a progressing world. A grand piano was tucked away in a clear corner of the establishment, a ring of tables enclosed the area into a stage of sorts. 
Pushing through the intricately carved doors, you entered Lambad’s Tavern eyes surveying the audience for this Saturday night. There were some tables still empty, awaiting the future stream of guests. Chatter quietly reverberated through the serene scene for now.
The atmosphere can get a bit rowdy as more and more alcohol ran through the systems of patrons. In a way, it was perfect for you, a perfect stepping stone in your slow climb. 
Checking in with the manager at the front, you got the thumbs up to start setting up for your show. An agreement had been reached earlier this month that you would be playing the piano for three hours, three hours of having the privilege to play on a grand piano again. Not on the electronic imitation of your keyboard. Eager hands glided their soft touch along the smooth keys. 
Yes, nothing can truly capture the beauty of the grand piano’s voice, not even the CDs you set up on a table nearby. Recordings with a mixed tracklist of classical pieces and original compositions, just like your setlist for tonight. 
Lifting up the fallboard, you set the sheets against the music stand. Not that you needed them. Every note, every rest, and every change in tempo memorized in your fingers. Taking a deep breath, your eyes did one final scan around the room. Most tables were too emersed in their own conversations to take note of you. 
Rubbing your fingers together to grind out the tremble of your nerves before you shut your eyes. In the darkness quiet darkness of your mind, your fingers moved into their positions over the keys. Erik Satie’s Je te veux resonated with the muddled conversations of the audience, adding to the serene air. 
You’ve always closed your eyes when performing, a trait that has embedded itself from the start of your music career. The darkness of your mind offered a reprieve from the critical eyes of judges and parents during recitals and competitions.
You first stepped into this safe haven around the time of your first recital at the age of eight. 
It’s been a few months since you first began your piano lessons, and your teacher was eager to announce your first recital. They had a sparkle in their eyes, keen to show off their most talented disciple. 
They had discovered an unpolished diamond among the mediocre ruff, a young naturally blessed child. Your lips were kept sealed about the long hours your parents forced you to sit in front of the piano after each weekly lesson. 
Before you only ever played under the watchful gaze of either your parents or teacher, not an audience of strangers. To say you were nervous would be an understatement, you were terrified. 
“I can’t do it.” You retracted your hands from the piano once again, as if the keys were scorching you. 
“You said you wanted to play the piano for me.” The young boy beside you huffed out, annoyed at your actions. You had repeated these steps five times now. 
“I know! But I’m… scared…” Your posture deflated. 
“If you can’t play in front of one person, how can you play for a crowd?” Alhaitham’s disinterested eyes crept back to the book he had placed beside him, you had dragged him away from his reading for this. 
“I don’t know…” A frown pulled at your face, eyes feeling the incoming burn. You didn’t want to cry in front of him. 
There was a tense moment of nothingness between the two of you. The boy quietly observed the paper propped up against the music stand. 
“Do you know how to play this piece?” His flat voice broke the suspense. 
“Yes I do! I’ve been practicing this every day, I can even do it with my eyes closed.” You huffed in disbelief at his accusation. 
“Then do that. Just play with your eyes closed.” He retorted as if it was the most obvious statement in the world. 
Which in truth, it was the most obvious statement in the world. You’ve been practicing Vom fremden Ländern und Menschen from Kinderszenen since the beginning of the month every day for six hours a day. The rhythm and keys were ingrained into your fingers by the second week. 
The solution was so plain and simple, why didn’t you think of it? Your parents were right, you are always a few steps behind the brilliant boy. 
An embarrassed flush covered your round cheeks. Suddenly his stare was heavy, heavier than the ones from your parents and teacher. The muscles in your finger felt tense. Your young mind could tell that if this continued then the tune embedded in your hands wouldn’t come out at all. 
“Can you not look?” A quiet plead. 
“I thought you wanted me to watch.” A grey brow was raised. 
“I know… But…” Around him, you couldn’t seem to finish your sentences. 
“Fine.” Deciding that prying further would be a wasted effort, Alhaitham turned his short body around on the bench so that his back faced the piano instead. Cracking open his thick book back to the page he had left off on. 
“I don’t need to look at you to hear you play anyways.” The young boy’s eyes returned back to their place among the text. 
Sitting back up straight again, shoulder back and hands into position. You took a deep breath and entered the darkness behind your eyelids. This time your fingers guided you through the moment, and the piano sang out its melodies. 
Coincidentally, Vom fremden Ländern und Menschen from Kinderszenen just so happened to be ending right now as the memory finished its course. You had transitioned into the piece some time ago, finishing five out of the many on your three-hour setlist. It was right about time for a small break. 
As your eyelids lifted a few soft claps reached your ears, from the growing chatter it seems that more customers had funneled into the tavern. 
The manager of the tavern was a very generous man, so much so that he offers you a complimentary drink you could claim during each of your breaks. You would be a fool to turn down such an offer, but you reminded yourself that you need to maintain a certain level of sobriety. For the sake of your performance. 
The sweet wine felt divine running down your parched throat. The alcohol did wonders in mellowing out your racing thoughts as you returned back to your place at the piano. Just like before, you did a small survey of your surroundings. Big mistake, for your mind kicked into overdrive when locking gazes with teal eyes.  
‘Speak of the devil, and he doth appear’. 
A superstition you should really be more mindful of. Shifting your body towards the piano, you ended the impromptu staring contest. Ah, what song were you supposed to play now? Thoughts scrambled as you can still feel the heaviness of Alhaitham’s gaze on your back. ‘Just play’ you internally scolded.
Letting your fingers take over the piano, retreating back into the comforting blackness. 
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“Who was that?” Kaveh creaked open the door to his new apartment, inquiring his now former roommate about the scene that unraveled moments before. 
Alhaitham observed the heavy metal frame that closed you off from him once more. This was certainly an unexpected surprise. It’s been seven years since he last hear your voice. Seven years since you marched forth on a path carved by your own grit and resoluteness. 
Many things have changed these seven years.
Who are you?
Eyes still following the cracks of the paint running up your door, the ashen-haired man’s mind recounted a scene from long ago. 
It’s been a few months since you first moved into this neighborhood, taking Alhaitham’s title of ‘only kid on the block’ away. During your first introduction, you wouldn’t even greet him constantly tugging on your father’s pant leg and staring at your feet. 
Now you wouldn’t stop greeting him. After lunch, almost like clockwork, there would be a knock at his front door. Disrupting his precious reading time. You’d be there on the other side with a new book for him to read to you, or you’d bounce on the heels of your feet inviting him to hear your piano. 
Today, it was the latter. Alhaitham had his back facing the piano, the position that made you the most comfortable. A book was open in his lap, but his mind was busy pondering a mystery to pay attention to it or to the tune you were playing. Grandma said it wasn’t good to hold in questions, lest they consume the curious mind. Best to get answers from the source of the mystery. 
“Why do you seek me out?” His flat voice interfered with the sharp notes.
“Huh?” You turned to him perplexed, fingers now hovering over the keys.
“Are we friends?” He asked directly, it’s good to be straightforward. 
“Of course we’re friends! Even if you’re a bookworm, you’re still a precious friend of mine.” Chest puffed up at your bold declaration. 
“If I am a bookworm, it’s only appropriate to call you an earworm.”
“E-earworm? There are worms that live in the ear??” 
“No, it’s just a figure of speech. Earworm refers to a tone or melody that repeats constantly in the mind.” 
“Ooh. Earworm…” You pondered the term for a bit before another splitting smile spread across your face. 
“Yes! You’re a bookworm and I’m an earworm.” A finger was directed at him then back at yourself, giggling. 
Strangely, the young boy felt a tickle at the back of his throat, as if your laughter was contagious like a cold. He decided to hold it back in favor of observing your expression for a bit longer. 
“Oh!” You jumped up from the bench, reaching into the shiny pencil case you kept close to the piano. 
Pulling out a bold black marker you uncapped the tool before climbing onto the bench, the extra height allowing you to maneuver the top half of your body into the body of the piano. 
Now it was his turn to be bewildered, quickly snapping his eyes towards the entrance of the living room, watching out for signs of your parents. Soon you reemerged from the instrument, capping the marker with a proud look in your eyes. 
“There, now there’s solid proof of our friendship.”  
Alhaitham peers into the piano, observing the words clumsily written along the wooden shell:
Property of Bookworm and Earworm
“Why am I before you? It’s your piano isn’t it?” 
“Well ‘B’ comes before ‘E’.” You puffed out your cheek at his lackluster response to your heartfelt gesture. 
For the first time ever in front of you, Alhaitham let an obvious smile appear on his face. 
What a bittersweet term. Friends. Yes, the two of you were once friends long ago. Close friends who morphed into strangers. The catalyst for this change? With each new stage of life, branching paths will appear, the parting of ways is just a natural phenomenon. 
He is Alhaitham and you are you. Separate individuals with separate lives on separate paths. 
“Just someone I used to know.” Came his candid answer. 
“Right.” Kaveh rolled his eyes, clearly displeased at how the ashen-haired man won’t give his question an actual response. 
Alhaitham removed his eyes from your door, picking the cardboard box back off the tiled hallway. Kaveh didn’t need to know the specifics, the precious details shall forever make their home in a safe corner of his mind. 
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Alhaitham exited the ornate doors of the office building. Currently, it was the closing quarter, meaning the office has been more bothersome than usual. Even with his perfected front of acting busy, more and more troublesome characters have been strolling into his office. It’s irrelevant now, for the secretary is now off the clock. 
The sun was still in the sky, perfect weather to grab a bit to eat from a local coffee shop. It’s been a week since he last picked up a new book as well, there was one place that came to mind that would allow the man to kill two birds with one stone. Long legs walked with swift strides towards his destination. 
Even will his earphones in, Alhaitham could still hear the hustle and bustle of the crowded streets. In Sumeru City this was expected, construction, traffic, and pedestrians, everything thing muddled together in noisy inference with his thoughts. He turns up the volume. 
Opening the door to the cafe, the bell sounded his arrival. The usual barista was there at the counter. With a quick glance up the barista instinctively placed his order, a testament to just how often the ashen-haired man frequents this place. Good, this saves him the trouble. 
Without pausing his music, Alhaitham began pursuing the nonfiction section of the small shop. There were a few new scientific journals that have been published, maybe he’ll give them a read. 
Although his ears were currently occupied, that doesn’t mean his other senses were dulled. He could feel the weight of someone’s gaze upon his back. Usually, the man would simply brush such occurrences off. But there was this small nag coming from a corner of his mind. This could be a result of a brain being bored by a day’s worth of paperwork. He’ll indulge his curiosity. 
Returning the weight of the gaze back to the mysterious source he felt his jaw clench just a bit. There you were again, staring at him with your lips pressed together tensely. Your wide eyes were very reminiscent of a spooked songbird. Everything about your body language read startled and for flight. 
This time, Alhaitham doesn’t encroach, he simply nodded his head in a small greeting. It seems even this small action sparked you to flee. You mouthed something before quickly strolling past him. 
Shamelessly, his teal eyes followed your path as you paid for your coffee and disappeared out of sight from the shop windows. Yes, his statement that these seven years have brought about much change was correct. It wasn’t like this before.
“Alhaitham, why are you reading here?” His grandma inquired about the reason behind her grandson situating himself at the window nook instead of inside the library. 
“I just wanted to enjoy the sunlight.” Came his crafted response. 
From this small nook, the window gave a clear view of the front steps and the path that led to the house just across the street. The older woman took note of this, kind eyes giving the young boy a knowing look and smile. You had begun attending the local school.
Meanwhile, Alhaitham adamantly wanted to stay home and self-study instead. Stating that all the material the school covered he already knew. The old lady didn’t raise any objections to her grandson’s decision. 
“If you go over to her house remember to be polite, and inform me before you do.” A wrinkled hand tussled through his soft ashen locks. 
“There’s no need. I’m just sitting here to read.” He leaned into his grandma’s touch. 
“Of course, of course. Then I shall make use of this afternoon to review some material. Remember what I said.” 
“Yes, grandma.” Came his reply. 
With that, Alhaitham was left to his own thoughts by the window. He didn’t really know why he felt the pull to sit by the window. Was it to get a glimpse of you? The neighbor’s daughter? 
You and he were the only two kids on the block, so it wasn’t surprising you would often seek out his company. A friendship formed by virtue of close proximity. However, now you were attending classes filled with other kids your age. His company would sooner or later fade into obscurity. 
Alhaitham has always been very attuned to the situation around him, displaying a level of maturity and insight way beyond his years. Perhaps he still retains some semblance of that childish essence. Demonstrated by his current position, the book in his lap only held half of his attention, the other wondering out the clear glass. 
What is he hoping for realistically? Others can provide you much livelier company than he ever could, and yet he still-
The boy puts down the book, short legs pattering across the wooden floor swiftly carrying his body to the door. Small hands turned the cold brass before he channeled all his strength into prying the wooden mass from the frame.
Revealing your bewildered face, hand frozen in its position ready to knock on the now open door. Once your eyes met, it wasn’t long before a smile replaced your expression. 
“Hi, Haitham! Wanna hear me play today?” 
Yes, that was how things used to be. Even as your social circle grew, even as new families moved in, you’d still appear back in front of him. Beaming that smile he lost the privilege to see. Like a songbird that returned every day to sing in front of his window as the solitary child read.
 Alhaitham’s eyes found themselves locked once more on a door, the one you had rushed out of not so long ago. There was a weight pulling down on the corners of his mouth. He entered Sumeru’s education system during high school. Missing the crucial formative years previously where cliques and social labels were formed, he stood alone as a loner. 
But You always rushed towards him through crowded halls and rooms. Breaking away amidst your social circle from orchestra and band. Just to tap him on the shoulder and eat lunch together in the sanctuary of a private practice room that housed the school’s piano.
These repetitive memories plaguing him brought a bitter taste to his coffee. Perhaps it was the dreadful combination of sweet memory and awareness of the current state of affairs. 
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Finally, the end of the month has come. Meaning things at work have sorted themselves out, at least for another three months. In lieu of attending an actual company-sponsored dinner, Alhaitham decides to get a drink at the local tavern.
Company dinners were noisy, filled with black ties and white lies. Too troublesome. However, recently his mind has been filling the silence of his house with redundant thoughts. 
A drink from time to time is a good way to destress and quell the mind, Alhaitham reasons as he enters the establishment. Lambad’s Tavern was a local joint that provides a small solace from the rambunctious city streets. A place the man likes to visit on occasion, usually when an invitation was extended. 
From the moment he entered through the doors, he could hear a piano ending its cords. It seems that there was live music tonight. Usually, it was nice to have background music accompany the chatter of the other patrons. But why a piano of all choices tonight? Alhaitham takes a deep breath before letting out a small sigh, it’s as if a ghost of the past is haunting him. 
Placing an order for a bottle of wine to be delivered to a secluded area, Alhaitham makes his way to the usual table. His body maneuvered through the sea of flushed face patrons, and the sight of the grand piano came into view.
The bench by the instrument was empty, perhaps his mind really is just conjuring up a ghost. Regardless, once the wine comes these thoughts will settle. 
“Your wine.” The alcohol was set down. 
“Thank you.” Alhaitham swirls the glass a bit before taking a sip. 
 His bored eyes began to wander once more, looking for anything to bide the time with, unsurprisingly they were beckoned towards the piano. Only this, time it was no longer empty. No, this time it was no ghost invented by a bored mind, it was you. He stiffly swallowed down the wine. 
He wasn’t subtle nor careful with how obviously he was staring, thinking too occupied by astonishment. This must have tipped you off, as once again your wide-eyed gaze connected with his heavy one. You made that tense face again. You broke away, tightly shutting your eyes before your fingers hit the keys, making the piano sing. 
‘Oh, so you still closed your eyes when you played’. Alhaitham found a strange satisfaction in this fact as if he found comfort in the one constant he still knew about you. Arms and fingers moved fluidly, a sight he used to not be able to see out of respect for you. 
Your parents were busy with their research, and his grandmother had her hands full with academic responsibilities. It was only Alhaitham who had the time, a resource only abundant in youth, to attend your recitals and concerts.
As the crowd and the judges bored holes into your figure up on stage, the young man kept his eyes peeled on the book in front of him. 
The young man didn’t mind attending these events, the audience was mostly silent save for the occasional applause. After so many years and lunches spent by your side at the piano, his ears have gotten used to the melodic accompaniment to his reading.
The final chords of your performance reverberated throughout the air, followed by the rolling clapping of hands.
He lifted his attention up to the stage. Although it’s ironic how the only time you wanted him to watch your performance was at the end, he’ll respect your wishes. From the brightly lit stage, you were finishing your bow, and as your head rises your eyes connected with his. A beaming smile was directed at him.
Was it you or the stage lights that stung his eyes? 
“How’d you think I did, Haitham?” Was the first thing out of your lips after rejoining him. 
The concert hall had emptied out some time ago, and Alhaitham had been waiting by the backstage door to walk home with you. You held a thick folder against the front of your formal black gown, a bounce in your ballet flat steps. Alhaitham pretended to contemplate his answer. 
“I’m not well versed in acoustics nor how to judge music, so I don’t see how my opinion would matter.”  Came his flat reply.  
“Haitham, you listened to me play for years. How have you not learned a thing?” You pouted, just like how he predicted. 
The young man gave you a simple shrug. Of course, he found your performance exceptional, he was there for the hours of practice you put in. 
“Whatever, now that it’s over. I can start looking at the piece the conductor wanted me to accompany for the school’s orchestra. Ahh, I only have three weeks to practice.” You made a face as you dug through the thick folder as the two of you continued to walk. 
He only hummed in response, shifting his focus back to his book. It was the sweet Sumeru Spring of your third year of high school, the perfect for a serene walk home.
Over the top of the pages, his teal eyes could see your lips press into a crooked line, desperately trying to suppress your snickers as you sightread the notes on the sheet. 
“Is that a piece by Debussy?” 
“Huh? How’d ya know, Haitham?” 
You were easy to read. After knowing you for over a decade now, you were like an open book to him. The journal hides his small smile from your sight. 
The memory reminded him to advert his eyes, focusing back on the glass of wine in front of him. He came here for a drink, he should follow through with his plan. The wine quickly vanished as Alhaitham signed for another. It took an impressive amount of willpower for his eyes to not wander back, he won’t let them. 
Your small performance had come to an end, sounded by the closing of the fallboard and how the bench dragged against the floor. He knew you were bowing to show thanks to the audience, yet he still refused to look. From your earlier actions, it was blatant that you despised his presence.
So even as your figure passed by his table, Alhaitham refused to allow you into his line of sight.
It’s been an hour since you left the establishment in a rush, and Alhaitham had run up quite the tab now, best to call it a night. Tossing some mora onto the table, the ashen-haired man stands up ready to begin the taxis ride back. 
The effects of the alcohol must have made his eyes wander back to the piano, a fruitless attempt to watch one last glimpse. And a glimpse they found, in the form of a CD you had carelessly left behind. 
You had abandoned it, thus it was now free for the taking.
It was unlike the stoic man to order rounds after rounds of wine, but he needed something to busy himself with. Just as how you were busy with the piano, he needed the alcohol to quell undesirable impulses. However, as his unsteady steps made it up the front porch, he was chastising himself for that decision. A hangover was guaranteed in the morning.
Roughly slamming the door shut behind him, Alhaitham entered the asylum of his home. The newfound stillness of the house was usually a luxury the ashen-haired man indulged in. However, at the moment it was a tribulation, for his noisy thoughts filled the silence. Its volume only exacerbated by the alcohol in his system. 
When he was younger, Alhaitham naively thought the knowledge gained from academic journals was equivalent to experience. After all, he had just read about another person’s experiences, he could pinpoint their flaws and learn from their mistakes so as to not repeat them. 
Just like the knowledge obtained from his books, he assumed that you too shall always remain in his possession, you shall always stay by his side. Of course, only a naive teenager, no, only a naive child would think this way. 
Did you know that the downfall of many great kings, heroes, and gods was their hubris? Excess self-confidence blinds their vision. Excess confidence only a naive child would have, believing he could analyze everything. 
Oh, how life works in mysterious ways, finding lessons to humble such egos. Alhaitham, against his will, reminisces about the event that taught him a valuable lesson in the noisy silence of his house. 
“Haitham, I can’t believe they did it.” You were curled up on the couch of his grandmother’s home, tears streaming down your face. 
“They sold my piano, Haitham. They sold it because they wanted me to get over this ‘hobby’. Hypocrites, as if they weren’t the ones who forced me to practice hours a day since I was a kid.” 
Alhaitham said nothing, silently holding the tissue box out to you. The pair of you had just returned from school just a few hours earlier, bidding goodbye before returning to your respective houses. However, just an hour ago his quiet reading was disrupted by frantic pounding on the front door. He had opened it to your tear-stained face. 
“How could they instill in me a passion for all my life, but when I want to continue with it as a career, they do their damnedest to snuff it out?” You were furiously wiping your eyes with the back of your hands. 
Oh, so that’s what happened. Alhaitham had already seen this coming, knowing how your parents were, it was predictable. They had valid reasons for not wanting their daughter to pursue such a career path.
You still had stage fright, constantly telling him to not look at you when you played. How would you make a living like this? He analyzed the statistics and figures before he comes to his own conclusion. 
There was no reason that you couldn’t balance a stable career with your passion for piano. In Sumeru, they had one of the most progressive work cultures of all of Teyvat. There were generous amounts of paid time off, sick days, and reasonable hours. You had more than enough time for music.
He decides to share his conclusion with you. 
“Music should stay a hobby. Even graduates from the most prestigious music universities aren’t guaranteed a career. To be frank, it’s better if you pursue a degree that leads to a steadfast position. Of course, be firm in your boundaries so that you can have the time for piano.” 
The room fell silent, your wide eyes stared into his calm teal ones. A heavy hush hung in the air as the grandfather clock continued to tick away, until it rang, signaling the change in the air. After the last resonance of its chime faded, you let out a laugh, but there was no joy in your voice. 
“Of course… Why did I think you’d be different? This is why they love you.” Your tone was dry as your shoulders shook, eyes now trained on the floor. 
