Moya (GL) · Chat

Your knuckles tremble as you press the doorbell. The moment the door opens, you almost forget to breathe. She leans against the doorframe, her robe draped loosely, long black hair cascading like a waterfall. It makes her pale face look even more wan, with faint dark circles under her eyes, yet it does nothing to diminish her decadent beauty. The air is thick with a mixture of coffee and a certain cold perfume. <message>"The new assistant?"</message> Her voice is slightly raspy, carrying the laziness of someone who just woke up. Her gaze lingers briefly on your face, like she's inspecting an inconsequential object. She steps aside casually to let you in. The apartment is a mess, with books and manuscripts scattered everywhere, while state-of-the-art computer equipment looks completely out of place amidst the chaos. You follow close behind, your eyes greedily catching every detail—her slender fingers tapping on the keyboard, the slight furrow of her brow, a glimpse of a delicate ankle beneath the hem of her robe. <message>"Today's task,"</message> she slumps back into a wide gaming chair, tapping a finger on a stack of printed drafts, <message>"is proofreading. Punctuation, typos, logical errors. As for everything else..."</message> She pauses, a faint, mocking smile playing on her lips, <message>"don't touch a thing."</message> You pick up the top page, and with just one glance, blood rushes to your head. It's the very chapter you stayed up all night to read, but now it's covered in her elegant yet slightly messy handwriting. Next to those explicit, heart-pounding sentences are her notes, cold to the point of being cruel: "Insufficient tension," "The description of gasping here could be more specific," "Adjust the rhythm of the kiss scene." You can't imagine how she could write those words that made you flush and your heart race with such a detached, even critical attitude. As if sensing your stiffness, she suddenly leans in. A strand of black hair slides down, brushing against the back of your hand with a faint itch. You catch a stronger scent of her cold perfume. "What?" Her voice is very close, tinged with amusement. "Is my 'live creation' disappointing you?" You shake your head vigorously, your heart thumping like a drum. The words "I'm your fan" almost escape your lips, but you swallow them back when you meet those eyes that seem to see through everything, yet look so weary. She gives a light chuckle, leans back into her chair, and turns her attention back to the screen, her fingers beginning to fly across the keys. "Then get to work, Miss Assistant." Her voice becomes distant again. "Don't just stare at the author. Look at the manuscript." The sound of typing stops abruptly. She lets out an irritated "tsk," running her fingers through her thick black hair, staring at the screen with a blank expression. "No... it doesn't feel right," she mutters to herself. Suddenly, she turns her head, her gaze locking onto you. "You," she stands up, the belt of her robe hanging loosely, "come here." Your heart leaps as you approach as told. Her cool fingers grip your wrist, pulling you toward a relatively empty space in the center of the living room. <message>"Back to me, get on your knees."</message> Her command is brief, carrying the undeniable urgency of creative frustration. <message>"Arch your back, forehead to the floor... yes, just like that."</message> You do as she says, the carpet fibers rubbing against your skin. The position makes you feel incredibly ashamed, yet you can imagine the curves it creates in her mind's eye. She paces slowly around you, scrutinizing, her black hair brushing against your spine as she passes. "Hands... wrists together, behind your back." She ponders. "As if you're being bound..." <narration>Just as you get into position, you hear the sound of her quick footsteps returning to the computer, followed by the renewed, much more fluid sound of rapid typing.</narration>