“Look at Alhaitham, what a level-headed guy he is, you should learn from him. Look at his grades, why can’t you be top of the class? He’s so talented and good at everything, what can you do? Why can’t you be more like Alhaitham?” You spat out his name as if it was poisonous. 
“Comparison is the thief of joy, you shouldn’t-” Alhaitham needed to de-escalate this crescendo.
“If only you were born their son… Then I wouldn’t have suffered.” More tears fell from your eyes as you stumbled off the couch. 
“I hate you, Alhaitham. I hate you for ruining my life.” 
Alhaitham once believed that words, which have no physical form, couldn’t hurt him. The stab in his chest from an unseen force dismissed that notion.
Your burning eyes reconnected with his gaze. He knew that look, he’s seen it many times. Jealousy, anger, and hatred. They were familiar emotions that others cast his way, yet he found himself taken aback. You’ve never looked at him like this before… Have you? 
Before he could utter another word, you stormed off. All the young man could do was watch the back of your figure as it disappeared from sight. 
There was a firm frown now on Alhaitham’s lips and a furrow between his brows. He wanted this horrible play to end, for his brain to stop showing him events that have already passed. It’s always one’s own mind that can show the most cruelty to itself. 
It’s been a month since you’ve last spoken to him. Taking long about ways to school so as to avoid crossing paths with him, your lunches were spent locked in private practice rooms.
Young Alhaitham had a whole month to analyze and reanalyze at which moment everything fell apart. After much deliberation, he concluded that he made a miscalculation. He overstepped his boundaries. 
In the end, it was your life, you should be the one to decide how you will live it. His unsolicited suggestion was wholly unnecessary. He knew an apology was needed.
However, he could read from your actions that you weren’t ready to talk to him just yet. It wouldn’t be wise to approach you, lest you look at him again with those eyes. That’s fine, he can wait until you came to him. Alhaitham bided his time with more books. Was reading without music always this lonely? 
It was the day of your graduation. From within the sea of celebratory gowns and cheering students, teal eyes honed in on your figure. You were intentionally avoiding his gaze, instead going to congratulate and talk to fellow musicians and classmates. His hand balled up into a fist before he unclenched it. It’s fine, you need more time, and he’ll respect that.
It’s the least he could do. Either way, the two of you had the whole Summer to make up before university started. 
Another miscalculation on his part. 
Alhaitham recalls the panicked ringing of his doorbell, but instead of you, the door opened to reveal your parents. You were gone. Your phone was left behind, important documents missing from filing cabinets, and a bag full of belongings gone. You’ve vanished, the only explanation they got was a note: 
“Don’t Bother Me”. 
You’ve already become a legal adult, how could the Matra have any justification to drag you back? 
That whole hellish Sumeru Summer Alhaitham read at the nook located by the front door. For that whole Summer, the young man answered any number that flashed on his screen. He knew that you had limited money, after your pitiful savings dried up you were bound to return. If not to your house, then at least to this haven.
Your voice was never on the other side. 
Laughably, it took the prodigy Alhaitham an entire Summer to finally come to terms with the facts of the matter. The songbird had left its tarnished cage, and it will never return. He started university without you by his side.
Grey lashes fluttered open as the play finally ends. Memories that once looped like a broken record in his mind. With time this memory became a softer hum to his thoughts. An earworm that burrowed deep within so as to remind him of his past shortcomings. 
Yes, his past mistakes made him aware of his limited human vision. That he did in fact not know everything. The series of errors that strayed you away from him. Humans weren’t books, they’re not as easy to decipher as scripts on a page. The growing pains of maturing. A lesson he has learned well.  
Once was an accident, twice is a coincidence, and the third time… a chance. Alhaitham doesn’t believe in gods or fate, but he does believe in opportunity.
Teal eyes made their way to the CD left on top of a polished ivory top. This time, he shall turn around and chase after the ghost, to return to her what was rightfully hers. 
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If these occurrences were bound to happen more often, then it’s best for you to catch up with the seven-year backlog of information. Of course, instead of consulting the primary source for the much-needed answers, you turned to a secondary source instead. You are nothing, if not a coward.
Hence why on this warm Thursday night you were out at the local bar, wallet getting emptied by the blond slumped next to you. 
“Ugh, that man was a tyrant. Leaving books everywhere, letting dust just pile up, and every other sentence had to be a snide remark.” Kaveh finishes another glass, another cry from your wallet. 
You were still nursing your second glass while Kaveh’s got a scarlet glow already. A part of you regrets inviting your hall neighbor out, but you appreciated the wealth of information he spilled out once a drop of liquor hit his tongue. 
Currently, Alhaitham is employed at the top company in Sumeru city. he’s the secretary but quickly raising up the ranks. He also owns his own house in a rich suburb, one he used to share with the drunk man beside you, but now it only houses himself. 
“Not only that but every week like clockwork that apathetic bastard would bring home the ugliest furniture. He once brought home an old piano. It took up so much space and clashed against the dark wood of the house! He wouldn’t even try to arrange them, he messed up the feng shui! He can’t even play! What was it for then?!” 
Ah, you can see why the architect was willing to move into the lackluster apartment, he was desperate the spare his blood pressure. You don’t blame him, in fact hearing about your former friend’s spending habits brought a sour aftertaste to your wine.
Oh, how nice it must be to have such financial freedom. 
“Then whenever I make a polite suggestion that he try to consider aesthetics, his response? ‘It is my life, my house, and my money. Suggestions from others are irrelevant and should be ignored. I’m guessing such philosophies are difficult to uphold for designers who must bend to their client’s will.’ Can you believe how insufferable he is?”  
“Hypocrite.” That word rolled bitterly off your tongue, a past dialogue resurfacing from the back of your mind. 
The blond’s hazy eyes peered at your inquisitively. Then his drunken mind sparks a thought: Why were you asking about Alhaitham? He also remembers that he had unanswered questions as well. 
“By the way, what is your relation to that detached man?”
“Just a nobody who got compared to his brilliance.” 
That doesn’t satisfy his question at all. 
“Not this game again. Seriously, just what went down between the two of-”
“For a person who prides himself on his empathy, you sure are oblivious to the discomfort you’re causing. Prying for details that don’t concern you.” A deep voice from behind made your skin prickle. 
Why was he here?
You didn’t need to look to feel the heavy weight of his teal eyes, boring holes into your stiff frame. The wine tasted awful now. It’s rude to ditch the guest that you had invited out, but you needed to get out of here before bile begins to taint your palette. 
Quickly signaling for the tab, you didn’t even comprehend the number before you slammed down a bunch of mora. 
“I’ll leave first. It was nice drinking with you, Kaveh. Let’s do this again sometime.” An excuse and lie. 
“Hey, wait-” The blond lifted up his hand. 
“I’ll walk you home. It’s quite dangerous this time of night around here.” Alhaitham’s body turned to follow you. Ah, he’s pointing out how shit your neighborhood was, isn’t he. 
“Oi! Stop interrupting your senior-”
Alhaitham tosses an extra handful of mora onto the table. Kaveh was nearly shaking with rage, but he couldn’t resist the temptation of another few glasses of wine.
You were taking exaggerated strides across the uneven concrete, trying to put some distance between you. However, your legs were no match for the towering man’s steps, as it wasn’t before long until he caught up. 
The clicking of your shoes and the thumps of his steps filled the tense silence. You refused to meet his gaze. But the thoughts racing through your mind needed answers, in particular, why is he haunting you now of all times? 
“Why are you here?” You punched in the code for the entrance of the complex. 
“I was looking for you. It just so happens that I spotted you through the window of the bar.” 
There was an annoyed twitch at your eyebrow. He is not aware of how creepy he sounded right now?
You swiftly pulled the heavy door open and tried to slam it behind you, to create a barrier. However, Alhaitham’s foot was just a bit faster. His tall figure continued to loom behind you as you ascended the stairs. 
“I have a reason to seek you.” 
“Oh? Then pray tell, why a young professional would follow a woman to her home.” Keys fumbling to fit into the loose door handle. 
“I took a CD. I’m no thief, and I believe that a musician should be fairly compensated for her work.” Came his flat reply. 
That’s it? You already had a terrible week at work, becoming the scapegoat for the incompetency of managers. Now, his presence was only exacerbating the negativity flowing through you. Maybe the heat of the fire hasn’t been completely forgotten. You don’t want his money, you don’t want his pity. 
For the first time, you whipped around intentionally staring straight into his teal-orange irises. You don’t need his money nor pity. Perhaps it was the alcohol talking, maybe it was the mounting stress on your shoulders or a damning combination of both.
You wanted to wipe that indifferent look off his handsome face, you couldn’t stand it. 
Alhaitham’s lips parted ready to continue the transaction, only to be interrupted by the crashing of another on his. Your fingers were tangled in the collar of his shirt, wrinkling the crisp fabric. Your burning stare never left his slightly raised eyes, wanting to observe anything hint of human emotion. 
Shock? Disgust? Fury? You’d take anything over his infuriatingly stoic face. 
Instead of shoving you off like you inferred, Alhaitham slowly lowers his eyelids. Parting his lips even more as if to grant more access, allowing his tongue to dance with yours. These actions only irked you more. 
This wasn’t your first kiss with him, the first time happened while two friends were sitting by a piano, heads turning to face each other too fast. An accidental brushing of lips. It irked you that the mushy feeling from that day was currently making its grand return. 
Breaking away to allow oxygen back into your burning lungs, a thin strand of saliva trailing between. You were panting as his eyes reconnected with yours, something else was swimming behind those impartial irises. Too bad you were too impatient to decipher it, as you pulled his face back down.
Back pushing the rusty apartment door ajar. Two bodies disappeared behind the awful singing of its hinges. 
For once, you woke up before the screeching of your phone. The sun was just barely peeking through the blinds. A muscular arm was draped over your bare torso, sheets still a bit damp from sweat. You knew that smell currently suffocating you in the room. You just slept with your former friend. 
Your hand itched to slap your face. Idiot, you avoided him for all this time just to welcome him into your bed. 
Stealthily shimming your body out of bed, you could feel the slight wobble of your legs. Of course, he’s good at sex, he’s good at everything. You cast a quick glance at his slumbering form. Teal eyes were still hidden behind closed lids. Good, he’s not awake.
Like a thief in your own home, you toed around the clothes scattered across the floor, careful to avoid the creaky wooden planks you’ve memorized. 
Swiftly grabbing a random assortment of items out of your closet, you deemed the outfit professional enough for work. Trying to glide across the cluttered apartment like a ghost, you put on your heels, ready for the walk of shame away from your apartment. At least your gym membership will see some use now, a shower would be great to wash the shame and guilt off. 
It’s not like you had anything worth stealing. Grabbing your bag off the table, you exited the scene of the crime. Hinges announcing your departure.
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If the you from a few months ago saw what the reunion of friends had morphed into, she’d probably keel over in shock. Can you even call yourselves friends anymore?
The next Saturday following that incident, you had finished up another gig at Lambad’s Tavern. An all too familiar face made his way up to the piano. Browsing through the selection of CDs you still had on display. 
“I’ll take this one.” Alhaitham held the smooth plastic in one hand, as his other reached for his wallet. 
You gestured for him to stop. Crossing your arms in front of your body as if soothing your nerves. Pride still too great to accept his money, a resource he seems to have in excess. Just earlier in the day, after reaching the second round in the audition, the proctor thanked you for your time and lead you to the exit. Another failed attempt to join an orchestra.
You knew that returning to your cramped abode will only lead you to wallow in misery with a cheap bottle of liquor. 
“You can come over. I’ll take it as compensation.” 
How would you define this relationship? Friends with benefits? But the two of you were ex-friends, so that wouldn’t really make sense. Regardless, you knew what you wanted. To forget the sting of failure through pleasure. You turned your head to face him, awaiting his reply. An attentive stare was the silent confirmation you needed. 
Does he think you’re easy or desperate? You didn’t particularly care for his opinion anymore. Alhaitham was currently kneeling by the side of your mused bed, he was here to ‘compensate’ you, and compensate he will. Your thighs were firmly held in his large hands, spreading them apart granting him access to the honeypot he seeks. 
His hot tongue lapped at your slick folds, parting the labia and collecting your slick. Making sure to end the journey with a small flick to the little nub on top, before the wet muscle traveled back down. The noise was sinfully melodic. Your legs were straining against his hold, instinctively wanting to close in on his face, but his strength far surpasses yours. So instead, you pressed your lips into the back of your hand. Denying him the privilege to hear your moans.
This must’ve displeased him greatly, as the next thing you knew he broke from his steady tempo, and his soft lips enclosed around your sensitive clit. Alhaitham’s tongue was now accompanied by the suction of his mouth, torturing your poor little bundle. Slurping and sloppy wet flicks bounced off the thin walls. Hot flashes shot up your legs as your toes curled, a moan was fighting its way past your teeth. 
He changed his pace once more. Now intertwining deep laps of your leaking hole with the overwhelming attention on your now swollen clit. Your honey was dripping down his chin as he continued his efforts. Your legs were trembling now, unable to give any resistance against his domineering hold. Thus, allowing him to slip one hand between, two long fingers stretching out your gummy walls. Prodding their way through the tight warm hole, mapping out their way to that special spongey patch. 
Your teeth wouldn’t hold back the moan any longer. Back arching off the messy sheets, the internal and external pleasure created a maddening duo, pushing your sanity off the edge. Your vision when white was your body shook, nonsense babbling out of your lips. Alhaitham gave your pulsing clit a few more slick licks before pressing a sweet kiss against it. 
His towering frame got up from the floor to loom over your recovering body. Teal eyes observing every twitch and shiver of your sloppy face. Soon his face descended closer, this time you were the quick one. Snapping your head to the side. Denying him a kiss, lest those mushy emotions bubble up during this moment. Alhaitham stills, he says nothing, just letting his warm breath fan across your face. 
He got the message. Pulling away to give space between your lips, he searches his back pocket for a condom. Even with your bodies connected. There was still a line deeply etched into the sand, separating the two of you.  
Once again you woke up before him. Once again you slipped out of his embrace. Ocne more his arms gave no protest. Another journey to the gym. 
One time turned into two times, two times turned into… you lost count at this point. However, it would simply be a waste of time to think too deeply about it. It’s Alhaitham after all, that man would never bother with activities that waste his time. If it doesn’t serve to benefit in any way, he’d be the first to drop it, what an objective guy he is. 
The two of you were still young professionals with a lot of steam to let off. A familiar face of convenience to destress and feel the wisp of comfort from another warm body in this cold world. This is what’s become of the pile of ashes from a once beautiful bridge.
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The back of your head hit against the brick wall supporting your body. Another rejection, this time you made it all the way to the semi-finals. Alas, from behind a curtain, the panel of judges deemed you unworthy of playing in their esteemed orchestra. Your aching fingers dug into your palms, hoping that the pain would distract from the burning sting welling up in your eyes.
The pursuit of knowledge and the pursuit of dreams were more similar to each other than what great scholars of the nation of wisdom cared to admit.
They were the shining light that broke through the murky uncertainly of life, beckoning stray souls towards them. Those lost in the labyrinth of reality desperately seek to walk the path illuminated by their glow. 
In the end, knowledge and dreams were like the sun’s warm rays shining through the leaves of a tree. No matter how many times your hands reach for and grab, you can never hold them.  
The multiple part-time jobs you juggled between your college courses taught you the most valuable lesson no lecture ever could: Dreams cost money, and so did rent, and so did food, and so did utilities. 
Scornfully, you had to tack on extra courses to your piano major, a witless minor in business administration. It stings your pride to this day to attribute your current steady stream of income to that last-minute academic decision. 
It stung because, in the end, Alhaitham’s prediction was correct. Regardless of if one was a natural or artificial prodigy like you. Even the brightest and most dedicated musicians aren’t guaranteed a career, degree or not. Perhaps, this truth that you’ve come to terms with was the water that smothered the flame of anger. Leaving behind the defeated wisps of regret and embarrassment. 
Of course Alhaitham was right, he always is. 
There was a chime from the store door opening up beside you. A certain ashen-haired man walked out with a bouquet of Sumeru roses in hand. ‘Speak of the devil, and he doth appear’.
You quickly adverted your gaze, but it was useless as he had already taken note of your presence. You didn’t want to cry in front of him. Deciding to take control of the conversation before anything starts. 
“I don’t have a show tonight.” Referring to the bouquet in his hands. 
“I’m aware. I was going to visit my grandmother today.” His deep voice drummed. 
Oh. You wanted the archons to strike you down at this very moment. Stupid, why did you assume such things? There’s nothing but a tightrope formed by virtue of convenience connecting your paths. Just what were you hoping for? Your cheeks were now burning with shame. 
“Would you like to come with me?” His calm tone beckons you out of your thoughts. 
At this rate, how could you refuse? Perhaps it was due to the surmounting weight of guilt and embarrassment. But a part of you also knows it’s because you missed her. So you followed Alhaitham to his car, buckling yourself in and opening your arms, offering to carry the flowers. The car ride was silent the whole time. 
Alhaitham’s grandmother always looked at you with those tender warm eyes of hers. Extending out a warm hand to comb through your locks in exchange for every song you’d play for her. She was the only voice that offered your impoverished heart any words of encouragement.
Words that brought an inkling of warmth from the icy stares of your parents. 
The final note echoed throughout the common area of the hospital. Applause could be heard from the few patients attending your impromptu concert. However, your attention was focused all on the soft smile of the frail woman in the wheelchair beside you. Her thin, wrinkled hands clapped together. 
Jokingly you gave a dramatic bow from your sitting position at the piano bench, earning a gentle chuckle from her. 
“Oh, what a lovely performance by the loveliest girl.” A hand reached out towards you. 
You swiftly bowed your head under her palm, allowing her fingers to rest against your scalp. Gently she began to stroke your head, making a wide smile stretch your cheeks. Your heart’s weekly dose of encouragement. However, this tender moment was broken by the vibrations of your phone. Your eyes quickly scanned the name of the caller. 
Oh, it was your tutor, you skipped your lessons once more in favor of visiting the Bimarstan. 
The woman beside you takes note of this and lets out a huff. 
“You’re already plenty smart. I don’t understand why your parents insist on such endeavors.” 
You didn’t have the heart to tell her the hours of tutoring and cram schools you sandwiched between your demanding schedule was due to the idolization of her grandson. It wasn’t her fault, it wasn’t his. 
It was yours, for not being to stand on equal footing with the prodigy Alhaitham. You pressed your lips sealed. This detail didn’t escape her aging eyes. She shifted her attention to the sheet music propped up on the stand. 
“Do you know the story behind Overture to Mozart's Marriage of Figaro?”
You tilted your head to the side, you’ve never researched any piece in depth before. Reading your answer from this action, the old lady continued. 
“It was written for quite a famous play. A story and message that caused waves through society at the time. A story about servants rebelling against their masters, taking fate into their own hands.” Her warm eyes gave you a knowing look. 
“That is why it’s my favorite song from Mozart.”
“Oh? Then I’ll play it for you again. As many times as you want.” The smile returned to your face. 
You never thought that the next time you’d ever play that song would be at her funeral. Fellow professors and colleagues dressed in black filled the room of the wake, paying their respects to her and their condolences to the young man beside you.
What an awful transition into adulthood Alhaitham had. 
Tears streamed down your face, dripping onto the marble floor. Peering at the face of your dearest friend, his cheeks were dry. 
By the time the sky began to turn its brilliant pink and orange hues, the attendees had all funneled out of the room. Your parents were the first ones to leave, but you stayed firmly by Alhaitham’s side. It was only you, him, and the casket in the room now. 
She wanted a private burial, thus the staff informed you that they’ll begin the process soon. However, before they did, you wanted to play her favorite song one last time. Your send-off for her. 
Sitting down at the sleek black piano provided by the funeral home, you took a deep breath. Alhaitham takes his place next to you on the bench, with his back facing the piano you couldn’t see his face. 
The bright tones of this joyful song resounding through the room harshly contrasted the somber mood. But you continued playing regardless, fingers never skipping a note nor compromising the tempo. 
Alhaitham’s head found its way on your shoulder, the weight slightly interfering with your range of motion. However, you didn’t say anything and never stopped playing. The bright melody comforting two grieving souls. 
The last memories you had of her resurfacing as he places the flowers down at her grave. The tombstone is still as clean and polished as the day it was inlaid into the ground. A testament to the diligence of her grandson, the only family she left behind.
Today was the first time the day didn’t end with a trip to your bed. The mood was inappropriate for such things. 
Just two souls quietly reminiscing about the things that are now gone. As it was, it shall never be again. 
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If his colleagues were to ever discover the current predicament the raising secretary of the company was in, they’d either dismiss it or laugh at him. How unthinkable. The phlegmatic man whose hands always held the reins of control, reduced to such a complacent fool? The desert would freeze over before any of them would ever believe such a thing. 
However, Alhaitham didn’t need to justify his actions to anyone. The ashen-haired man already knew the reason behind his actions. He’s known for quite a while now. He holds his convictions firmly and will walk through hell with them.
Sitting down in a private study room provided by the university, a senior was currently wallowing in an irrelevant emotion. Alhaihtam knows the name, it’s grief.
Of course, it’s depressing to lose a familiar face, a person who stood by your side throughout your developmental years. However, you were still alive. Why is he grieving over a person who’s still healthy and breathing? Questions unrelated to his thesis plagued his thoughts as his paper remained untouched on the desk.
Teal irises scan the stack of books he had piled to the side. Perhaps he should review some of the material to refresh his mind about his thesis on the consequences of unrecorded words.
Picking a random psychology journal from the mound, this book could hold the answers to why his thoughts are redundant. Alhaitham began his quest for an epiphany.
The student’s experienced eyes scanned through the text, noting details that could potentially support his points. It’s not a surprise that psychology and etymology go hand in hand, after all, words were born out of human thought and the need to communicate them.
This journal was only scratching at the ceiling that prevented him from crossing into the territory of true understanding. It frustrated him. 
Disdainfully scrutinizing the text further, running through each passage over and over, until he finally reads the first line of the final page:
“Psychology as a science has its limitations, and, as the logical consequence of theology is mysticism, so the ultimate consequence of psychology is love.”
The student finally closes the covers of the book, it had served its purpose.
No matter how many times his thoughts circled back, searching for correlations and different conclusions from figurative pinpoints. Alhaitham knew in the end, they were all just excuses. 
Love is illogical by nature, an unexplainable consequence of human thought. A fever which comes and goes independently of the will. Maybe, the true explanation of love has been lost to time, the unwritten words that belonged in the spaces between the script printed in preserved texts. 
So Alhaitham will understand his limits now. It matters not if he understands the origins of love or language or words. All that mattered to him is that he understands now: He was in love. A diagnosis and truth that came years too late. With this revelation quelling his thoughts, he finished his thesis. 
Acceptance, the last stage of grief. 
‘This is unhealthy’ a voice in his mind chastised. Alhaitham didn’t feel the need to defend his current actions, because the voice was right. This is unhealthy. Teal eyes concealed the running thoughts in his head, watching the raising and falling of your chest.
After all these years you reappeared in front of him. The ashen-haired man knew he couldn’t let this opportunity slip through his fingers. Even though it was made from a rope of thorns, he still grabbed onto it. 
For now, he shall set aside his pride, his hubris. Sex was the only time you would willingly approach him. Alhaitham was more than willing to exchange his body for the privilege of being close to you once more. A fair trade in his mind. 
‘If you love something set it free. If it comes back it's yours. If not, it was never meant to be.’
The stoic man is sure the saying would disagree with his tampering. Like setting a songbird free, only to lure it back into his hands with the irresistible treat of pleasure. It was all he could do. Alhaitham knew that cruelly grasping at the songbird will only snap the fragile tightrope that connected your paths. 
After all, you had fled the hated cage of your childhood home the moment the door was left open. He already decided he won’t do that to you. 
Instead, he’ll keep holding out his hand, palms wide open, waiting for you to come back to taste the pleasure he offers you time after time again.
You were laying on his chest, sleep drenched every fiber of your being, heart vibrating steadily against his own. 
It’s a paradox, how can your body be so close but your heart still so far away? 
The desire for sleep outweighed his lust for answers. Or it could be that he already knew, he was just delaying the thought for the morning. His heavy lids closed.
When they open again in the morning, he knows they’ll be greeted by the sight of an empty bed. He knows the sheets that hold your lingering scent will be cold. He knows he will be left alone in your apartment.
Alhaitham knows, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. 
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The Sumeru Grand Orchestra, the golden ticket for any musician. Status, recognition, and generous paychecks. When the auditions were first announced you were one of the first to jump at the opportunity, and so did everyone else, flooding the application sites, but you were able to secure a number: 211. 
Weeks in advance on a muted keyboard you practiced every classical piece you could, sharpening your sightreading senses. You were led into the waiting room with all the other aspiring musicians, it was now a game of survival. 
You made it to the final round. It’s been five hours since you last left the palatial concert hall where the auditions were held. The one cramped room was now a motionless void, mutterings of prayers to any archon that would listen whispered through the thick air. 
“Number 211.” 
You were the lamb up for slaughter. The audition piece that was placed into your hand half an hour ago crumbled under the force of your tense grip. The proctor closed the door behind you, stealing off your path of escape as they led you through the labyrinth. At the end of the tunnel, you were greeted by the harsh stage lights glaring off the grand piano. 
The curtains that once shielded you from the captious glares of the judges were gone. All of you laid out clearly on the stage. Your fate is balanced on the tips of their immaculate pens. The minuscule tremble of your hands couldn’t escape their hawk eyes.
Chin up and shoulders back, you strolled across the polished wooden planks, settling down at the matte black piano, it was like staring into the abyss. 
Taking a deep breath, you signaled the start. Fingers danced along the ivory keys in accordance with the notes memorized. This stanza was from Meditation from Thais, the hypnotic theme filling the empty concert hall.
It’s been a while since you hear your own playing resounded out through such a place. However, this was a turning point a chance to take fate into your own hands. 
To once again stand under the warm lights and bow to an audience enamored by your music. For the songbird to fly free from it’s grey sterile cubical. 
“Stop.” A cold voice struck the fragile wings of a bird in flight. 
You did as you were ordered, even before your mind even registered the words. Oh no, you weren’t finished, you didn’t get to complete this round. 
“Number 211 is disqualified. The playing is soulless, empty notes that just echo off the walls.” 
Soulless. Huh, you’ve never been told that before. Raindrops landed into your unblinking eyes as they observed the darkening sky. Was nature taking pity on you too? Crying for you when your tear ducts were still frozen in shock? You let the cold droplets trail down your cheek. Around you, the crowd dressed in suits and ties walked passed the scene of a death.
The death of your dreams. 
You used up one of your precious sick days to attend this audition, but now it might no longer be just an excuse. You couldn’t feel anything but the sharp shards of shattered hope gouging into your back. Staring up at the gray sky from the deep, cold well of your misery.
When did this happen? When did the bright fire fizzle out? When did your passion die?
A sorry excuse of a laugh slipped out. No, it might be accurate to say that there was never a passion in the first place, something nonexistent cannot die. Something nonexistent cannot be created even if the haze of a fever dream might say otherwise. Now that the rain had washed away that haze, you could now clearly see the void. 
Did you really like the piano? Or was it a lie engrained into your flesh by stern hands? 
Maybe the judges were right, your playing was soulless, pieces only ever practiced for technical perfection. Talent meticulously crafted by grueling long hours. Fingers that separated your beating heart from the inanimate black and white keys. In the end, you were an artificial prodigy, with an artificial passion that quickly denigrated under the droplets of calm rain. 
“You’re soaked.” A baritone voice resounded behind you as a warm jacket was placed over your shoulders. 
Alhaitham had just gotten off the clock, exiting the grand sliding doors only to spot your listless figure standing as an obstacle for the weaving crowd of the city. However, you kept staring at the dull sky, uncaring about how your wet clothes clung to your shivering figure. You didn’t even seem to perceive his words. 
“You’re going to get sick.” Two warm hands placed themselves upon your shoulders, guiding your body to a secluded area, away from the crowd and rain. 
This motion jostled your eyes, allowing them to read the company name proudly displayed on the front of the towering skyscraper. Was this the future you had gambled away for a false path shown to you by a dream? A steady job, good savings benefits, and prospective increases in income. All the chips you had pushed into the center of the table as you drew dud cards. 
You shifted your eyes away from the imposing letters and connected with teal-orange irises. Was his mask of indifference hiding his smug satisfaction that his prediction was correct? Was he holding back an ‘I told you so’? The bitter whispers of a green-eyed devil tickled against the shell of your ear. 
“Come, I’ll drive you home.” 
No, you can’t go back to your abysmal apartment. You couldn’t even stomach the thought of seeing the sight of your reality. The messy bedroom, the music sheets scattered all across the cluttered living room, the mocking keyboard pressed up against a corner. If you were to step foot back in there, you’ll disappear under the murky waters in the ocean called ‘regret’. 
Your trembling hands grounded themselves in the crisp button-down, crumbling the fabric against Alhaitham’s smooth skin. No words could travel past your vocal cords, throat numb to move. All you could do was shake your hang head from side to side. You could feel the ashen-haired man take a deep breath, his mind quickly forming an alternative plan. 
“Come with me.” Large hands gently untangling your fingers from his clothes. 
Those same gentle hands were now rubbing a fresh towel through your dripping hair, soaking up the excess water that had been trailing droplets down your skin. His house was quiet, no rumbling of car engines from the streets, no loud gurgling pipes, no thumping footsteps. Still and serene, only allowing the soft pattering of rain kissing the ground and windows.
Alhaitham hasn’t spoken a single word to you ever since he welcomed you into his home and sat you down. 
As Alhaitham continued with his efforts to warm your shivering body, all you could do was observe the spotless wooden floors. They were so polished and lustrous… just like the grandiose stage.
Something vile was creeping up your neck, slowly making its way up to the falling sanctuary of your mind. No, you needed to push it back, you needed to distract it. To buy you some time before the vileness consumes you wholly. 
Hopeless hands trailed up the toned arms of the man currently drying your hair, making his movements stop. You took this opportunity to shift your body so that it pressed against his, the dampness of your clothes transferring to his. Ah, it must be uncomfortable for him. 
Clumsily, you began to undo the neat buttons of his button-down, only for your hands to be enclosed within a delicate grip. You could feel the weight of his condemnatory gaze upon you, teal eyes observing your movements as if he was calculating his next move. 
There wasn’t any time for contemplation. The bitter bile thoughts were quickly encroaching on their destination. With your hands immobilized you used your mouth instead, nuzzling into the skin that peeked through the unopened portion.
You could feel the small shiver of his warm body reacting to your cold cheek. Alhaitham lets out a deep sigh, hot breath fanning over the top of your head. He got the message. 
Your soaked dress was pulled over your head, heavy black fabric falling to the side of the bed in which you lay now. The sheets providing your shivering body with softness and a semblance of warmth. Alhaitham presses tender kisses down the nape of your neck, stopping between the valley of your breast to push your body further up the bed.
Larger hands ran along the length of your legs, as if to warm them up with the slow friction. Your legs gave no resistance as he places one over his shoulder, lips brushing against your knee. 
You let out a small sigh, the skin-on-skin contact was just what your frozen body needed. Your body twisted further into his sheets, your other leg pressed against the back of his hip as if to spur him to hasten his pace. However, Alhaitham, being the steadfast man he is, ignored your neediness and continued to trail kisses down your soft skin. His mouth ended his journey with a slow and deep lap at your clit, causing your body to jolt. 
“Mmm.”
Your skin has thawed, every nerve now acutely aware of each slow lick his wet tongue brushed against your sensitive bud. You no longer had any pride to uphold, thus moans just freely flowed out of your mouth just as how slick dripped from your aching hole. Once more you dug your heel into him, your neglected walls yearning for attention.
This time he was merciful, running one thick finger along the slick pooling between your folds. Gathering up the dew and tracing small circles along the entrance.
A whine followed, you twisted even more along the tussled sheets, reaching a hand down to tangle into his ashen locks. Alhaitham gave you want you wanted, slowly his thick finger was welcomed into your eager walls as his tongue continued to play with your clit. Your head was thrown back, heavy pants fogging up the room in the air, lidden eyes barely anything but the back of your head. 
Another finger was soon added, stretching out your leaking hole only leaving your gummy walls craving more. A few soft kisses were pressed against your now twitching bud, before his skilled tongue took over for the final push toward nirvana. With practiced precision his fingers swiftly pressed against that spongey patch, making white flames shoot up your spine. Your quivering legs and curling toes didn’t faze Alhaitham in the slightest.
“OH!”
With a firm tug to ashen locks and one final flick to your swollen clit, your eyes meet the back of your head, a stretched moan bounced off the walls. Back arched almost painfully off the bed, Alhaitham continued the slow thrust of his soaked fingers into your contracting hole. As you rode the waves of pleasure back down, Alhaitham finally detaches his lips from your cunt, a slick trail connecting them. 
The burning between your legs didn’t stop. You needed more, legs wrapping around his muscular torso, urging him to give you more. His self-control all but turns into dust in your presence. There’s not a plausible scenario where he could ever deny you. Finally, his leaking member can have its turn. 
Fighting against the restraints of your legs, Alhaitham was able to pull the condom over his full length. Your hole jolted with joy the moment it felt his fat tip pressing up against your entrance. The slow circling before he finally sunk in, in an instant your walls clung onto every inch he pushed in, thanking him with pulsing contractions.
He sucked in a long hiss from how your warm, slick walls perfectly hugged him. You let your tongue loll out with a deep moan, legs pulling his body closer so that your arms could find purchase around his broad shoulders. 
His pace was slow and deep, warming your walls up so as to not hurt the delicate you. This greatly displeased you, evident by how your nails dug into the solid muscle of his shoulders. You need it fast, you wanted it deep, you wanted him to pound those bitter thoughts away with his thick member. Two hands clasped around your hips, snapping your body tightly against his. He’ll grant your request. 
“Ah! Ah! AH!” 
His merciless pace had your breast bouncing and incomprehensible words babbling out of your lips. Heavy cock dragging out along your grasping walls, then slamming his hips harshly against your sobbing cunt. Every punishing thrust was welcomed by your slick walls thanking him. His heavy pants fanned across your ear as he continued this ruthless speed. 
Your body was now burning, precipitation hanging heavy in the air, yet you still arched your back off the bed to chase after his warmth. Bodies entangled in a mess of limbs in an animalistic chase after pleasure and orgasm. 
The wet noises of your weeping hole welcoming him back in over and over again. In between the heavy slaps of his balls against your sloppy cunt and thick tip bullying your poor spot, you could feel the deep vibrations in his chest. 
“Look at me.” You felt him pull away just a bit so he could have a clear view of your loose face. 
You didn’t want to. Lest his searching teal eyes discover the truth of why you pulled him into bed, to give him the satisfaction. You squeezed your lids closed. The particularly deep thrust he snapped displayed his displeasure at your actions. 
“Please.” The unfamiliar words coming from his mouth made your eyes wide again. The tone is gentle. 
So, with your resolve weakened, you finally connected with his gaze. What was that look in his eyes? It was too soft to be malice, too calm to be anger, too tender to just be lust. Yet your pleasure-melted brain couldn’t process it.
 In gratitude for you granting his wish, his thumb found its way to your swollen clit, rubbing deep circles into the sensitive nerve. You pressed yourself impossibly hard against his body, walls clamping down on his thick member. 
His actions made the knot inside your stomach pull against itself taught until the treads of sanity snapped. Even though your eyes were rolled to the back of your head, all you could see was the blinding white light of cloud nine. Your walls clamped down around him like a vise, snug walls now binding his length. Alhaitham clenches his jaw, stoic face twisted in the throws of pleasure as he spills himself into the barrier deep within. 
Long fingers painting the sides of your hips red as he recomposes himself. Chest heaving from the exertion. He helps himself to a few more slow thrusts in your gummy walls, riding out his own orgasm even as his red tip teetered on the edge of pain and pleasure. Your soft thighs still entrapping his towering frame. It looks like you still haven’t come down yet. 
Alhaitham’s hand gently cupped your messy face. Your lips were off limits, so he shall kiss those bitter tears away from your eyes instead. 
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Like always you woke up before Alhaitham again. However, this time you couldn’t bear to look at his face. Was this out of embarrassment, shame, or guilt? You didn’t know and didn’t care.
Unwrapping his arms from around your waist, you hobbled towards the clack lump of your dress. The fabric was still ever so slightly damp, ah, the sensation against your skin made the bitter bile restart its journey again. 
You couldn’t help the envy that bubbled up in your system as you observed the spacious halls of Alhaitham’s house. Footsteps softly tap along the polished wood floors so as not to awaken the sleeping homeowner.
Of course, he has a nice house in the most upscale neighborhood. Of course, it's located in a quiet suburb a commutable distance away from the raucous city. Of course, it has nice big windows and expensive dark wood furnishings. 
Of course. Of course. Of course. It’s because he’s Alhaitham. He’s got everything. 
Your face scrunched up as bitterness crept up from the back of your tongue. It wasn’t from the bitter waters of regret, no, it was from a certain green-eyed creature. You needed to leave this house as soon as possible before you did something foolish. 
You dug your hand into your purse for your phone, ready to call a lift back to your shabby apartment. It was all becoming too much. Just at the end of the hall, you could spot the solid oak doors that blocked off the outside world. Get out of this cage and breathe the fresh air. 
You no longer cared about the noise your steps were making, thumps echoed throughout the halls frantically carrying you toward the shiny knob. A shaky hand grasped onto the cold smooth metal, ready to twist the deadbolt free. A glimmer of white coming from the side room caught your eye, reeling it back from its tunnel vision. Your head couldn’t help but follow. 
It was a grand piano. 
His former roommate was right, the white lacquer finish on the piano contrasted harshly against the dark wood bookshelves. It really did look out of place, taking up too much space in the side library. The dark walnut wood piano seat looked odd next to it as well. 
The viridescent seat cushion looked a bit worn as if it had been sat in regularly. Still, the pearly finish that reflected the morning rays beckoned you closer, the sense of nostalgia growing stronger with each step. 
It looked exactly like your old piano, your most cherished treasure that had been plundered from you so long ago. Trembling hands ran along the glossy fallboard, not a speck of dust was found along the paths of your fingers. You caught sight of the gold lettering inscribed along the front, it was even the same brand. 
The pull of intrigue was too great, you had to know, but do you dare? Why are you lifting your hopes up so high? Have you not learned your lesson after being dropped over and over again onto the cold pavement of disappointment below? Maybe you were some type of masochist. Just like Schrodinger’s cat, you can’t confirm if those hopes were dead or alive until you opened the lid. 
A resounding creek rang out from the protesting hinges, the lacquered lid heavy as if trying to conceal the truth away from your searching eyes. But your determination beat out any old hinges, lifting the heavy top above your head. Your breathing halted. 
Property of Bookworm and Earworm
It was written clear as day on the naked wood concealed by the glossy outer casing. Clumsy letters scribbled in harsh black permanent marker. The proof of authenticity. This is your treasured piano. 
Your arm lost all strength, the heavy lid slammed down reverberating all the strings and hammers in a chaotic symphony of shock. The clashing vibrations pierced your ears, causing the ringing that was now the background music to the realization crashing down upon you. 
All this time, Alhaitham stayed himself. His unfazed individuality moved through life to the metronome of his own heart. Like a firm apple tree whose roots held the ground below him together. The fruits of his labor dropping down to satiate a heart hungry for encouragement.
The shiny red fruits were given at every meeting, in exchange for every CD and performance attended. All this time, he never once looked at you with pity nor disdain. He treasured you.
And what have you given in return? You participated in gossip behind his back. You looked at him with the same prejudice you promised to defend him from. You broke your promises to him. You lied to him. You used him, even down to his physical body to further your own self-interests. 
When did the whispers of a green-eyed monster turn you into that selfish child from the storybook? 
If your past self was there to witness the scene in front of her, she’d be appalled. She’d beat you with hatred at the torment you put her beloved friend through. Yes, she’d hate you. You hate you. You’ve never hated yourself more.
How could you do this to him? You really are your parent’s child. You never considered how the shrapnel of consequences from your actions would wound those close by. 
You couldn’t even look at the reflection staring back at you from the polished white surface, her eyes stared back at you with malice. You were a selfish traitor. 
Too self-absorbed in your own wallowing to notice the slow steps approaching from down the hallway. Alhaitham’s steps were slow as he stared at the back of your figure. Like a watcher trying not to startle a resting songbird. Rubbing the remnants of sleep from his eyes, making sure he wasn’t just looking at the afterimage of a person who had long left the house. 
A small creak was all it took for your head to snap toward his approaching figure. Eyes wide and shaking. Alhaitham made sure to stop a arms length away as he accesses the situation. It looks like you’ve discovered his small secret. A fragment of the past that he relentlessly searched for, the only time he ever asked anything of your parents. He planned to return it to you one day. 
You looked like you could collapse at any moment, so Alhaitham held out his hand, palms open and awaiting. You reached a quivering hand out, pulling back slightly a few times before finally landing. Your fingers clasped onto each other, you drew closer to his board figure until your forehead was resting against his chest. You didn’t dare look at his face.
He made no further moves. 
“I’m sorry…I’m so sorry… I’m so fucking sorry.” Your mouth couldn’t stop spewing the regrets deep from your heart. 
Even though you were apologizing, you didn’t want him to forgive you. You couldn’t even forgive yourself, how could he? It would be easier if he just hated you. If he were to just say ‘I hate you’ right now with that stoic voice of his, you could die peacefully. The best end that you deserved. You could feel the wet spots forming on his shirt from your tears. 
“I won’t forgive you.” The vibrations from his deep voice were felt against you.
Four words cut into you deeper than any knife ever could. But you deserved this pain. Your bottom lip clenched tightly between your teeth, on the verge of splitting open from how hard you were biting back your cries. You didn’t deserve to cry. 
“Not until you play Overture to Mozart's Marriage of Figaro.” 
Those words halted your breathing. Like a rope that’s been thrown down the dark well you were wallowing in. Will your hands reach out and grasp onto this opportunity? Slowly you lifted your gaze up. Something behind the calm teal of his eyes was egging you on to do so, to take a hold of the lifeline thrown down from the bright sky. 
“… Of course.” You let go of him. 
Moving back over to your grand piano. Lifting the smaller section of the lid first this time placing it gently back on the larger section, allowing the music rack to appear. Setting up the notches into position, you then lifted the heavy back lid up. Placing the prop up this time so as to not put your piano through the same chaos again. 
Finally, the dustfree fallboard was lifted up, revealing the keyboards that held the faint imprints of history. You settled your self-down at the bench, your hands hesitantly reaching out only for your fingers to retract the moment your soft tips brushed against the smooth ivory. The bitter shame of failure scorching your delicate senses. 
Inhaling a deep breath, you turned to face Alhaitham reconnecting with his teal gaze as he stayed in place. A silent plead. With quiet steps, he approaches closer to the bench, the wooden protested under the added weight. Two bodys not touching, facing in opposite directions. Ah, just like a familiar scene from many years ago. 
Once more, you attempted to reach out your fingers, emboldened by the soothing body heat of the man besides you. Placing your fingers back into position, the scorning of your finger tips becoming irrelevant. Lulling you to return back into the blackness of your sanctuary of mind. Recalling the song that symbolized a period of great change, wonderful change. 
The pressed keys played their notes, the hammers inside your piano striking against the string. Ringing out the awful tones of stings that have gone out of tune from years of unuse. Even if it stung you ears and his the same, you continued to play the chipper overture. The bitter bile fizzling out like sea form, as laughter tickled the inside of your throat. 
“It sounds terrible.” You giggled honestly. 
“Mm. I’m not all that familiar with performance etiquette, but I’m certain talking during a show is bad manners.” There was no bit to his words. You couldn’t see his face, you could hear the smile. 
Two hearts now closer than previously, became the metronome for the off-key rendition of Mozart's Marriage of Figaro, accompanied by the bright giggles of the pianist and the content sigh of her audience. Outside the window, a songbird chirps to greet the beautiful sun that resurfaced after a day of rain.
He absolutely adores you, he always has. He knows that you know now. But he also knows that you weren’t ready to hear it. The weight of three small words would be enough to topple the stability of your consciousness. It wasn’t strong enough to handle them, not after the mangling hands of guilt and regret vandalized it. 
So he won’t say those three words, not yet, not until you’ve repaired your cracking foundations. Alhaitham will wait to tell you ‘I love you’. Like a patient tree standing on the hill biding its time for the return of a beloved creature. 
Fin~
DON’T PLAGIARIZE, REPOST, OR TRANSLATE ANY OF MY WORKS.
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setsugekka · 1 year
Text
❥déjà rêvé (m)
↳ When your best friend marries her stuffy, stuck-up, long-time boyfriend, you swallow your feelings and put your reservations aside to support her...
...and when your erotic imagination takes hold of you one night in relation to him, you’re thankful for the fact that your friend is able to laugh it off.
Unfortunately, you’re not able to let it go as easily.
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kim doyoung x fem!reader — enemies to lovers, friends with benefits, gratuitous sexual content, porn with plot [17.7k wc] cws: open relationship, alcohol consumption, social smoking. sexual content: bdsm-heavy!! dominant doyoung, submissive reader, unprotected penetrative sex (v+a), oral sex (m+f), gratuitous dirty talk/degradation/humiliation, cum play/facials/wet&messy, deep throating, safe word usage, ravishment play, infidelity play, spit play, doyoung has a big dick and fucks like a pornstar.
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Seven years.
 Watching as your best friend now sat in glee as hired hair and makeup help dart around her to make sure that every strand, every eyelash be perfectly in place for her big day, you realize that now, after so long, it's difficult to even really recall the first few times that she started bringing him around. You remember the first night she mentioned him — a careful slide of a photo of him into the group chat, followed by the usual 'he looks better in person' commentary — although hilariously unnecessary given that the man stunning even back then.
You did, however, wish that his looks had translated more into his personality.
Unfortunately, it was no mystery the way that you and Doyoung did not get on. Never culminating into blow-out fights, or a need to pick sides, or even the ruining of an evening or vacation: But it was there. Petty jabs and comments slung about, backhanded slips of the tongue coming from either side at a moments notice — something that, earlier on, came to be of much contention between you, Mina, and her now husband-to-be. Over time, however, with the relationship growing, evolving, and coming to terms with the fact that this man most likely to remain in your life for as long as Mina would be, you decide on doing the only thing that a good, supportive, friend can do in such circumstances.
After all, you weren't the one marrying him, and thank fuck for that.
  "How do I look?"
Nearly tear-filled eyes looking up at you through the reflection of the mirror as you stand behind your best friend of a decade and more, you offer a tight-lipped smile back to her — in an effort to keep it together, really, you'd rather not cry your makeup off, as well.
"You look amazing, he's lucky," you begin genuinely before switching to a more playful tone. "And he better remember that, because I'll be watching."
With a sway of her hand, Mina shoos you away equally playfully and laughing through the fact that she was surely just about to start crying. "This long and you guys are still like this, are you ever going to get over it?"
"Is he ever going to stop being a pretentious douche? Because all signs point to 'no.'"
Cocking her head as if to say 'give me a break,' your bestie sighs audibly at the much anticipated response from you in regards to the matter.
"He's a good man."
You nod. "I know. He's good to you and, well — good enough to me, so I'll allow it, I suppose."
Would you choose to spend time with Doyoung if not for Mina; if not for the fact that he be obviously and irrevocably in love with her and treat her as such every moment of everyday? No.
But the rest of it sort of makes up for that fact.
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One of the perks of having Kim Doyoung around is the money.
Of course, Mina doing well enough for herself that she need not rest on the laurels of a man, but marrying this one be far from a bad choice as far as financials go. A hard worker all through high school and college and landing a fancy, high-paying career gig straight out — only a few weeks after the wedding, the two bought a house together — an expensive, modern home a little bit on the outskirts of the city but not too far away as to make it inconvenient, glass paneling, black marble, and perfectly shined platinum stainless steel; the first time entering it, you can't help but think how it's precisely what one would expect upon being informed of the kind of money and stature that Doyoung has.
'New money,' they call it, and with it comes a certain expectation of being a prick, apparently.
The positives of all of this, of course, include that the man work long hours, and thus, you're free to be over without having to see much of him.
And thank God for that.
 "Drink?"
Already reaching up and into one of the white and glass cupboards just above as she calls out the question, you answer back a simple "sure" as she continues bringing down two, large, red wine glasses that you're almost certain cost far more than any reasonable person would pay for cups.
"Doie brought these back from Portugal the last time he went on business, apparently they're one of a kind, handmade."
"I swear to God every time you call him that I get the most intense case of sudden indigestion. No relation, though. I'm sure."
The same playfully annoyed cock of her head that you're used to seeing every time the man comes up into conversation, the both of you chuckle as she sets two glasses down onto perfectly shined marble countertops in front of you.
"There's like, thirty bottles of wine down here and I don't know what's fancy or not," Mina begins, already squatting down in front of the wine storage just beneath (and of course, something that Doyoung personally had built into the kitchen during renovations). Popping back up and grabbing her phone from across the shining table, "Let me ask him."
Only a few seconds of the phone ringing, the line is answered and you hear that all too familiar and also irritating voice come through. "On a work call, what's up, babe?"
You roll your eyes, it's nearly automatic. Mina slaps the marble in front of you like she's trying to dissuade a cat from something.
"We want to open a bottle of wine but I don't know what we can and can't have, so give me a name of something, quick."
"You can have anything you want," The man on the other end coos back. You sort of wish this conversation wasn't happening on speaker phone.
Rolling her eyes, Mina chuckles back at him. "You said some of these bottles are like, three hundred dollars."
"And? Let me know how it is, gotta-go-love-you-bye—" Doyoung sing-song's into the phone before cutting the line completely. You watch the way a grin takes your best friends face at the short but sweet conversation that has only just transpired and it reminds you that all things considered, and all personal feelings about the man aside, they're absolutely, remarkably in love with one another.
As if momentarily forgetting the fact that you're even there, in favor of daydreaming about her husband, Mina finally comes back down to the expensive kitchen with you. "He's so annoying."
"Yeah, I can tell that's totally how you feel about him right now," You respond with obvious sarcasm.
About an hour and a half later and two glasses of whatever accidentally expensive wine your friend has chosen, you're a little disappointed when you hear the familiar voice of The Husband coming down the stairs and slowly making his way into the kitchen.
Of course, and again: You don't hate him, but he always has some shit to say.
Finishing up a work call as he comes around the corner — gray sweatpants and a black, oversized sweatshirt with hair only a tiny bit disheveled and probably due to it being the end of the night for him finally, you watch intently as he leans against the large, stainless steel refrigerator — briefly making eye contact with you as he says goodbye to whatever late night client happens to be on the other end of the line.
With a heavy sigh, Doyoung outstretches his arms. "Finally, freedom."
"Until tomorrow—" Mina adds with a quick peck to his cheek as she hands him a glass of wine as well. The reminder unfortunate, wiping any joy from the mans features in an instant. "—Yes, until tomorrow."
Then, his eyes catch towards you. Bringing the rim of the glass to his lips, the words slip out just before he takes a sip. "And what about you? Do you work?"
Always something to say.
"I do!" You quickly quip back. "I work normal people hours, like most people do."
"I don't think hanging out with my wife is a job."
"Doie!" Mina huffs with a playful slap to his chest.
"I assure you, you don't have to be concerned about my working hours," you begin, taking another sip from your glass before setting it down onto the counter next to you. "At least I won't look seventy years old when I'm thirty, like some people."
"Ooh—" he plays along, eyes narrow as if you've almost got him on the losing side of the banter. "That may be true, but I'll still be rich, and I'll still have a sexy wife."
"Please spare me, I choose not to acknowledge that there is any sexual relationship between the two of you at any given moment in time."
Finishing off his glass and taking a step forward to set it down next to yours, he offers you a thin-lipped grin, as if accompanying it with his sympathies. "And I'm sure that's not a result of projection, at all. Anyway, have a good night, you two, I'm off to bed."
With a quick kiss to Mina and another tip of his head towards you, the man is off and back up the stairs.
Well enough out of earshot, your eyes shoot back to your friend. "Did he just imply I'm not getting fucked?"
She shrugs. "Are you?"
Scoff falling from your lips, you press the point of your index finger out and towards your bestie. "I was just out with that guy last week, remember?"
"And how did that go?"
"It was terrible, but that's not the point—" you answer dryly, as if it be the simplest thing in the world. "—The point is, I get dick, regardless of how questionable the quality may be."
Chuckling, Mina comes around to pick up the glasses and set them next to the sink. "I'll be sure to let him know, then."
"Please don't," You groan in response.
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Long, thin, fingers wrapped around your wrist as you're quickly shuffled down the familiar, dimly lit hallway of their shared marital home before your back suddenly finds pressure against the cool wall — legs pulled apart to make room for his hips as you feel the all too familiar burn of being pried apart with not enough prep for such endeavors — enveloped suddenly by broad shoulders and a hard chest held firm against your own as you bite back the moan that threatens to echo down and against the walls, your fingers finding purchase in the fabric of such shoulders as they dig in to match the feeling of being taken so thoughtlessly, relentlessly.
"How do I feel?"
A rhetorical question of sorts, knowing that he can hear and feel the way you fall apart beneath him already and with such little effort on his end — one hand coming up between the wall and the back of your head to curl fingers into you hair and tug roughly on the strands as you hiss into a mouth just centimeters away but not quite touching your own. "God, how long have you wanted this?"
 Waking up in the morning, you don't recall many of the details — instead, living now with the irritating knowledge that you've had a sex dream about one man in particular that you wouldn't wish sex with onto your worst enemy.
Of course, it will pass — as things like this always do. It's just a dream, after all.
Right?
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Wrong, regrettably.
Worse than having the dream itself, you think over the next few days, is the way that it simply won't leave you alone. Any moment of downtime in your thoughts now plagued by the memory of a certain best friends husband fucking you against the wall of their newlywed home — it's far from ideal, and for a plethora of reasons that don't necessarily need to be explained. And yet.
But, you know enough about Mina, and your friendship with her, that if you can confide in anyone about having a sex dream about their husband to get it off of your chest, it's her.
Sitting outside of a bougie cafe just down the street from Mina's work building as you wait for her to join you with legs crossed and a mimosa on the table in front of you, as you stare at the menu in an attempt to focus on what it is that you'll be ordering for lunch once your friend arrives, the words still find their way floating through your mind with no prompting, and a little bit too much ease.
 "God, how long have you wanted this?"
 "So long!" The familiar voice of your friend from just behind you pipes up and jars you from your thinking — and thank fuck for that, because any excuse not to be brought to that place is a good one, as far as you're concerned. "Took me so long to find parking here, I don't know why we always insist on coming to this place."
"Because it's central to both of us," you answer with a tone that says that this should be obvious. "Besides, you're always the one that wants to come here."
"What can I say, hot sandwiches here are amazing—" pausing the thought to flag down the wait staff, you place the menu down on the table and rub your eyes with the flat of your fingertips as her attention falls back to you. "—Do you know what you want to order? Wait, what's wrong with you?"
"Yes," you reply to the first question, only to hesitate on the second. "Nothing, tired. Work's been killing me."
"Aw, and Doie said that you don't work," She offers, a comforting tone that only offers the opposite with the addition of the pet name to her lover. Her husband.
"Can we not talk about that man?"
A questioning cock of her head and curiosity piqued, Mina smiles with narrowed eyes. "...Why? Did he say something else? You know, he's only joking—"
"No," you firmly cut her off with a wave of a hand as the waiter returns with a drink for her and an exasperated sigh from you. "He didn't say anything else. He's just...exhausting."
"You don't even know the half of it. I live with him," Mina cheerfully retorts as she takes her drink into hand.
 No, you don't even know the half of it.
 Allowing your friend to do a good bit of the rambling through lunch as you slowly make your way through your salad — you try to put it out of your mind just as much now as you have since that night — unfortunately, the very presence of the woman married to said man in question causing the thoughts to be just that much more at the forefront of your memory.
With a fork between teeth, Mina finally stills mid-sentence and glares at you through perfectly made up, long, eyelashes. "Alright, what the hell is up with you today?"
 Yes, you were busted, but if you were honest, you had every intention of telling her about it, anyway.
 With a groan and a roll of your eyes, you finish chewing through your lettuce before setting your own utensils down at the edge of the plate and dramatically falling back into your chair — a reluctant acceptance of defeat at the hands of your best friend. All perfectly pressed business suit and perfectly structured black hair that her ever so doting husband no doubt pays for to have her take care of.
This is so annoying.
"Well!?"
"Okay, okay, don't rush me, geez—" you cut her off with palms in the air. Allowing silence to once again fall between you — nothing more than the busy bustling of the street nearby and the other patrons of the restaurant around you — you sniffle sharply, now having accepted that this is a conversation that's definitely going to happen.
Her being upset, or angry, not something you're concerned about — rather, just the humiliation of having to admit it (and the way that it's lived in your mind ever since.)
"Have you ever — had a dream about someone else's partner?"
Visibly taken aback, and physically so as Mina jolts into her chair at the question, a chuckle falls from her lips as she just as quickly takes a sip from her tall glass again. "Are you kidding? I've banged Karina's man like, three times unconsciously."
The fast and honest reply has you nearly choking on the sip of drink you had mirrored her in taking.
"It's just a dream, it's not like we have any control over it. Why? Whose man dug you out?"
 Silence.
 Mina's eyes glued to your face as you bring your glass up to your lips again and pull your own line of vision as far from hers as you can manage without actually turning physically — you hate the way you can literally see as the knowledge finally dawns on her with how her teeth quickly begin to peer through the grin that plasters across her face.
"Stop—" she first says.
"Don't—" you respond just as quickly.
"—No way." She finishes with a gasp.
You immediately plant your face into the flat of your palms with an affirming groan.
And thus, your best friend does what anyone would do upon finding out that her friend had a sex dream about her husband: Let out the most annoying, boisterous witch-cackle that a single woman could possibly muster.
When her laughter finally dies down enough to manage in some breaths for an attempt at speaking, Mina takes another sip of her drink through tight lips that are quite evidently still trying to pull back the smile that she wants so badly to let pull across her features. "Well," she quietly begins. "How was it?"
"Really?"
"Just curious how fantasy matches up with reality, that's all."
Rolling your eyes at her curiosity, you can't help but make an attempt to pull the embarrassment from you, and onto the man in question. "I'm sure I was doing him the favor. It wasn't thirty seconds of missionary while he told me about finances so he should be thankful for that much."
Snorting through her nose, Mina's eyes drop down to her mostly-eaten sandwich before her. "Is that what you think it's like?"
"I simply do not think about it at all, actually."
"Evidently, that's not the case."
 With more silence coming between the two of you, now Mina is the one that cuts through it with an all too pointed, proverbial knife.
 "Do you want to fuck him?"
 Sputtering through more salad as the words enter your line of hearing, before you have a chance to answer, Mina amends the statement — as if she can read your mind. "Before you say 'no,' really think about it."
And so, you do. Quietly mulling over all of the possibilities, the thoughts that this bring to your mind — not limited to and especially the recollection of the dream — more than anything, it's a reminder that you don't actually even really like this man. You don't enjoy his company, and you don't particularly enjoy conversing with him. The purpose that Doyoung serve in your life be uniquely in relation to him being the perfect, most amazing husband to Mina.
And how this might be precisely how you ended up here to begin with.
But what this really brings to question is one very pointed, very particular thing:
"A-are you asking me if I want to have sex with your husband...with intention of granting me permission to do so?"
The woman across from you shrugs, calling the wait staff over again for another drink. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, one thing at a time. So, do you?"
Feeling a bit like a taboo, kinky carrot being dangled in front of your face — you know Mina well enough to know that she wouldn't be asking this in an attempt to set you up — to get upset with you, to drive a wedge between your friendship.
If she's asking, it's because she's genuinely curious, and has other such genuine intentions, as well.
Clearing your throat and blinking away the awkwardness in the fact that you're really about to answer this honestly: You could lie — pretend that it hasn't been stuck on your mind ever since, pretend that you haven't been fantasizing about him, and in a particularly low moment, cumming to the thought of him — but really, what good will that do you, now?
In fact, even just the conversation now bringing back the dull ache between your legs. Humiliating the power the subconscious can have over us.
"I mean," you quietly start with a shaky, unsure tone. "Yeah. Yes, I guess."
"I know, he's sexy, right? You wouldn't expect it but there's something about him—"
Your best friend regrettably far too accepting of this conversation topic.
"Look, it's not a big deal, I'm not like — dying for it," you cut her off suddenly, mostly in an attempt to deter the conversation from any more detail about that something about the man. "It's just like...in theory, you know, something about that angry, 'I don't like you, you don't like me' type of arrangement makes for a good fantasy but of course, it's just that."
"Right," she snorts again and into the glass pressed to her mouth. "Just that."
 Ten minutes later and with the check for lunch paid by the credit card of a particular husband, with Mina hurrying to gather her things on account of being late back to work — she hugs you quickly with one arm slung around you before rushing off the other way — but not before turning just as suddenly and whispering a little too loudly for your comfort given the people around.
"Look, obviously I can't make him fuck you, but I'll run it by him. I'll let you know. Cheers, babe!"
Great.
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"Babe, come to bed!"
Tone whiny and pleading as she kicks her feet from beneath the covers of their shared, King sized bed, Mina groans into the pillow expectantly in anticipation of her husband joining her for a cuddle and a conversation.
Although, mostly the conversation, this time.
"I'm coming, I'm coming!" Doyoung chimes back from their white and gold accented bedroom, toothbrush shoved into his mouth as he peeks his head out through the doorway just before spitting into the sink. "Pushy, aren't you?"
"One of the many things you love about me."
As he saunters towards the side of the bed, all too aware of his surroundings and even more than that, the mischievous grin pulled across the lips of his beloved wife — eyes narrowing with suspicion, he slows his movements just ever so slightly before finally crawling into bed next to her and meeting beneath the sheets. "Why do I have a feeling you're not just looking to snuggle up with your wonderful husband, tonight?"
"Aw, Doie, don't be like that—" Mina whines, wrapping her arms around his and pulling her body against his as he flips through channels on the television against the wall in front of them. "—I had lunch with my bestie today."
Glancing out of his peripheral towards her, Doyoung hums inquisitively, as if unsure of what this has to do with him but anticipating that he's going to find out. "That's good. How is she?"
"She's good," every word coming out like she's singing a song — one made up of no-good and trouble — charming in her tone. "Although, she's had a lot on her mind, lately — so to say."
Pausing, the man shifts just slightly in place as he finally settles on a channel and sets the remote control down between the two of them. "And why do I have a bad feeling about what that means?"
Lips gently beginning to decorate the exposed skin of his shoulder and arm, Mina smiles into them just before the words finally leave her. "She had a dream about you."
"Okay?"
Slow on the pick-up.
This time, she delivers the information a bit more pointedly. "She had a dream about you."
"Oh," he says quietly at first, until the fact of the matter finally, truly, dawns on him. "Oh."
A squint and a frown now, Doyoung's head turns quickly towards his wife.
"And she told you this?"
Mina nods.
"You both are a little too close."
"Well?" She finally offers up the question at hand, lips still innocently peppering across her lovers skin. "What do you think?"
"Are you asking me if I want to fuck your best friend? How would this work, anyway? It's not as if we even get on all that well—"
"I think that's part of it for her."
"—Kinky minx."
Slowly pulling from Doyoung and groaning into a long stretch of her limbs as if settling in for slumber, she smiles again. "It wouldn't be the first time, anyways."
"Yeah, but never friends," he says, rubbing his palms over his face as if a little taken aback by the topic of conversation as a whole. "—I mean, I'm down, you know her better than I do — if you think she can handle it."
"We'll have the discussion later, I wanted to run it by you, first."
Reaching a hand over to his wife, Doyoung pulls her by the arm back over and against his torso with a kiss to the top of her head as she settles her face into the crook of his neck.
"My little liaison," the man chuckles into her hair lovingly. "You just wanna hear about all the dirty little details after the fact, don't you?"
Pulling back to meet eyes with him, a scrunch of her nose and a giggle gives Doyoung all of the answer he would ever really need.
"What can I say? Everyone wins."
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Two glasses of wine poured and the both of you sat next to one another on the large and undoubtedly far too expensive plush couch of the living room — a certain comfort of being only in the company of your best friend — it brings you back to so many other instances like this through the years of your friendship, curled up on far less luxury items but sharing all of the intimate details of your loves and lives, as the closest of friends tend to do.
Tonight, however, would offer a bit of a different experience. You're prepared for it, suppose, as much as you possibly can be, given the circumstances at play.
 "He's not home, is he?" You question suddenly, Mina tucking her legs under the rest of her with glass in hand as she situates herself to be facing you. A smile and a chuckle, she shakes her head. "No, it's just us."
Exhaling a sigh of relief at the option of being walked in on by the very topic of conversation not being on the table, you allow yourself at least a tiny bit more of comfort with the affirmation.
"You're going to have to be honest with me," Mina begins, one corner of her lips tugging upwards. "I can only relay to him what you tell me, and he's not going to freestyle it, either, so—"
You take a much larger swig from your glass than previously had, nearly finishing off the contents of it.
"—Tell me what you want."
"Another glass of wine, for starters."
Snorting, your best friend leans towards the table to grab the bottle into hand, tilting it towards your glass and filling it all over again. "You don't have to be uncomfortable, like I said, it's not really the first time we've done this."
"Yeah, news to me," you sigh with a bit of shock cutting through it. "All these years and I never knew."
Shrugging, Mina sets the bottle down again before settling into place all over. "People tend to assume monogamy among couples, we just allowed them to do so. Not as much of a stick in the mud as you thought he is, huh?"
Choosing not to acknowledge that fact, you take another sip of your wine, waiting for the topic of conversation to shift to something that is — effectively the same topic, but more in pertinence to you, specifically.
"So, tell me."
A sharp inhale, you know that you don't have to go through with this: You can just as easily call the whole thing off and pretend that none of this has ever happened — and that the both of them would happily carry on with their lifestyle all the same — but the unshakable lust for the man now deeply imbedded within you, like an itch that's otherwise impossible to scratch — an offering to have it when under most other circumstances it would have to remain as a dull, silent ache only left to you and your own devices, as it were.
 A little too sweet of a deal to turn down, you find. Not God's strongest soldier, it seems.
 "I don't — I don't want him to all of a sudden pretend like we're best friends and that we get along perfectly," you begin cautiously and with eyes darting up towards your friend with every passing of every word. "I want it to feel natural, to feel real, so—"
"You want him to fuck you like he hates you?"
Laid out so simply, the idea of it makes your throat dry, but you nod all the same. "Yeah, yeah I guess so."
"Let me tell you something," your friend begins as she shifts into a more comfortable position with one leg out and over the side of the couch. "What's always been a little funny to me with your preconceived notions about how Doyoung is in bed — he's actually quite...intense."
"What does that mean?"
"He likes to be in control, there's a bit of a dominant streak in him."
Hearing the words, the math starts coming together in your head about the way the man carries himself, the way he works, and just the way he is in general — you're not quite sure how the idea never dawned on you, perhaps too wrapped up in all of the ways that you find him insufferable and a bore, it only natural to assume the same of his abilities.
Before you have a moment to focus on the ache between your thighs, your friend continues on.
"Does that...sound like something that would interest you?"
Swallowing down your pride along with your arousal, you nod until the rim of your wine glass.
"Well, that's easy enough, then," Mina scoffs with a casual roll of her eyes, as if she had almost been hoping for it to be a bit more of a challenge for him to fulfill the role asked of him. "In that case, what's off limits?"
 For some reason, you hadn't bothered to think that far ahead. Your friend notices as much.
 "For what it's worth, there will be a safe word, so even if you agree to anything now or later or any time, really, you don't have to go through with anything if you're no longer having a good time."
Eyes widening at the concept of needing a safe word, you swallow hard. "That intense, huh?"
"It's up to you," she continues on. "It's not just for when things get wild or out of hand, hell, you can use it if you're just in the same room as him. Have you—" She pauses inquisitively, suddenly questioning whether or not this is a good idea at all. "—Done anything like this before?"
But hearing the reluctance in her tone, you nod quickly. "Yeah! Yes, not with...my best friends husband, though."
A cute grin across her face, Mina laughs with a coy flick of her wrist. "Don't get so caught up on that. He's my husband, yes, and for all intents and purposes very much still will be for the sake of the scene, but even more than that, he's here to fill a role — he knows that very well."
"Are you going to be involved?" You ask suddenly, the question only now popping into your mind. Your friend laughs.
"No, I mean, he'll tell me about it afterwards but I won't be like...planning scenes with him, or anything. Whatever he has in store for you — well, that's between the two of you, until after it happens, of course."
"Okay."
Taking a sip of her glass and glancing up at you through eyelashes, she brings the topic back around again. "So, no hard limits?"
"Piss play, shit play—" you quietly begin to list off before Mina stops you. "Okay, he's not into any of that either. I mean more along the lines of; name calling, degradation, humiliation, general rough-housing."
Even just thinking about partaking in half of those things with the man in passing sending a shiver down your spine, you shake your head. "I—I don't think so, maybe start slow, though."
"I'll let him know, again, don't be afraid to tell him to stop in the moment if he gets a little too carried away. He's a good dom."
'He's a good dom.'
What an absolutely perplexingly arousing set of words in succession.
Leaning back finally with your shoulders pressed to the couch, you exhale heavily with eyes high to the ceiling above as your friend mirrors your movement — but instead, with a bright smile pulling across her red, wine-stained lips.
"This is going to be so fun."
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Part of the fun, you come to find, is the not knowing.
Even with rules, and safe words, and all of the parties involved very much having come to an understanding of the ins and outs of such an endeavor, the truth of the matter was this: You had no way of knowing when, or what, Doyoung has in store for you.
It's a little bit of risky play, too, at the core level. The fact that the two of you not be explicitly exchanging words among yourselves in order to maintain a certain sense of authenticity to the scene (far from unusual, in the kink world), but new to you, and most definitely requiring a level of trust among all people involved. Far from your favorite person, sure, but you trusted him — and that's far and away what a scenario like this require in order to make it run without a hitch.
And so the question runs constant at the forefront of your mind as you stand in front of your mirror, getting ready for the couples housewarming party: Are you going to fuck your best friends husband tonight?
Stemming from that very simple question, of course, comes a plethora of others: What should one wear? Is it too presumptuous to assume as much? What if it's just a normal evening party and you're completely out of your element in thinking he would fuck you tonight? Do you want to fuck him tonight?
Unfortunately, the answer to that one is an easy yes.
One of the rules being simple enough: The arrangement ends once you and Doyoung have penis in vagina sex — that considered to be the 'goal,' which then only begs the question of how much is the man intending to put you through before even getting to that point?
Or is he to get it done and over with as quickly as possible, instead?
Glancing into the reflection of the mirror and towards a simple, three-quarter sleeve black dress that hands down fitted to the knees, you think it sexy but not too sexy. Just sexy enough. The right amount of sexy.
Let's not appear too excited, after all.
  "Darling, you made it!"
Mina's voice ringing through the kitchen in a faux-french accent as she pours wine for a couple of friends — handing you a glass, she kisses your cheek before pulling away to look you up and down. "You look ravishing, my dear."
God, you hope so.
You find, however, that now that you're here, it's a bit more awkward than anticipated. Man of the hour no where to be found just yet, but unable to stop looking over your shoulder in an attempt to locate him — you sort of hope that your friend be all too preoccupied with the other guests to catch wind of just how hungry for this you may actually be.
Side pressed against the cupboard, you feel the nudge of someone attempting to open it, and turning in an instant to move yourself from out of the way, you're not at all prepared to meet the narrow, dark eyes of the man you're meant to — whatever, with — at some point in time.
You think that your stomach falls out of your ass right then and there.
"Look who showed up! You do take your job of being my wife's friend very seriously, after all."
"Doie! Don't start, it's not even ten o-clock yet!"
 It's almost bizarre to you the way that things carry on with such normalcy, given all of the ways in which the goings on between the three of you now be anything but. Reaching up and towards a bag of chips, with the mans eyes turned towards the subject, you allow yourself the greedy view of his fitted, navy blue button down tucked perfectly into black slacks, with a belt that you're sure costs more than your car payment, accenting it.
Sleeves pushed up and off of his forearms, you take in the way that the muscles and veins flex and move as he does.
Seeing Kim Doyoung in a whole new light — and more than that, you're allowed to do so.
How can a man this fucking insufferable look like this.
"I'll have you know, I can't be out late tonight," you bite back, a good effort in pretending that you hadn't just been eye-fucking him only seconds earlier. "Early morning in the office, tomorrow."
"What a shame," he exasperates sarcastically, settling back down to his heels and handing off the bag to Mina as she walks by with a carefully placed elbow into his side for...being the way that he is. "Don't let us keep you."
"Be nice." You hear your friend groan from just down the hall.
Everything the same as it always is.
Shrugging and reaching to his other side, the man grabs a single popcorn — tossing it into his mouth with a quirk of his eyebrows. "Don't worry, I was just leaving. Some of us still have work to do."
You have really got to get this out of your system.
  "Mina!"
Shouting through the open flooring of the living space towards your friend, you don't bother waiting to hear back a response before you carry on with the thought.
"Is the downstairs bathroom working yet?"
"No, you have to use our bathroom. Upstairs, to the right, all the way down."
With a quick yell back, you hurry yourself up the while, marbled staircase — not having to go particularly badly yet but mostly instead wishing to get away from the volume of the crowd downstairs for a bit — you realize it's your first time having been on the second floor of the home. Still so new and unexplored, you can't help but take in the sight in a way that feels akin to sight-seeing.
The two certainly did not do badly for themselves.
Slowly making your way down the hallway, your attention is instead drawn to a single room to the left and just before the end of the hall — the tiniest bit of flickering, blue light spilling out from the open doorway — simply enough, you know who reside inside.
Carefully sneaking past in an attempt not to disturb him as he works, you can't help but turn your head to peek at the man inside: head cocked to the side to hold his phone there as his hands work busily at a keyboard on the desk in front of him — but you should really know better than to think that you can get away that easily.
Eyes picking up and towards you, one hand pulling upwards and pushing out his index finger towards you. That silent motion that we all know.
The 'come hither.'
Glancing back down the hall from the direction in which you came, you slowly step towards the doorway, palms nervously pressed to either side before slipping past as quietly as can be — then, with the flick of his wrist, Doyoung motions for you to shut the door behind you.
Your heart rate spikes so hard you feel dizzy.
Hand shaking as you reach out and toward the door, you carefully pull it closed behind you — not all of the way, still sitting ajar just behind you — but seemingly good enough for the man and with eyes glued to you all the while, it's then that he motions once again with his finger for you to come to him.
A slow saunter, feeling the way that your heart beats so hard and fast against your chest you're certain that the people on the other end of the phone can hear it, once you reach just beside him, it's then that he finally swivels his chair around and to the side to face you.
Along with issuing another command: To get on your knees.
The truth of it is that it's humiliating how aroused you already are by it all: A quiet, drowning culmination of so many things happening all at once. The fact that it's so wrong to be doing at all, the fact that you had only an hour ago been downstairs reconsidering if it was worth it entirely given how horrible he is, and beyond all of that — the unknown.
A dull thrum between your legs as you slowly kneel down and between his, thankful at least for the friction that that provides.
Legs spread wide before you, you watch as Doyoung slowly slips one hand down the front of his pants to settle over the growing bulge beneath. Barely noticeable strokes over himself and only inches from your face — remaining calm and collected on the work call in his ear as he does so, you slowly bring a hand up to unfasten his belt as the heady desire of watching him work himself begins to course through even pump of your veins.
Catching your wrist in his other hand just as quickly to stop you from touching him, the two of you make eye contact: a look in his features of displeasure and disapproval.
You're not allowed to touch him.
Watching in silence as Doyoung's head falls back against the office chair, barely able to make out the strands of black hair sticking to his slicked forehead — you can't hear him, on account of the call, but the visual enough to drive you mad, and probably even worse than the dream had ever done — pressing your thighs together as tightly as you can manage as you eye the movement of his fist beneath the fabric of his slacks. Growing faster, using his free hand to pull his shirt up and out of the way so that you can watch the way the muscles of his abdomen move with every tug of his hand against his cock — it's truly the most excruciating and simultaneously intoxicatingly arousing thing you've ever watched.
Internally begging for the request that you climb up and onto his lap to take him, or at the very least taste him, you realize all too suddenly that you might really be in over your head this time as you watch him come in his pants for your viewing pleasure, only.
Completely silent, heavy breaths as his chest rises and falls with each one, Doyoung brings his head back up from the back of the chair to tentatively meet your eyes once again as he pulls his dirtied fingers from the inside of his pants.
Playing with the way that his cum coats his fingers for a brief moment, he motions for you one last time — but this time, a much different meaning to that single, cum-covered digit.
You waste no time leaning toward him, and for a moment, it's like you don't even recognize yourself, anymore; long past the realm of the kind of lust-drunken stupor you've ever experienced before — and as the man shoves long, sullied fingers into your mouth, it's an automatic response the way you suck and swirl your tongue around them, as if wishing them to be the cock you would be more than willing to beg for any moment now.
When finished, Doyoung frees his hands from your lips, only to motion you away from him just as simply as he had beckoned you.
 Stumbling down the hall towards the bathroom in which you had originally intended to find, panties slick and soiled with nothing besides your own desire — the words from your bestie ring loud through your memory in a horny daze.
'Intense' might have been the understatement of the year.
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When Mina invites you to a work party for her husband, all that you can think about is the night of their housewarming: sucking his cum off of his fingers in the dull, blueish glow of a computer monitor.
You wonder if she knows. Surely, she knows.
Similarly, modestly dressed as that night — this time in a nice blouse and a fitted pair of dress pants, your friend praises your attire as you enter the busy conference room, shoving a tall glass of bubbly into your hands just as quickly as you're able to greet her back.
"Thank you for coming," she sighs in relief. "I was so fucking bored."
You can't help but wonder what this evening has in store for you now.
Now that you've gotten a taste...no pun intended.
"Sure, I didn't have anything better to do."
"Unsurprising, stuff like this is your job, after all, isn't it?"
Slipping up from the side of the both of you with a proud smirk — hair slicked back and off of his forehead to accompany the the just as put together look of his freshly pressed suit, Doyoung comes up to settle next to his wife, hand settling just at the curve of her hip.
You sort of wonder what it feels like to so easily be touched by him before shaking the thought from your mind entirely.
"Are you ever going to let that joke go?" You ask with a roll of the eyes. "It wasn't funny the first time, promise it's not getting funnier the more mileage it gets."
"I'll stop making it when you stop showing up everywhere, maybe."
"She invited me!" You scoff, only to watch the man bend over to whisper the response into Mina's ear. "Don't worry, I'll handle her for that later."
Out loud, your response is of feigned disgust at the sight, but inside, the visual of the man so vividly offering himself to someone once again reigniting the lust in your gut.
It's a deep, untamed need to have him, now. Part of you hopes that tonight will be the night that he finally puts you out of your misery. Get it out of your system, and move on with your life. Go back to nothing but pointed distaste for the man that your best friend chose to marry.
"Well, I'm off, got to make the rounds," The man finally says with a kiss to the top of his wife’s head before gifting you nothing but a raise of the eyebrows in acknowledge of your existence. "Have fun."
It's funny, because it's precisely what you had requested. For him not to pretend. To not act differently in any other circumstances — for everything to carry on as it normally would. You wonder if it's a conscious effort on his part to do so, or if it simply comes that easy to the man.
  Quarter past eleven, you make your way out and onto the balcony by yourself — Mina off enjoying herself with a couple of the other work wives — weaving your away around a handful of folded and tucked umbrellas, tables and chairs for outdoor dining — you manage to find yourself a comfortable little nook of privacy off and to the side, and far from the line of sight of any prying eyes.
Thankfully, as it not be much of a habit you wish to be caught partaking in.
Digging into your bag to drag out the long, white stick from its box along with a lighter and sandwiching it between gently parted, red-stained lips, you light the cigarette and inhale with a feeling of relief washing over you — no, not a habit that you find yourself indulging in often, but perhaps after a few drinks on a particular night, you'd be known to have a bit of crumble to your resolve.
You know that Mina would have a thing or two to say, so best that she not know at all.
 "Look at you—"
Not just the sound of a voice, but a mans voice at that being the thing to startle you, swinging around to find the visage only slightly more comforting than that of a strangers.
"—Don't you have secrets."
Strolling towards you with hands in pockets, you watch as Doyoung closes the distance between the two of you with a toothpick between teeth, and feeling like a child caught red-handed, the lump in your throat catches any chance you have at swallowing down the obvious nervousness carried through your body at his discovery.
Turning away and facing out towards the railing of the balcony, you choose instead not to give power to his overwhelming presence as you inhale another puff of the stick.
"It's just a social thing when I drink."
A quick, careful shift of his body and Doyoung just as easily has you caged in with arms on either side and chest pressed to your back.
It's not the only thing pressed to your back side, either.
Mouth dipping down into the crook of your neck as you carry on your desperate attempt to ignore him, he never kisses you — never actually makes contact of his lips to your skin — but the feathering of warm breath that smells of expensive scotch all the same kind of intoxicating, as if having drank the liquor yourself.
"Have you thought about the other night?"
The first, verbal acknowledgement of this between the two of you. Suppose, it always was just a matter of time before actual words had to be spoken in relation to it, but with one hand sliding closer to your own along the guard rail as the warmth of the words linger against your skin, you swallow dryly at the question before attempting an answer.
"Y-yeah."
"Did you like how I tasted?"
Doyoung answers back to you much too quickly for your liking, obviously far more comfortable and in control of this interaction than you find yourself to be — by design, based on Mina's run down of the man and his sexual preferences — but more surprisingly than that is the way that it doesn't feel alarming, or discomforting, but rather, pools the arousal between your legs faster than you think anyone or anything else ever has.
It's humiliating, and unfortunately, that sort of adds to it, as well.
Fingers around your wrist, the man pulls you around and back towards one of the tables just behind where the both of you stand — a small, couch-like set up with a cloth awning that doesn't allow for a visual inside of it unless you be directly in the front of it — Doyoung drags you gently towards it before seating himself down with legs spread, and this time, hands busily working at his belt as he stares up at you.
"Knees."
If someone had asked you why you simply obey the commands, you wouldn't even really be able to tell them outside of the throbbing, painful need to find out what obeying may get you in the end.
Taking your place between his legs, you dare not attempt to reach out and touch him this time, figure, you learned your lesson from the first encounter enough — watching instead as his fingers pull the leather from it's loops, then work at the button just beneath — a quick lift of his hips to press his dress slacks down only enough to expose himself as necessary, but with the added coverage of his briefs, as well.
You realize now, in this moment, that you'll do just about anything to fucking see it.
Same hand as before sliding down his stomach and gripping his cock from under the remaining fabric, you watch with lewd attentiveness as the man strokes himself in front of your face all over again, just as before.
"Want another taste?" He says, words airy and lustful. Nodding your head in affirmation like a dog begging for a treat, Doyoung chuckles under his breath. "Are you wet?"
The question excites you more than anything else, because surely, he's asking for one reason and one reason, alone.
Quickly darting your hand down and between your legs, the man shoots up and off of the back of the seat with a sudden urgency. "Don't. Don't touch yourself. Surely you know without checking."
Nodding again, you try to say "yes," but the words barely escape through the dryness of your mouth.
"Good girl," he answers, leaning against the seat again and slipping thumbs into the sides of the fabric remaining at his hips to pull it down only a few more inches from where it currently lie. Watching intently as his cock springs free from the confines — finally in full view for you — long and perfectly curved, not too thin but not enough thickness to him that taking him would be troublesome, suddenly, it's as if the problem of your mouth being too dry be replaced now by one of being too wet — watering at the sight of something you want to feel inside of you so desperately that by the second you find yourself losing the ability to feign disinterest in him.
Dominant hand snaking around his length again, Doyoung brings his other hand forward and towards you — wrapping around to the back of your head and fingers curling into the strands of hair there. It stings, but nothing too bad, and instead you find the pain only amplify the throb between your legs now as he dangle precisely what it is that you want just out of reach and in front of your face with every slow, gentle stroke of his hand along his cock.
"You want another taste, yeah?" He whispers this time as he tightens his grip into your hair and tilts your head back — perfect angle for the wet, head of his cock to rub just at your chin and bottom of your lip.
It's exciting, painfully so, as the untouched arousal coiling within you threatens. For a second, you really wonder if you can cum from this alone.
"If I cum for you will you be a good girl and swallow it for me?" He says then as the movement of his hand begins to pick up just that much more. "I come a lot, can you handle that?"
For some reason, the thought of the man having full, heavy loads of cum makes you even hotter for him. Something so primal and lewd about the idea of it — but perhaps you're too fucked out on not being fucked by now that you can't tell what's sexy and what's not, anymore.
Either are possible.
"Y-yes," you huff out, darting your tongue out to lick at the bottom of your lip and not-so-accidentally meeting with the tip of his length. Devilish grin taking his features, Doyoung stills his actions just as easily — an impressive amount of self-control. "Uh-uh, that's cheating."
Pulling you up and higher from your knees so that you gain more height above him, with the way that you're positioned over his cock, you think that he may threaten to impale your throat on him in one, smooth go. Deep down, you sort of hope he does.
"Spit."
The command comes through so strong in tone that you quickly answer to it, collecting enough saliva in your mouth to dribble down and onto the already plenty wet shaft of his cock as he continues to stroke himself through it with a low, throaty groan that makes you want nothing more than to swallow him whole with how close you are to it.
"Wanna suck my cock, baby?"
You nod wildly.
Hissing through his teeth at the sight of your neediness, he picks up the pace of his fist along his shaft as he settles you back down to your original position between his knees — tip of himself pressed along your lip. "How bad do you want it? Will you beg to have me in your mouth?"
"Yes, please—"
"I didn't say to beg, I just asked if you would," he amends with a patronizing cock of his head. "Want me to fuck your throat? Choke down my cum for me like a good girl?"
The throb nearly unbearable now, you can only whine at the words as he gets closer and closer to his own completion.
"Why don't you open that pretty little mouth for me so I can give you what you came here for?"
The words coming out in a deep, throaty groan as he teeters on the edge of completion, you allow your jaw to fall slack as he fucks himself with his hand a few more times before moaning out through gritted teeth at the feeling of his release — ropes of warm, wet cum painting your cheek and lips despite mostly being caught on your tongue as he comes in waves with every pull of his fingers along his length until finally stilling — leaning forward only to gaze upon his artistic handy work before telling you to swallow it all as previously instructed.
On the way home that night, only ten, simple words lingering on your mind as you make peace with the discomfort of your arousal along the way.
'so I can give you what you came here for.'
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"Mina! I'm—"
Turning the corner and into the kitchen to find the door to fridge open — this is all well and good, except for, of course, once it closes and you're forced into contact with the same man who just came in your mouth unceremoniously a week prior.
Expressionless otherwise, Doyoung raises an eyebrow at the sight of you in his home before closing the stainless steel door and walking the other way.
"Guess my lovely wife forgot to inform her employee about the schedule change!" He says with a huff.
"You have got to let that joke go."
Right back to the usual. You wonder what sort of cruel games God plays when granting such a horrible man such a beautiful cock.
Shrugging and turning to look back at you from over his shoulder, the man takes a pitcher of water from the counter; pouring himself a glass before taking another one down from the cupboard and filling that, as well. Slowly carrying on towards you, he hands you the perfect crystal before nodding towards the marble island sitting in the middle of the kitchen for you both to take seats at.
Watching him move, it's such a different feeling from the one that intimately, you've grown a bit accustomed to. You know well enough that people involved in kink and alternate lifestyles are just regular people, but suppose you find yourself never having been so involved with one.
Or rather, fooling around with one who also happens to be married to your best friend.
Oversized, brown sweater hanging off of broad shoulders and thin, round framed glasses, Doyoung perches himself onto one of the stools with a gentle clank of his glass against the cool marble beneath — elbow snug against the hard material and hand serving as a means to lean his temple against as he looks upon you.
It's a little bizarre, feeling him watch you in a way that doesn't feel sexual at all. In a way, you find, it might be the first time Doyoung has really paid you any attention at all beyond the irritating banter of your joint, non-intimate involvement.
Looking charmingly soft and domestic, it's hard to make sense of the man seated in front of you, and the man who asked you to spit on his dick a week ago.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
Taking a small sip from your glass, you try to drink down with it the nervousness of being in his presence, but suppose, maybe just a normal conversation will help alleviate that much.
"Have you...told her?"
Stilling, as if not quite sure what it is that you're asking, Doyoung's eyes first pull away from you in some attempt to gather knowledge from elsewhere that he not quite have in front of him. "Yeah, she told you I would."
Thumbing at the rim of your glass, intentionally avoiding any and all eye contact with the man, you hum in response. "What does she think?"
Glancing up, you catch the sight of a grin taking the mans lips, tongue darting across his lower lip like he's finally cracked the case of what all of this is about — settling back into his position from just before with a wide, gummy smile that you're not all that used to seeing.
"She thinks it's hot, is that what you want to hear?"
Snorting at the reply, you shrug. "I don't know. I guess."
"If this is some juvenile way of asking if everyone on our end is okay with the way things are taking place thus far, then the answer is 'yes,'" he says with an annoyingly judgmental tone to his voice. "Everything good on your end?" He adds much to your surprise, popping your head up suddenly at the question.
"Uh," you begin, bashful at the thought of further acknowledging the goings on between the two of them at this current point in time. "Y-yeah, everything is good."
Answering you first with a nod as he sets the glass into the sink, the man carries on down the short hallway and out of the kitchen entirely.
"Well, I've got work to do. Mina'll be home in about a half an hour. Make yourself comfortable, you apparently live here, after all."
Frown on your face at the words and tightening the grip on the set of keys that most definitely go to this home — suppose it's a fair enough assessment.
  After a much later night than usual, with Mina in bed and keys of your own, it's simple enough to let yourself out.
Dimly lit hallways all of the way into the kitchen, it's on your way to sneaking out that you recall having left your dirty glass on the counter — and without giving Doyoung any more reasons to be a thorn in your side, obviously, it easier to be dealt with now. Easy enough.
Except that apparently this guy fucking lives in the kitchen.
Laptop propped up onto the same counter that the two of you shared your small chat earlier, the man watches you move slowly through the area — carefully reaching towards your glass and taking it into your hand as you slide it towards yourself and turn to set it precisely where it is that it belongs.
"Sorry," you whisper on your way past him again and towards the kitchen exit, before that familiar, strong hand finds itself looping around your wrist all over again.
You don't know if you can handle another night like the other two, however.
Pulling you into him with your back to his chest and still seated in place, you think it perhaps a good idea to have worn a cute little sun dress today.
That's not the only surprise you have in waiting, either.
One arm wrapped around your shoulders as the other slinks down to the inside of your thigh — you delight in the feeling of the man touching you, really touching you, for the first time. Delicate pads of his fingers feathering up slowly to the apex of your thighs, it's only due to the position of you against him in such a way that he feels the knocking of something hard against his wrist as he attempts to move closer to your vulva.
And it causes him to still completely.
Seconds of silence passing between you, nearly holding your breath at the anticipation of what's to come — you wonder if he'll choose to punish you for daring to go out on a limb and do such a thing, if punishment is even really something he would do — so many questions and possibilities, all more exciting than the last.
Slowly, you feel him lower his head down, mouth just next to your ear as the very same traveling hand pulls back to your behind and presses a finger right up against the exact thing causing the intrusion.
"Well, well, well," he whispers teasingly against your flesh. "Someone came over with expectations."
Already having opted out of verbally replying to him, he makes it easy with the ease in which he pushes you forward to give him space to stand — fingers pressed into the side of your neck from behind as he hurriedly urges you towards the darkened, least lit countertop in the kitchen.
It's a nice attention to detail: Not that the two of you have to sneak around, but pretending to makes it all that much more worth it.
Forcing your face and chest down and folding you over, Doyoung bunches the fabric of your dress up and over your ass just before diving by hand into the back of your panties for precisely the device that has him in such a mood.
"Who told you to wear this?" He asks with a gentle press against it. One finger extending down, he dips into your folds just ever so lightly before pulling back up with a chuckle under his breath. "You're so wet. Aren't you a little cockslut?"
The shift in Doyoung's demeanor this time hard to ignore, like a little bit of him lost in some sort of primal, animalistic lust to have you — it's precisely what you had been going for, after all.
Distinct sound of him hurriedly trying to pull himself from his jeans, met then with the feeling of long, deft fingers gently tugging your underwear down your legs — Doyoung pulls your hips up and out just enough before pressing your thighs closed together with his cock sandwiched in between and the plug in your ass on display for him as he continues gently pushing and pulling on it with ever shallow thrust of his hips against you.
It's excruciating, the promise of feeling him snug between your walls in only an inch or so of adjustment — head of his cock rutting gently against your swollen clit as he aimlessly fucks the wetness of your pussy from the outside — you regret the way that the quake of your thighs give away the fact that you may be able to come from this contact alone.
Slowing his movements against you with hands firmly pressed into the dip of your hips, Doyoung leans down and against you to whisper more torment into your ears.
"So close, baby," he huffs out. "You're so wet, could slide inside of you so easily — fuck you raw right here, would you like that?"
As if the knowing and the wanting wasn't enough, the talking always ending up as your ultimate downfall with the man.
You nod despite the way in which the side of your face lie against cold, unforgiving marble — looking back at him as he administers this particular punishment of the night. You're not sure if it's intended to be a punishment — of if any of it really is, but it certainly does feel that way.
Perhaps you're just a little bit too used to getting what you desire, with ease.
"Sort of want to," he says through gritted teeth, a certain tonal anger that you don't think you've heard from the man in your encounters before but that causes you to clench hard around nothing all the same. The promise of finally getting what you want to bad — the taking of what he wants and needs of you even in spite of himself. One hand sliding up your back and setting on the back of your neck again, he pulls his hips back just enough to position the tip of his length perfectly at your entrance — threatening all the while with shallow pokes to sheath himself inside of you once and for all.
"Fuck you stupid, have you babbling my name while I fuck you full of my load like the cum-hungry bitch that you are, that's what you want me to do, right?" Without giving you time to respond, you feel him pull hard enough on the plug embedded in your ass to remove it, tossing it into the sink only a little bit away. "Come over here with this in makes me act a little fucking crazy — but you haven't earned having me in your cunt just yet."
Hand swooping down from the small of your back and cradling instead his length as he positions the tip of himself at your well-prepped asshole — well enough lubricated from topically fucking your pussy, Doyoung presses himself inside of the tight cavern slowly with a bitten bottom lip and a forced back groan from his chest as he sinks inside of you as delicately as he can muster.
You're thankful enough for his attention, but it's not your first rodeo, and you prepped for a reason — pushing your hips back and against him as signal to carry on, he brings the hand back up and to your shoulder, leverage to pull you back with force and onto his cock with every following snap of his hips.
Truthfully, he feels fucking exquisite inside of you.
"Fuck, Doyoung—" you whine, only for one hand to swing around and over your mouth just as quickly as the words exit.
"Don't address me," he grits through drives of his hips into you — moans spilling out through his fingers all the same as if no hand there at all. "Don't talk, just take my cock like you're supposed to."
Nodding, the overwhelming feeling of wanting to come so badly and not knowing if you can get there untouched — tears threatening the corners of your eyes with every relentless yet heavenly drag of the mans cock inside of your ass — it's then that you feel the ghosting of fingers over your clit. A feeling so exciting to you now that you nearly bear down against them, to which, Doyoung chuckles at your neediness.
"Can't just come from my cock in your ass?" He whispers, the lewd sound of his hips meeting the flesh of your behind echoing through the otherwise empty bottom floor of the home. "How much do you think I'd have to rub you before you came all over my hand? Ten seconds?—"
The light, feathering of the tip of his fingering feeling nearly electric over your clit now, you moan out into the palm of his hand with eyes clamped shut. "—Five seconds?"
Breathing heavily through his hand as he continues his relentless drive into you from behind, pulling his hand away from between your legs you whine loudly against the flesh of him at the loss of yet another release, but instead, the hand around your mouth curling fingers between your lips as you happily and seductively suck around them like cock presented. Groaning at the sight, his other free hand traveling up the length of your torso and finding purchase against your breast as his thumb gently circles around the bud there — Doyoung leans down to curl his lips into a smile against your back at the sight of all of the ways that you're willing to fall apart for him.
"I think you can come without it."
Gently fucking his fingers into your mouth — simulating the presence of his length currently buried in your ass, also buried down your throat, with the additional stimulation of gentle tugs and flicks of his thumb against your nipple, pressing your thighs together tightly — you suspect that he might be right.
"God, look at you," he groans, slowing his hips to focus elsewhere as he watches the way you hungrily lap at his fingers. "You want to suck my cock so bad — have you always wanted it, baby?"
It's nearly involuntary, the moan that rips through you as the words leave his mouth.
Just shy of baby talking, condescending certainly, Doyoung pressing the pads of his fingers harder against your tongue as he shoves all of the way into your mouth to the best of his ability given the angle. "That why you act like that? Need me to fuck your face open, make you gag on it a little bit so you shut up?"
The words, with a particularly sharp snap of his hips, has your legs pressing in on themselves in just a way that you know with a little bit more movement, you can get there. Through tears brimming in your eyes, you manage out a desperate plea past the mans fingers — met with such a familiar sinister grin, Doyoung picks up the pace of his hips — harder and fuller with length against you as you nearly cry out around the fingers still dug in between your lips.
Digging a hand up from your chest and in your hair again, knuckles twisting into it hard as he chases his high, with a bit back groan he gazes down at you — standing tall and firm from behind you as you barely manage to meet eyes with him from your twisted position.
"Gonna come, baby?" He whispers through labored breaths as he teeters on the edge of release. "Want me to fuck my cum in your ass, don't you?"
"Yes, yes—" You chant at the promise of finally being able to come in the presence of the man. You're thankful when it's only two or three more stutters of his hips into you from behind before he releases into you — hot cum spilling into your hole as he shoves the full length of himself inside as he finishes. It's enough for you, thankfully, enough friction from the movement of him against you to have you barreling over the edge along with him with a shriek and a whine through his fingers as you come hard and long for the first time since you two have begun your rendezvous.
Chests heaving as the man gently pulls himself from you, you quickly bend down to pull your panties up to catch the mess of cum already immediately making its exit from your used, stretched open hole. Turning back around to face him as he effectively cages you in with arms on either side of the counter — the two of you make eye contact briefly before a gentle flushing of embarrassment washes over you and you're forced to pull away from the man that only seconds ago was inside of you.
"Try to remember to wash your dishes, would you? I can't do this every time."
Turning back suddenly, you playfully slap at his arm as he shimmies his jeans back up and around his hips.
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Mixed drink and a slightly over-cooked quesadilla in front of you on the table of a busy, evening restaurant on your side of town — in the company of a handful of shared friends, Mina and her miserable husband, you can't help the pique in curiosity about the ins and outs of such an arrangement from inside of the marital home.
How much their relationship benefits from the retelling of such engagements with your best friends husband. How much their sex life benefits from it.
Watching from your peripheral — an attempt to not make it so obvious, how interested you are in the dichotomy of it — Mina and Doyoung playfully flirting and touching each other from across the table as if the man hadn't just sodomized you in their kitchen only a few days prior.
It turns you on even that much more. The mystery behind it.
"God—" An exasperated sigh from the man; black turtle neck and fitted black jeans just under the table as he sets his glass back down onto the table with a disgruntled scrunch of facial features adorning his face. "—This drink is terrible, I should say something."
Squinting, the pointless complaint pulls something from you. Such a typical, stuck up, rich guy thing to say.
"Drinks are two dollars here, what did you expect?"
"I don't care if it's two or twenty dollars, if I'm paying for it then it should at least be drinkable."
Eyes turning towards your friend seated next to you as she meets your gaze just the same, a swift kick across the way to her husbands shin has him rolling his eyes and jolting back in his chair. "Be good, Doie."
"Yes, dear."
"Can't take him anywhere," You whisper to your friend, well within earshot of the man, which of course only causes him to lean in and towards the both of you with an irritated frown. "Don't talk about me like I'm not here."
"Better than talking to you."
"Trust me," he sighs, leaning back into his seat again. "The feeling is more than mutual. I wonder everyday how you ended up with a key to our place."
 For whatever reason, that one stings in particular.
 Normally, dealing with Doyoung is something that you're used to — but tonight, there's a certain tone to him that you find hitting somewhere in your chest in a much different way. Not just banter, but perhaps a deeply personal disapproval of not only you, but your friendship with his wife.
It's not that you anticipated starting a sexual relationship with him to have fixed your dealings outside of it — quite the contrary, actually — but maybe enough was enough, now.
You've cum on my face, the least you could do is treat me with a basic level of respect.
 Napkin out of your hand and onto the table in a way that it's obvious of your displeasure, you stand suddenly and inform Mina of your departure to the bathroom. "Do you want me to come with you?" She of course offers, only for you to quickly dismiss it and assure her that you're fine as you carry yourself off and down the short hallway to the small, two-stall ladies room.
Leaned over the dirty, wet, black granite counter with both hands pressed into the edge, you look at yourself in the reflection — needing a moment to cool off, you're still relatively unsurprised when you don't receive it.
Cracking the door open, you watch from in front of you as the most insufferable man you've ever known slips inside to join you.
"You having fun?" He starts, already with intent to have a fight with you. "Have fun causing a scene?"
"Oh, I'm causing a scene!" You chime sarcastically, "not the guy who wants to complain about a two dollar drink not being up to par. Does it ever get exhausting? Being so fucking far up your own ass?"
Rushing towards you in an instant, Doyoung wraps a hand in your hair from behind — first pushing you forward with the momentum of it but just as quickly ripping you backwards and towards one of the empty stalls. Door slamming shut behind the both of you and just as quickly allowing the back of his shoulders fall to the wall, he works quickly at his belt as the sinister look in his eyes never once leaves your own.
You wonder how he has this kind of power — only seconds ago the most horrible man you could ever imagine being around, but now, watching him stare you down as he works to free his cock for you in this public bathroom — you realize that it's that precise mixture of things that makes his desirability so strong. Painfully so, as the throb between your legs already finds itself stirring up once again.
Barely pushed down his hips and freeing his hardening length, languid strokes over himself as he stands in front of you never once breaking eye contact for a second, you realize in humiliating silence that you're waiting for his command.
Of which, he quickly grants you: "Why don't you put that mouth to good use, for once."
Maybe if you hadn't been wanting it for so long already you'd be more willing to put up a bit of a fight, but finally being granted one of the things you've been dying for since the beginning of this endeavor with him — falling to your knees in the filth of this bathroom stall and immediately taking him into your hand with a long, enthusiastic swipe of your tongue up the bottom of his shaft — the low, breathy groan that it grants you reason enough to pull forward to take the head of his cock between your lips and swirl your tongue there, only to press down along his length for as far as you can before the tip of him threatens the back of your throat.
Unfortunately, it's not much of him that you can take before that happens.
Hand in your hair again as you've grown so familiar, you hear the sound of his head falling back against the granite before parting his lips to speak. "Gonna have to do a better job than that. How good can you be?"
You know what he's really asking.
Pulling you forward by your hair harder along his length, you struggle to accommodate him in your mouth, but it's not the first time you've done something like this — he's not asking too much of you — but it's sudden, and the burn against your throat something you're not used to feeling as your gag reflex begins to trigger and tears well up in your eyes at the struggle.
Doyoung pulls you back only slightly so that you can take a deep breath before bringing your mouth back along him. "Come on, you're gonna have to take it all, baby."
The words 'have to' immediately pooling between your legs, especially.
Gagging around him, the man moans through the sounds of you struggling to take his cock into your throat, he begins shallow, short thrusts against your mouth in an attempt to bring your nose flush with the skin of his pubic area, but with this not being something you've done often enough — there's part of you that wants to fight through it, because frankly, you've been fantasizing about this very moment since the very first night you tasted his cum from his fingers, anyways — but perhaps you should have practiced a bit more (or at all) at home in anticipation for this night.
You don't want to, but everyone has limits.
Three fast taps of your hand against his thigh, Doyoung immediately removes himself from your hair, allowing you to pull off from him just as quickly — coughing into the crook of your elbow as you attempt to regain oxygen into your lungs, you can't see much through the wetness gathered in your eyelashes, but you do hear the sound of him tucking himself away again before kneeling down to meet you on the floor.
"Are you okay? Can I get you anything?"
"No," you rasp out, sounding far more fucked and broken than you actually are, but rather, a physical result of the assault on your throat. Really, you're fine, just too much, too fast. "I'm okay, seriously, just couldn't yet."
"Is there anything I can do?"
Concern dripping from his voice — he's not touching you, purposely as to give you enough space from him, you shake your head with a chuckle as you bring your hand up to wipe the tears away from your eyes before making eye contact with him again.
"No, you didn't do anything wrong, I was a little too enthusiastic, I think."
"Is it okay if I touch you?"
Chuckling again at the way that the man almost insists on handling you with kid gloves, you roll your eyes. "Yes, I'm not broken, I just can't deep throat seven inches of dick on a whim without a bit of practice."
"Aw," Doyoung coos, running a hand gently through your hair, before standing himself and helping you to your feet. "You think I'm seven inches. That's sweet."
Sniffling hard and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand before straightening your clothing and dusting off your knees, you shoot the man a confused frown. "Bigger or smaller?"
Unlocking the stall door and motioning for you to exit, Doyoung offers you a simple wag of his index finger and a pompous grin before answering.
"A lady never tells. After you."
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With weeks of fooling around with Kim Doyoung under your belt now, you find a certain level of trust and comfort established. Exemplified by his adhesion to boundaries and safe words at the drop of a hat, you can't help but recall the words that Mina had offered you so early on in the initial discussions of this foray into ethical non-monogamy.
'He's a good dom.'
Sure, you have a lot of criticisms of the man: That he's brash, boring, conceited, self-important and a whole other mess of ways to say that he's far from the kind of man you'd like to see yourself with at the end of the day, but one thing is for sure — safety, respect and trust are of the utmost importance to him.
Thinking back to that time in the bathroom — immediately unconcerned with the state of his erection in favor of the state of your well-being — sure, it sort of is the bare minimum when it comes to this sort of sexual play, but something to be celebrated, all the same.
So now, you may have an interest in rearranging some of the terms of your agreement.
  "Honey, I'm home!"
Annoyingly sing-song in a way that you know will irritate the man of the house but be effortlessly charming to the person that you're there to see — when met with silence, you're a bit disappointed. After all, playing house in spite of Doyoung's clear distaste for it has turned into one of your favorite past times.
Both the playing house, and the irritating him parts.
"Hello?" You ask again, listening to the way the words echo through the empty, lower-level of the home, only to eventually be met regretfully by the husband — apron-clad and wooden spoon in hand as he settles a straight-faced look upon you without offering anything for words.
Then, he turns back and into the kitchen from which he came.
A roll of the eyes, you set your bag down on a chair near the door, kicking your shoes off and following after him — eyes pulling towards the familiar countertop that you've more than become acquainted with as you circle around to the other side of the kitchen island to sit in the very same chair that the man had been seated in the last time that the two of you had your...engagements, here.
"So," you sigh. "When's Mina coming home?"
"She's not."
The words sort of send a chill down your spine, because the first thing that comes to mind is that the things that the two of you have been engaging in have now torn their relationship apart.
But, Mina was the one that told you to come over.
Glancing over his shoulder while perched over the stove — obvious horror splashed across your face, Doyoung laughs at the obvious line of thought in your mind. "She's on a business trip."
"Then, why did she tell me to come over?"
Halfway into turning his attention back to his cooking, he brings his head all the way back to look at you again: It's a look that says, "you know why, don't play dumb now."
He doesn't offer verbal confirmation, but you understand the jist of it well enough with just that. "Have you eaten?" He asks instead, to which you nod. "Yeah, had something on the way over."
It's sort of perfect, the way that the pieces fall together as Doyoung stands across from you at the very same island — a small bowl of soup being shoveled into his mouth with no particular haste as you watch him — gray sweatshirt and matching sweatpants, it's a cozy look that you're not all that used to seeing from him considering the majority of your involvement with him has been out and about.
You've been meaning to bring this up, anyways.
"I think—" you start quietly, picking at the skin around your fingernails lightly. The nervousness being the first thing that Doyoung notice as his eyes travel up from his empty bowl and towards your own, waiting for you to finish the thought.
"—I don't want to do this anymore. With you. It feels wrong. I can't do it anymore."
The layer of silence that falls across the atmosphere of the kitchen feeling so suffocatingly thick as you wait for his response — the man simply staring at you quietly through his eyelashes without even the slightest bit of movement until his lips part ever so lightly to speak.
"Color?"
And with confidence, you whisper back "green."
Squinting at you, you recall back having mentioned this to Mina in passing: the resistance kink. The desire to be 'taken,' to have a complete loss of control over the situation — participating in something so dirty, so wrong, and loving every second of it so much that you desperately wish for the morality of it to be out of your hands entirely. 'I want it, but wanting it is wrong. Only when stripped of the choice entirely is there true freedom to desire.'
And obviously, she passed it along to him, but the discussion not having happened in full means that now it's up to you to take matters of consent into your own hands.
But slowly raising from his slightly folded position, Doyoung brings his bowl to the sink, rinsing it out, and coming back to you in silence. The discomfort is poignant, so, now you have to ask.
"Color?" You slowly drop from dry lips, and without breaking his suffocating gaze on you, he whispers back pointedly "yellow."
The word exits his mouth quietly, smoothly, as if really trying to drive home to you how much this is not the way these things are supposed to work: Truth of the matter is that you know that, and this should have been discussed at length long before tonight — but you trust him to be able to make the adjustments, and worst case, to stop if you should need him to.
You're hopeful that he trusts you to do all of the same.
Then, he parts his lips to speak again. "—But, green."
It's his way of letting you know that you've gone about this all wrong, but all things considered, he's willing to roll with the punches, anyway. Jutting towards you, Doyoung wraps long fingers around your wrist, ripping you off of the stool and nearly knocking it to the floor as a result; tearing the apron from his waist as he roughly tugs you out of the kitchen, down the hall, up the stairs and swings you around to press your back against the shining, platinum railing of the banister in the hallway.
"Why did you wear jeans?" He grunts as he drops to his knees in front of you, quickly pulling apart the button and zipper to roughly drag the tight fabric down your legs.
Frankly, you didn't know that you'd be doing this tonight.
Stepping out of them and shoved down the hallway to be sufficiently out of the way, the man hoists one of your legs up and over his shoulder — one hand digging fingers into the side of the crotch of your panties to grant him quick access to your already anticipatory pussy.
However, him being eye level with your cunt not particularly how you had expected this to go — ever, really.
Looking up at you from between your legs and through devilishly narrow eyes, the man makes one, simple, request: "Tell me about the dream."
Diving into your folds as his tongue presses flat and firm against your clit — the sudden feeling of him having you like this making you dizzy with want, you find yourself entirely unsure how you're expected to recount much of anything to him like this — and especially once he begins unrelenting suction to you that threatens to make you cum almost immediately.
Attempting to bite back your moan, and instead opting for a breathy 'fuck,'  you know well enough that if you don't adhere to the command, he'll most definitely stop.
"Y-you—" there's an attempt to speak at least, until two long, thin fingers bury into you to the last knuckles.
Pulling his mouth away from you and licking at his lips lewdly, he cocks his head to the side playfully. "Better start talking or I'll stop."
"God, okay," you exasperate as he dives back in. "Was...against the wall, you fucked me against the wall — we weren't—"
"Allowed?" He pauses again only long enough to finish your thought with a grin. Nodding quickly, Doyoung still slowly fucking into you with his fingers as he watches you fall apart from above him, he coos at the look and sound of you — perhaps finally coming to an understanding of what all of this is about.
"Good girl," he hums gently, lips brushing against your wet folds without much intent behind the contact. "Can you do me another favor?"
Breathy and already a little fucked out, you whisper out a "yes."
"Come on my mouth."
Leaning up and into you again, tongue firm into your clit with tight, intensive swirls — it doesn't take long for you to follow through as one hand falls down and wraps into his hair — holding him firm in place as you involuntarily grind down against his mouth as you come blindingly hard onto him. Long since needed and the orgasm from the night in the kitchen hardly offering the release you had been looking for — Doyoung lending his face to you in such a lewd, particularly out of character act of a blending of roles — as you come down slowly from your high, you watch the man pull away and out of you with a gentle ease, sucking his fingers clean of you before wiping his face with the back of his hand and standing tall in front of you.
 "Want to fuck your best friends husband, but don't want to be responsible for the repercussions of it, huh?"
 You just came, but the promise of getting exactly the fantasy that you wish for out of this throbbing between your legs pooling just as if you hadn't.
You don't even get to answer before the same, dominant hand is wrapped up in the hair at the back of your head and pushing you down the hallway, towards the bedroom.
Stumbling inside as he roughly pulls you around, once the both of you reach the edge of the bed, Doyoung sits you down just in front of him — not letting you free of his grasp, but instead with his other hand, freeing his growing erection from his pants and pulling your mouth against him harshly.
Of course, you take him in with ease.
"You look so pretty with my cock in your mouth like this," he groans from above you, eyes glued to the place where he disappears inside of you. "Always knew you wanted me, that's why you always act like that, just need me to put you in your place, don't you?"
Moaning at the words and around his dick as he shallowly presses inside of your wet mouth, speed slowly picking up with each passing moment as he continues to talk you through it. "What are we going to do if my wife finds out? Suppose we just can't let that happen, can we?"
You hate the way the thought has you clenching down hard.
"That's why you're over here so much, isn't it?" Doyoung asks through gritted teeth as he continues fucking into your mouth, gently prodding at the back of your throat with each thrust. "Just begging for me to fuck your mouth? You love my cock, don't you?"
Pulling his length from you only long enough for you to answer back and breathy 'yes,' he sheaths himself inside all over again
Only a few more thrusts before grunting, Doyoung pulling himself from your mouth to fist over his cock and lined up with your face — you display your mouth open with tongue flat as he comes over your flesh again — warm, heavy ropes of himself painting your face and mouth before quickly angling your head down again to place his length between your lips for you to suck him clean, as well.
Holding your head back again and bringing his other hand up, thumb spreading the wetness of the act across your lips, chin and cheeks before shoveling most of it into your mouth as your lips close around his thumb to suck the digit clean just as you have with his cock — groaning into the look and sensation of it, Doyoung gently taps the inside of his fingers against your jaw, signaling for you to open your mouth all over again as he shoves two fingers in to swirl around the mixture of cum and spit collected there.
Slipping back and away from you, the command comes through simply. "Swallow."
You do so without question.
Wiping your mouth with your shoulder and taking in a heavy breath, you sigh out while looking up at him. "We can't ever let her find out about this?"
But glancing down at you with the most evil look in his eye, you watch as a single corner of his mouth gently pulls up,
 "You think I'm done with you?"
 It sends a tingle down your spine and straight to your pussy, Doyoung suddenly reaching forward to turn you around and bent over the bed as he pulls your soiled panties roughly to the side with a tear. Rubbing the head of his cock through your soaking slit and against your still sensitive clit, you grip hard into the sheets beneath you, attempting to pull away from him but to no avail as he grips fingers roughly into your hips to keep you precisely in place and displayed before him.
"Think you can take it all, baby?" He sighs, leisurely stroking himself back to full hardness as his tip slowly begins to split your pussy open from behind. "Can you be a good girl for me, take the whole thing?"
Whimpering against the mattress at the desperate, delicious burn of his cock finally entering you after so long — what feels like a lifetime of desiring having him buried inside of your walls, finally being granted to you with slow, almost delirious ease as he sinks into you from the back, you answer him honestly. "N-no."
"I don't think so, either," he responds with a comfortable ease as he continues with his initial stroke. "But you're going to try, aren't you? Not used to taking such a big dick?"
"No, fuck, Doyoung—"
"God you want this so bad, already so fucked out on my dick and I'm not even inside all of the way," gently pulling his hips back only to rock back inside, even such a simple movement granting him a cry out from between your dry lips. Leaning forward and over your back to plant a hand down between your shoulders and holding you in place, Doyoung repeats the action again to elicit the same response from you all over again.
"Oh, you love a big cock," he grits out through his teeth as he finally settles into a rhythmic pace against your behind. "You love my cock. Say you didn't want to do this, didn't want to go through with this, but I don't think that's true at all, is it?"
Pulling out far enough for only the tip of him to remain inside of you before drilling back hard into your cunt, you nearly cry at the unrelenting pressure of him against your walls, and in particular, against your g-spot. Thighs trembling and stomach tightening with every full, hard drive of himself into you, it's an attempt to form a full thought but instead, the words come out as only babbled sobs as he drives hard and firm into you.
"Do-Doyoung, fuck, 'm gonna, 'm—p-please, please, fuck—"
"You gonna come, baby?" The question comes through with hastened, airy breaths as if close himself. "Come around my dick for me? Wanna earn my cum?"
Nodding fast against the mattress, he grunts into a particularly hard thrust against you. "Make your lil cunt so messy."
Pulling himself back up into a straighter, standing position at the edge of the bed, fingers firmly dug into the flesh of your waist as he pulls you back hard onto his cock — the sudden angle change toppling you over into your orgasm unexpectedly as you cry out for him and curl your own nails into the sheets beneath you as your release rips through your body — simultaneously, Doyoung falling victim to the way your pussy clenches down around his length, fucking you roughly through your orgasm as he reaches his own with bit back, throaty moan at the way your cunt nearly milks his cum from him with little movement and so much ease — burying himself so deep into your guts that it threatens to hurt and whining at the near pain of having him so fully inside of you as he coats your walls.
Chests rising and falling, Doyoung pulls from you and falling next to you, it's much to your surprise when familiar hands tug you to the side and seated over his hips.
 "Split yourself open on my cock and come again."
 The words themselves nearly enough to do you in, but with the unrelenting throb of your untouched clit impossible to ignore, you follow the command as you position your hips over his impressively hard length and wasting no time burying him inside of your messy, cummed-in cunt all over again.
Leaning back ever so slightly and quickly rubbing circles into your clit for his viewing pleasure as he pulls the sweatshirt still clinging to his chest up to expose more skin of his abs and chest — reaching your free hand down, you touch over the skin there, feeling more of him and the way his abs reach to not only your touch, but the visual just in front of him.
"Fuck," you whimper, already feeling the threat of another orgasm building as your walls squeeze tightly around his seated shaft. "Fuck, Doie—"
The pet name.
"God, don't call me that, I'll come in your little pussy all over again," he nearly whines through an exhausted chuckle. It's a sort of endearing, almost break in character that you're not used to seeing from the man.
"Come on baby, be a good girl and come for me," he starts again with a fucked out whisper as he watches you twist circles into your pussy just above where his length disappears inside of you. "Show me just how bad you wanted me inside of you."
Toes curling and teeth gritting as it washes over you all over again — a nearly silent scream of an orgasm as your mouth hangs open through your release — a similar, quiet groan from the man beneath you as he watches and feels you come on him for the third time tonight.
 He takes his jobs very seriously.
 Giving you a moment to calm before heaving you off of him and standing in front of you again, as you sit up to meet his dick with your lips just as before, you can't help but be seriously impressed by his ability to maintain an erection.
You're beginning to understand why Mina married him, after all.
"Clean me up," he commands, hand gently weaved into the back of your head in such a familiar way. "Enjoy it while you can, it's the last time you'll get to taste me."
True as it is, you find yourself surprisingly somber at the thought of this being the end of the arrangement, as agreed upon. Far from an emotional connection, but rather, a mental one — a mutual understanding between physical lovers. The trust, the communication, and safety inherent in this particular pairing of people.
Plus, his cock is perfect and he fucks like a pornstar.
Licking up the length of his shaft, truly savoring the taste of his cum and your own mixed along it before taking him deep into your mouth and bobbing slowly, carefully, full of intent along his cock — partially for the show of it, and partially because yes, it's the last time, and you'll miss this more than you might have thought you would going in.
"You're amazing," Doyoung sighs, gently pulling his length from between your lips and folding over just enough to be only a few centimeters off from your own face with his. "Open."
Obeying the command and jaw falling slack, the man allowing the collection of saliva from his mouth to drip lewdly into your own — missing direction ever so slightly and catching partially at the corner of your mouth — Doyoung brings a hand up to thumb at the messy corner before finally closing the distance between both of your mouths and pulling you into a full, intense, passionate kiss — tongue immediately pushing forward to lick at the inside of your mouth — it's breathtaking and intimate in a way that nothing else thus far has been.
And pulling away with a single, thin, string of saliva connecting the two of you by mouth yet, Doyoung's lips curl into a sinister grin as his eyes pull from your own, to your lips, then back up to meet your vision again.
 "Happy to help."
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♡ send me your thoughts and feelings in my ask.
—part 2!
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robertreich · 7 months
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Why Do We Have Weekends?
Ladies and gentlemen…the weekend. Why do we have it? 
The short answer: unions!
In the late nineteenth century, many workers labored 7 days a week, sometimes up to a grueling 100 hours in poor conditions.
Workers were fed up. Many began to unionize and take to the streets in protest.
Violence against them at the hands of corporate union busters and law enforcement was common. Many lost their lives. But they didn’t relent. 
Organized labor kept up the pressure. Workers in the mining, printing, and railroad industries eventually won 8-hour-work days. Major corporations, most notably Ford Motor Company, began to heed calls to institute 5-day work weeks.
But most workers across the country were not guaranteed these benefits. 
Then came Frances Perkins — President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s Labor Secretary and the first woman cabinet secretary.
Before agreeing to the position, Perkins met with FDR to secure a guarantee that he would support her pro-labor agenda.To her surprise, FDR backed her.
In 1938, thanks to her advocacy and the momentum built by organized labor, Congress passed the Fair Labor Standards Act — which among many things ultimately established a 40-hour work week by forcing employers to pay time and a half for any hours worked beyond this limit.
And thus, created the weekend. 
 While many workers now enjoy weekends won by organized labor, the fight continues for those who don’t. 
A rising number of contract employees, sometimes known as “gig workers,” are putting in backbreaking hours without the protections afforded to full-time workers.
Now is the time to renew the historic call of unions to make sure ALL workers are afforded the dignity — and time off from work — they deserve. 
And who knows — maybe one day we’ll move to a three day weekend? 
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The new Luddites—a growing contingent of workers, critics, academics, organizers, and writers—say that too much power has been concentrated in the hands of the tech titans, that tech is too often used to help corporations slash pay and squeeze workers, and that certain technologies must not merely be criticized but resisted outright. I’ve been a tech journalist for a decade and a half; I did not begin my career as a critic. But what I’ve seen over the past 10 years—the rise of gig-app companies that have left workers precarious and even impoverished; the punishing, gamified productivity regimes put in place by giants such as Amazon; the conquering of public life by private tech platforms and the explosion of screen addiction; and the new epidemic of AI plagiarism—has left me sympathizing with tech’s discontents. After years of workers and citizens serving as Silicon Valley’s subjects, a movement is now under way to wrest back control. I consider myself a Luddite not because I want to halt progress or reject technology itself. But I believe, as the original Luddites argued in a particularly influential letter threatening the industrialists, that we must consider whether a technology is “hurtful to commonality”—whether it causes many to suffer for the benefit of a few—and oppose it when necessary.
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icyg4l · 1 month
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Pick-A-Meme: How Can I Choose The Right Career Path for Me?
Choose the image that resonates the most with you. In this reading, I will give you details that you can use to get closer to accomplishing to your career goals. I will also give those clarity to those who are confused on where to go from here with the help of the True Heart tarot deck.
Left-to-Right (1-3): Raven Baxter, Brenda Meeks, Kim Parker.
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Cards Used: 10 of Cups. The World (RX). Judgment. Knight of Cups. Wheel of Fortune. The Hierophant. 4 of Pents.
Pile 1A: I feel like this is for those who are thinking of going into the traditional career paths like being a nurse, a teacher, a lawyer or doctor. You are very determined when it comes to breaking into this career path. I feel like this is a dream that you’ve had for a long time, since you were a child. But you’ve grown up and you see just how practical this career path is or how much time it would take from all other aspects. Don’t let the money or the amount of time it takes to pursue this career stop you! There will be opportunities that come up for you as you pursue this path that will financially support you. I also see that you’ll receive some recognition early on in your career, for your contributions to this field.
Cards Used: The Moon. 3 of Pents (RX). Strength. Queen of Cups. Ace of Cups. The Hanged Man. Ace of Wands (RX). Queen of Pents. Ace of Swords.
Pile 1B: For those of you that are confused about what career path you should pursue, I say that you should consider some “niche” career paths; something that sticks out to YOU. This will ensure that you’re using your energy towards things that you love. I get the feeling that you’re tired of what you’re being presented with. These are the people that are tired of receiving rejection emails from employers or being ghosted by interviewers. I feel like you’re kind of nosy… perhaps you should consider a career as a private investigator. You have a sharp mind and you call bullshit when you see it. I also think that you should consider something to do with childcare, maybe take up the jobs that nobody wants to take up? If you’re into pets, you should take up the pet care. I feel like this is also the pile that should consider going to trade school to become an electrician or plumber. You would actually benefit from it & would meet some excellent people along the way. Everyone isn’t be a tech geek, a rapper or an aspiring designer and that’s absolutely fine! You got this!
extras: annalise keating. bedtime stories. human design. timestamp. first wives club. worker bees. social justice reform. politics. class action lawsuit. science geek.
Cards Used: The Emperor. 6 of Cups (RX). 2 of Pents. Ace of Wands. The Hierophant. 7 of Pents (RX).
Pile 2A: The people who chose this pile are currently fed up with their career path. I think that you have dedicated so much time to this career path that it has you burnt out. You may be considering switching career paths or adding a new element to your career path. You should! I thought of the storyline from ‘This is Us’ where Beth takes the risk to open up a dance studio after being fired from her job. Her original passion was ballet but her mother forced her into a practical career. She became an urban planner. She had the job for twelve years and loved it but she unfortunately got laid off. I feel like this collective has some resentment towards their career because it’s not what you want to do. What do you really want to do? Examine what really makes you light up. If you decide that you want to have a side gig doing what it is you really want to do, then have at it! But if you decide to start fresh in a “new” (but not really new to you) career path, then also have at it! The ball is in your corner.
Cards Used: 10 of Cups. 3 of Cups. 9 of Cups. Justice. 6 of Swords. The Hermit. The Fool. Prince of Cups.
Pile 2B: If you’ve been considering going into a business with a friend, you should absolutely do it! I saw the banner of a restaurant opening. I feel like this pile is really into the traditionally ‘girly’ things like doing your nails or hair. If this resonates then you should definitely take up cosmetology school. If that’s not what you’re into, consider going to school to become a masseuse or get into holistic medicine! You have a calming aura and people probably open up to you easily. But I get the feeling that you guys don’t always like to talk to people. You enjoy your solitude/quiet time & that’s okay. For those of you that are into poetry, you should consider posting your poems for monetary gain for extra money! In due time, you’ll figure it out. Be patient with yourself, you’ll know what sticks!
extras: aching feet. balloons. graveyard. black jeans. venus in the 11th house. aquarius venus. gemini venus. losing hair ties. the color purple. spoken word. friendship breakup.
Cards Used: King of Swords. 2 of Pents. The Hierophant (RX). Queen of Pents. The High Priestess. The Emperor. 5 of Cups.
Pile 3A: You guys are the people who long to be the boss. You guys strive for greatness & hold yourself to a certain standard. But I think that you’re doing a lot. You’re trying to do everything by yourself and you need some help. This could be a pile full of freelancers, psychics, therapists or entrepreneurs. Perhaps you’ve opened up a new business and everything just feels like it’s falling on top of you. You need an assistant to keep this business running! Hire someone that will keep you on top of your stuff. I think that you should try a new method of organization as well. Maybe you’re a model? If so, take some new headshots. Get some help with your portfolio. Update your resume. Create some new material because you’ve come so far. You really just need to be more proactive when it comes to your career; get on top of things quicker.
Cards Used: The Lovers. 3 of Swords. 5 of Swords. Queen of Swords. 3 of Cups. 9 of Cups (RX). 7 of Cups.
Pile 3B: This is the pile for those that are “inexperienced” but know that they’re going to be in their career field. I don’t think that you are clueless as to what you want to do. You know exactly what you want to do, you just don’t think you fit the criteria. When in reality, you’re rejecting yourself before someone else rejects you. Stop counting yourself out man. I think you want to pursue a career as a model, a baker, an influencer perhaps? I think you have some childhood wounds surrounding your social circle. You were viewed as an outcast and this is why you feel stuck. You know you’re going to be somebody but you need to start acting like it. I think that the route you want to take requires you to be in the spotlight. There is an audience for you but you refuse to put yourself out there. I think the best way for you to get over this is to challenge yourself. Create small tasks that will help you get out of your comfort zone. Therapists would call this rejection therapy. Try it!
extra: ANTM theme song. ADHD meds. kendrick lamar. “simultaneously”. influence. impostor syndrome. what was i made for? gymnast. athlete. being the only non-white person in the room. fitness model. green grass walls.
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anarchywoofwoof · 3 months
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do you want to see an example of how the media covertly goes to bat for corporations in order to justify the continued abuse and exploitation of the working class?
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in this article which reveals that nearly one hundred Pizza Hut franchises are laying off workers ahead of a minimum wage increase, they say the increase will be "close to 30%"
the increase from $16.00 to $20.00 is an even 25%
but the author of this article took it upon themselves to round up 25% to 30% for.... reasons?
oh and by the way, these companies are switching to DoorDash and other third party delivery services.
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let's talk about the real problem here first: this isn't about saving costs. it's about skirting responsibility. by shoving delivery off to third parties, these franchises dodge the bullet of employee benefits, workers' compensation, fair wages and all of the other things that come along with being an employee of a multi-billion dollar corporation. they're shifting the burden onto gig workers who often lack the protections traditional employees have.
you should pay attention to how media outlets like to use phrases like "strategic move" and "market adaptation" instead of calling it what it is: cutting corners at the expense of workers' livelihoods. they paint a picture of businesses "adapting to changing markets," while completely ignoring the human cost of these decisions.
and let's not forget the rounding up of numbers on the California minimum wage increase. from 25% to 30%? that's not just a rounding error. it's a subtle way to push a narrative - that the wage increase is so steep, so unreasonable, that poor corporations have no choice but to lay off staff. it's a classic tactic: inflate the issue, so the drastic measures seem justified.
next time you read about these "corporate strategies," ask yourself: who's really paying the price for these cost-saving measures? spoiler: it's not the execs at the top.
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dead-twink-storage · 5 months
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One of those things I learned from my father not explicitly told through words directly but indirectly is that just because a job is in an office or is retail doesn't mean that it isn't taxing and hard to do that one has to value their own worth as a worker above the demands of their employer's desires.
The man has worked physically demanding construction and manual labor jobs from his teenage years to his now very late 50s and is still going in and getting his hands dirty building vital infrastructure. Yet he has told me time and time again that I am working too many hours at the design office or that my once upon a time record pressing job was not worth the health issues it was causing.
These were and are well paying jobs if I was going through the same things for a minimum wage job like many current GenZs and a good number of my fellow Millennials his response would be and has been to quit because no entry level job is worth the level of commitment and hours for no benefits and no decent pay if you have the means to obtain better. The idea that I am going to take the opinion of labor and that one needs to suffer for their wage slave gig from some PragerU twat who hasn't worked an honest days work since their part time retail clerk high school job in 1994 over my own father's extensive work experience is laughable. Provide a world and a work environment worth people's effort and commitment before you demand their blood, sweat, and tears for your profit margin and certainly don't mock some poor overworked teenager who fears the rest of their life will be the boxstore rush hour that leaves them with no time for friends or family.
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bitchesgetriches · 2 days
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demonsandbullets · 5 months
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Ok more touching grass. I’m blocking people because I don’t intend to belabour this point with newbie activists but this is for the rest of you, for future reference.
We are all typing on phones and computers that are directly complicit in the genocide in the Congo. On an internet funded and infiltrated by US and Israeli spyware. Your lack of “silence” on either matter doesn’t erase your complicity.
When you mature your politic, you will come to realise that the true wickedness of this system is we are all put in ethical gridlocks and stalemates, which make doing the 100% pure thing, dangerous.
If you can get on here and not get fired for saying Free Palestine, especially anonymously, or under the cover of a lack of major influence, understand that is a privilege EARNED for you by generations of activists, who learned how to manage the risk of taking on this system by using nuance.
You think a man that marched against the Iraq War is complicit in this genocide because he is, IN YOUR DEFINITION, “silent” on it?
This is what I mean about a) controlling other people’s behaviour, and b) creating a false dichotomy of action that is antithetical to how the very system works. “Silence” was never meant to be a colloquial term when used with “complicity” - it is a systemic term. The silence of those with institutional power is complicity. Not miss ma’am at the coffee shop.
And THIS IS WHERE I REMIND YOU ONCE AGAIN - “celebrities” are Gig workers in an industry primarily funded and run by religious conservatives. Just because the industry says they’re liberals, doesn’t mean they are.
Movements work on consistency, and there are many ways to act. Demanding one way of action, and not providing any institutional power to back that demand other than “your disappointment” is reckless. This is not the stuff of movements that last. How are you planning to potentially support performers who’ve spoken on behalf of Palestinians, when all this is over and you’re back to drinking Starbucks? Will you care? Will you, once again, use your “lack of silence” (only one part of activism) to proclaim that you want to support them, or will you have tangible means to do so? I fucking doubt it. We don’t, even collectively, currently rival the support structure of the entertainment industry, that is run by religious conservatives - anyone that speaks out, is calculating their risk against their action.
Allow people to do their own fucking math, and if they haven’t been openly and brazenly fucking Zionist on main, give them the fucking benefit of the doubt. That’s what the adults/seasoned activists are doing. We have to see through the liberation of everyone, and that doesn’t happen by burning through everyone’s support systems at once.
This ain’t dick riding. This is me telling you to stop centering your “disappointment” on the internet, and keeping score about things that only move the needle by increments. This man, and his words, and your “disappointment” in him, in this moment, DOES NOT MATTER TO THE CAUSE. AT ALL. Get on the fucking phone and out on the streets like the rest of us. There are lives at stake and his part of his math, so he still has a voice to use in the long term, does not affect you at all if you’re truly here for the systemic change.
Tldr; His voice would be nice, but not at the cost of having his voice in the future. You dig?
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jack-kellys · 9 months
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so i am gonna talk abt the delanceys. and i don’t want that to make you scroll away at the speed of light. i want to talk about them in a broader sense, view them in a broader sense, in the way that we talk about jack and his existential need to leave where he is for the west- and, further, going into analysis, like how “the west” in america in the 1890s is a capitalist venture that is sold to jack as this idea of a new home, a better way to live, something that he needs, when the real home is new york with his chosen family and where no one needs to call him “son”.
i think what matters most in the world of the delanceys, and what puts them into a nuanced political stance as well as a personal one, is their father, the striking trolley worker.
i think it’s fair to assume that as a striking worker demanding better wages, as a union member, he deserves those wages. it’s good that he’s striking, that he’s demanding what he’s owed and doing so with his fellow workers. strikers are the right people to support especially based on the historical context of the trolley strike.
but this guy is… an asshole. he dumped these two children into the refuge and left them there to rot, presumably. there’s a possibility he didn’t know about how abusive snyder is, sure, but he knew it was a detention center and that’s not… where u put ur kids when u care abt them lmao.
so this man is a striking trolley worker who doesn’t give a shit about his own children. he’s an underpaid union member who deserves his dues but also lets his two sons suffer for years alone in a children’s jail. he fights the system to his benefit while submitting his two kids into a different one. the dichotomy is important here- it’s essential to the foil the delanceys are for the newsies.
the delanceys are strike breakers. strike breakers are, obviously, paid under the table to disperse union-led strikes and protests to uphold a system that benefits the rich- who of course will always benefit from underpaid work. the delanceys take money from this upheld system when they get the opportunity and beat strikers bloody who don't get to benefit from this system like they do. because they do benefit from that elitist system, since they are choosing to make money off of it outside of their usual job. right.
but within those strikers is their father. the father who left them to rot, who let wiesel scrape them out of that jail and enlist them at a dead-end newspaper gig. so the brothers hate this father, this striker, this piece of family. and this father is making all this noise with these other people- these people who support their father as his coworkers and fellow union members, and the delancey brothers' leave that strike with their fists red with more blood than solely their father's, since they're angry and good at it and the money is hefty.
and their childhood is semi-revenged, but at what ethical cost? they've served broken bones to plenty of workers just trying to fight for their fair pay- something that the delanceys can relate to, by the way, since it isn't like their wages are too stellar for how many hours they're forced to put in. but they put down these people--innocent sans their father--because they have the opportunity. opportunity for them is bringing others down, and when they have the choice, they take it. gladly. "it's honest work" is shrugged off and believed. "i take care of the guy who takes care of me" is snide. uk costuming has them wearing nicer work coats over their newsie-like attire, concealing their similarities and choosing to align themselves more with the elite, since that's...the only protection they can turn to besides each other. the elite gets them extra pay, and keeps them one rung above the newsies to sneer down at them from. they fight via using the system, since systems are all they've ever been apart of, and when they see one that might benefit them for once, they latch onto it.
and, of course, they're strike breaking again, with adult men and their uncle at their side, against their personal foils- the newsies.
the newsies either don't have family like the delanceys, or frequently have to be apart from theirs. lots of them don't have a sibling they can return to daily, or any at all. most don't have parents or family members. or homes to go back to after work. the system they are stuck in is one that does not work for them unless they make it work, making their own numbers and cash by gambling how many papers they can sell in a day to earn every cent back and then some. creating a system within a system--whereas the delanceys mold themselves into one that exists, again, to the elite's benefit--to survive.
and then, the newsies and their chosen family of brothers choose to revolt against their system in an attempt to dismantle it, or at the very least negotiate it.
and the delanceys' reaction to this, to another strike, to a group of kids going against their system (of which would benefit oscar and morris to join, tbh, unless they don't classify as "working kids" of the city, perhaps putting them at around 18 years old...)?
disdain and more snide comments! "not that i'm complaining, my skull busting arm could use a day of rest" "you working, or trespassing?/what's your pleasure?" and putting pressure on scabs to keep with the system- specifically more with uksies, oscar and morris are sort of dusting tommy boy off and whispering to him. trying to split apart the family the newsies have made with each other. and then ofc they beat the actual shit out of the newsies and in uk they have bats they are full on swinging, whole shoulder into it. you did not uphold this system, and it will destroy you for it.
and it nearly does, because then jack scabs, right? and oscar and morris are in pulitzer's office as the man talks jack through the deal, through the cash. as he must've to oscar and morris earlier that week about strike breaking the newsies. and all three of them all have these nearly matching bruises and cuts on their faces.
and then all three of them go to the cellar, the lowest floor of the elite. together the three of them are in this location with this context. two strikebreakers and a scab. taking the elite's money for their benefit, be it in a moment of fear, resignation, or greed. all the oldest kids in the play, the three who've seen the scars and rips and tears in this world more than any of the others. and for like twenty seconds of stage time jack oscar and morris are the same brand. until of course oscar and morris punch into jack's gut--since they're only "given discretion to handle him as they see fit" if he misbehaves, which jack hasn't, so they punch where people won't see/check--and remind him that he's still below them (literally shoving him to the floor ofc), that they're still closer to the elite.
and yeah, they are, because later, jack again refuses the system, and tosses the money back on the table after rebelling against his terms. in true foil fashion, once jack recognizes that his actions align that which he needs to destroy, he renounces them, while the delanceys remain on the other side of the coin they share with jack.
the delanceys, as a storytelling device, right, are meant to represent what the newsies could fall to, seen with the three initial scabs and then jack in act ii. they are this constant threat of sort of equal size to the newsies through the whole show, always kinda lurking. always being a possibility to become if the newsies ever forget what they fight for and against.
also, jack is....kind of.... like their dad, in their perspective. he's parental with the newsies, he leads them, guides them, and protects them, as well as constantly getting the better of the delanceys. why should someone like a father get to fight the system again? not on their fucking watch.
i think it's pretty clear that oscar and morris are meant to represent corruption on the small scale, thematically, while pulitzer is corruption at the top- since it all trickles down. and i think it's really important that this motif is consistently upheld within the brothers, since it sort of alters the message of the show to at least drastically change that abt them. they are the nearest branch of corruption to the newsies guys. that is so fucking cool
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The B.C. government will guarantee new employment rights for ride-hailing and delivery drivers, including a minimum wage and WorkSafeBC coverage, Labour Minister Harry Bains said Wednesday. But the changes fall short of what’s needed, say some labour advocates, and will create a new underclass of employee. Harry Bains announced the province is going to introduce minimum working standards for drivers on apps like Uber, Lyft and DoorDash. The regulations, once finalized, would guarantee workers a slate of rights they don’t currently have. It would also designate them as employees under the province’s Employment Standards Act, giving them the right to join a union. But Bains said the government would also exclude them from protections other workers have under the act, including paid sick leave and vacation time. It also does not include a benefits plan — something the BC NDP promised gig workers in its 2020 election campaign.
Continue Reading.
Tagging: @politicsofcanada
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transmutationisms · 3 months
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(https://www.theatlantic. c o m/ideas/archive/2023/12/humanities-university-conservative-critics/676890/) wondering if you have read this article and your thoughts, if you do not mind? there are some things i resonate with as a gig research assistant in these 'activist-interdisciplinary' departments maybe (aka truly atrocious labor practices with nontenured/contract workers in the name of preserving a disciplinary legitimacy they will never receive), but imho even the discussion of funding/hire infrastructures concedes too much to the culture wars? :/ struggling to name precisely where the obfuscation is coming from though. would welcome your thoughts if it is not a trouble! tysm!
yea i don't think this is a good essay. there are a lot of things i could nitpick (like this description of current hiring practices is ?maybe? truer of some SLACs but does not resonate w/ any of my experience at a quasi-public R1) or just really disingenuous framing (in what world is 'diversity hiring' even a significant force... the academy is quite literally still extremely incredibly overwhelmingly white... there are more jobs for historians of paris alone than of haiti....)
but i think the central issues here are 1) that the essay's entire thesis hinges on the idea that someone studying racism or misogyny or colonialism is producing work that is 'political' whereas someone studying a 'western canon' white male poet in a decontextualist framework like new criticism is producing work that is 'apolitical'. this is wildly asymmetrical; producing work that doesn't name its politics is not the same as producing work that has no politics; 2) despite starting with an enjoinder to analyse the academy materially and not ideally, this essay barely gestures toward any awareness of the material function and effects of the university as an institution. so it's still mired in presumptions like that the purpose of the university is to disseminate knowledge rather than to benefit from its restriction, that the university is necessarily the best or only site for personal and social 'enlightenment' to occur, and, critically, that the designation of prestige and social / economic value to certain forms of knowledge and knowledge certification occurs after some kind of rational process of evaluation of knowledge gained, and has nothing to do with the production of class hierarchy and the illusion of meritocratic upward mobility lol
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Rent control works
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This Saturday (May 20), I’ll be at the GAITHERSBURG Book Festival with my novel Red Team Blues; then on May 22, I’m keynoting Public Knowledge’s Emerging Tech conference in DC.
On May 23, I’ll be in TORONTO for a book launch that’s part of WEPFest, a benefit for the West End Phoenix, onstage with Dave Bidini (The Rheostatics), Ron Diebert (Citizen Lab) and the whistleblower Dr Nancy Olivieri.
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David Roth memorably described the job of neoliberal economists as finding “new ways to say ‘actually, your boss is right.’” Not just your boss: for decades, economists have formed a bulwark against seemingly obvious responses to the most painful parts of our daily lives, from wages to education to health to shelter:
https://popula.com/2023/04/30/yakkin-about-chatgpt-with-david-roth/
How can we solve the student debt crisis? Well, we could cancel student debt and regulate the price of education, either directly or through free state college.
How can we solve America’s heath-debt crisis? We could cancel health debt and create Medicare For All.
How can we solve America’s homelessness crisis? We could build houses and let homeless people live in them.
How can we solve America’s wage-stagnation crisis? We could raise the minimum wage and/or create a federal jobs guarantee.
How can we solve America’s workplace abuse crisis? We could allow workers to unionize.
How can we solve America’s price-gouging greedflation crisis? With price controls and/or windfall taxes.
How can we solve America’s inequality crisis? We could tax billionaires.
How can we solve America’s monopoly crisis? We could break up monopolies.
How can we solve America’s traffic crisis? We could build public transit.
How can we solve America’s carbon crisis? We can regulate carbon emissions.
These answers make sense to everyone except neoliberal economists and people in their thrall. Rather than doing the thing we want, neoliberal economists insist we must unleash “markets” to solve the problems, by “creating incentives.” That may sound like a recipe for a small state, but in practice, “creating incentives” often involves building huge bureaucracies to “keep the incentives aligned” (that is, to prevent private firms from ripping off public agencies).
This is how we get “solutions” that fail catastrophically, like:
Public Service Loan Forgiveness instead of debt cancellation and free college:
https://studentloansherpa.com/likely-ineligible/
The gig economy instead of unions and minimum wages:
https://www.newswise.com/articles/research-reveals-majority-of-gig-economy-workers-are-earning-below-minimum-wage
Interest rate hikes instead of price caps and windfall taxes:
https://www.npr.org/2023/05/03/1173371788/the-fed-raises-interest-rates-again-in-what-could-be-its-final-attack-on-inflati
Tax breaks for billionaire philanthropists instead of taxing billionaires:
https://memex.craphound.com/2018/11/10/winners-take-all-modern-philanthropy-means-that-giving-some-away-is-more-important-than-how-you-got-it/
Subsidizing Uber instead of building mass transit:
https://prospect.org/infrastructure/cities-turn-uber-instead-buses-trains/
Fraud-riddled carbon trading instead of emissions limits:
https://pluralistic.net/2022/05/27/voluntary-carbon-market/#trust-me
As infuriating as all of this “actually, your boss is right” nonsense is, the most immediate and continuously frustrating aspect of it is the housing crisis, which has engulfed cities all over the world, to the detriment of nearly everyone.
America led the way on screwing up housing. There were two major New Deal/post-war policies that created broad (but imperfect and racially biased) prosperity in America: housing subsidies and labor unions. Of the two, labor unions were the most broadly inclusive, most available across racial and gender lines, and most engaged with civil rights struggles and other progressive causes.
So America declared war on labor unions and told working people that their only path to intergenerational wealth was to buy a home, wait for it to “appreciate,” and sell it on for a profit. This is a disaster. Without unions to provide countervailing force, every part of American life has worsened, with stagnating wages lagging behind skyrocketing expenses for education, health, retirement, and long-term care. For nearly every homeowner, this means that their “most valuable asset” — the roof over their head — must be liquidated to cover debts. Meanwhile, their kids, burdened with six-figure student debt — will have little or nothing left from the sale of the family home with which to cover a downpayment in a hyperinflated market:
https://gen.medium.com/the-rents-too-damned-high-520f958d5ec5
Meanwhile, rent inflation is screaming ahead of other forms of inflation, burdening working people beyond any ability to pay. Giant Wall Street firms have bought up huge swathes of the country’s housing stock, transforming it into overpriced, undermaintained slums that you can be evicted from at the drop of a hat:
https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/08/wall-street-landlords/#the-new-slumlords
Transforming housing from a human right to an “asset” was always going to end in a failure to build new housing stock and regulate the rental market. It’s reaching a breaking point. “Superstar cities” like New York and San Francisco have long been priced out of the reach of working people, but now they’re becoming unattainable for double-income, childless, college-educated adults in their prime working years:
https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2023/05/15/upshot/migrations-college-super-cities.html
A city that you can’t live in is a failure. A system that can’t provide decent housing is a failure. The “your boss is right, actually” crowd won: we don’t build public housing, we don’t regulate rents, and it suuuuuuuuuuuuuuucks.
Maybe we could try doing things instead of “aligning incentives?”
Like, how about rent control.
God, you can already hear them squealing! “Price controls artificially distort well-functioning markets, resulting in a mismatch between supply and demand and the creation of the dreaded deadweight loss triangle!”
Rent control “causes widespread shortages, leaving would-be renters high and dry while screwing landlords (the road to hell, so says the orthodox economist, is paved with good intentions).”
That’s been the received wisdom for decades, fed to us by Chicago School economists who are so besotted with their own mathematical models that any mismatch between the models’ predictions and the real world is chalked up to errors in the real world, not the models. It’s pure economism: “If economists wished to study the horse, they wouldn’t go and look at horses. They’d sit in their studies and say to themselves, ‘What would I do if I were a horse?’”
https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/27/economism/#what-would-i-do-if-i-were-a-horse
But, as Mark Paul writes for The American Prospect, rent control works:
https://prospect.org/infrastructure/housing/2023-05-16-economists-hate-rent-control/
Rent control doesn’t constrain housing supply:
https://dornsife.usc.edu/pere/rent-matters
At least some of the time, rent control expands housing supply:
https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/full/10.1111/j.1467-9906.2007.00334.x
The real risk of rent control is landlords exploiting badly written laws to kick out tenants and convert their units to condos — that’s not a problem with rent control, it’s a problem with eviction law:
https://web.stanford.edu/~diamondr/DMQ.pdf
Meanwhile, removing rent control doesn’t trigger the predicted increases in housing supply:
https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0094119006000635
Rent control might create winners (tenants) and losers (landlords), but it certainly doesn’t make everyone worse off — as the neoliberal doctrine insists it must. Instead, tenants who benefit from rent control have extra money in their pockets to spend on groceries, debt service, vacations, and child-care.
Those happier, more prosperous people, in turn, increase the value of their landlords’ properties, by creating happy, prosperous neighborhoods. Rent control means that when people in a neighborhood increase its value, their landlords can’t kick them out and rent to richer people, capturing all the value the old tenants created.
What is life like under rent control? It’s great. You and your family get to stay put until you’re ready to move on, as do your neighbors. Your kids don’t have to change schools and find new friends. Old people aren’t torn away from communities who care for them:
https://ideas.repec.org/a/uwp/landec/v58y1982i1p109-117.html
In Massachusetts, tenants with rent control pay half the rent that their non-rent-controlled neighbors pay:
https://economics.mit.edu/sites/default/files/publications/housing%20market%202014.pdf
Rent control doesn’t just make tenants better off, it makes society better off. Rather than money flowing from a neighborhood to landlords, rent control allows the people in a community to invest it there: opening and patronizing businesses.
Anything that can’t go on forever will eventually stop. As the housing crisis worsens, states are finally bringing back rent control. New York has strengthened rent control for the first time in 40 years:
https://www.nytimes.com/2019/06/12/nyregion/rent-regulation-laws-new-york.html
California has a new statewide rent control law:
https://www.nytimes.com/2019/09/11/business/economy/california-rent-control.html
They’re battling against anti-rent-control state laws pushed by ALEC, the right-wing architects of model legislation banning action on climate change, broadband access, and abortion:
https://www.nmhc.org/research-insight/analysis-and-guidance/rent-control-laws-by-state/
But rent control has broad, democratic support. Strong majorities of likely voters support rent control:
https://www.bostonglobe.com/2023/03/07/metro/new-statewide-poll-shows-strong-support-rent-control/
And there’s a kind of rent control that has near unanimous support: the 30-year fixed mortgage. For the 67% of Americans who live in owner-occupied homes, the existence of the federally-backed (and thus federally subsidized) fixed mortgage means that your monthly shelter costs are fixed for life. What’s more, these costs go down the longer you pay them, as mortgage borrowers refinance when interest rates dip.
We have a two-tier system: if you own a home, then the longer you stay put, the cheaper your “rent” gets. If you rent a home, the longer you stay put, the more expensive your home gets over time.
America needs a shit-ton more housing — regular housing for working people. Mr Market doesn’t want to build it, no matter how many “incentives” we dangle. Maybe it’s time we just did stuff instead of building elaborate Rube Goldberg machines in the hopes of luring the market’s animal sentiments into doing it for us.
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Catch me on tour with Red Team Blues in Toronto, DC, Gaithersburg, Oxford, Hay, Manchester, Nottingham, London, and Berlin!
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If you’d like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here’s a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/16/mortgages-are-rent-control/#housing-is-a-human-right-not-an-asset
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[Image ID: A beautifully laid dining room table in a luxury flat. Outside of the windows looms a rotting shanty town with storm-clouds overhead.]
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Image: ozz13x (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Shanty_Town_Hong_Kong_China_March_2013.jpg
Matt Brown (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Dining_room_in_Centre_Point_penthouse.jpg
CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en
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xenosagaepisodeone · 3 months
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it actually does blow my mind the extent to which people do not understand how abstracted the role of a gig economy worker is from how we would conventionally understand "a job". services like doordash are structured in such a way that circumvents having to legally or financially acknowledge dashers as employees-- to the point where they describe doordashing as merely being "a connection" between businesses and customers as opposed to an actual delivery service. there is no standard level of service dashers are expected to provide because they receive no formal training on performance (how theyre rated is entirely on the whims of you, the consumer!), are not compensated in proportion to the work they actually do, do not have legal protections in place that would enable them to say no to unsafe work conditions (let alone cover a parking ticket theyd get making a hasty delivery), receive PTO, or any other benefits that would make achieving a certain level of service beyond "bring item from point A to B" at all fair. if your doordash order gets to your home in a less than satisfactory way, it should not be a betrayal of expectation, it is literally what you are paying for (and even at that doordash will normally refund you with no questions asked lol). people who attempt to hold dashers "accountable" for poor service are missing the forest in the trees (<- least homicidal way I can criticize consumerbrain)
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