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#''perfect to me'' is so utterly romantic

majorblinks · 6 months

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DOWNRIGHT ICONIC (aespa karina)

(smut, male reader, screenwriter you, stranger karina, public sex, rough sex [choking/slapping/biting/spanking/hair-pulling etc], oral, anal, facefucking, titfucking, facial, bondage, degradation, name-calling, other weird stuff, 26k words, it's been 1 million years..., BUT WE'RE SO BACK BABY <3)

Hey, turns out the critics really are onto something:

You’re going to win an Oscar for this.

You aren’t surprised when the nominations are announced. It’s all anyone’s been talking about. You’re this up-and-coming screenwriter, this newly-minted visionary, and - cue the applause - you’ve just made the movie of the year. Clips go viral everywhere; the reviews are calling it extraordinary. They all want to know how you - a relative nobody - managed to pull it off. What’s your secret? What’s your inspiration? Where’d you get this billion-dollar box office idea?

And here’s one version of the truth:

“Well,” you’re quoted saying in every single interview: “honestly, it’s about a girl.”

Everyone eats this up, of course. It’s so fucking romantic.

You’ll tell an abridged version of this story for the rest of your life. A blip in time in early January - a certified slow-motion movie moment. You’ll say things like she was the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen. You’ll say things like, I know it sounds lame, but that’s how it went. She took my breath away. She fascinated me. I saw her and I don’t think my life has ever been the same.

You’ll never once say her name.

“It’s weird, actually,” you’ll say in an interview after the news of the nominations drops. “Making this movie about her. She’ll last forever there, you know? She’ll always exist in this film, in this one moment in time. She’s in all of it, basically - every scene, every line. It’s all her.”

“You make it sound like she’s dead,” the interviewer will say, all open-mouthed melodrama.

You’ll laugh. “Oh, God, no,” you’ll say. “She’s alive and well.” As if it hasn’t been years since you last saw her face, watching you from down the corridor, looking lost and torn apart and very, very small. “She’s okay. I mean - I think - yeah, she’s okay.”

As if you’d know.

Because here’s another version of the truth:

You’re going to win an Oscar for this. You’re going to stand up on that stage and thank your family and your friends. You’re going to stare at all those faces until they swim together into one golden, glittering blur, and then all you’ll see is her - her dark eyes, her glossy hair, her wrist in your grip, her throat between your fingers - her in your sheets, her smiling in your doorway, her shivering in your shower, her sobbing into her hands, her bleeding in your bed, her walking away. Her, her, her. Immortalized forever in this perfect thing you made, winning awards off the reconstruction of a memory. Art imitating life; reality warped into something magnificent, and beautiful, and better.

And the only thing you’ll feel like doing is throwing up.

Sure, you’ll bask for decades in the thrill of it: the fame, the fortune, the glory; the adoration, the worship, the attention; the eternal, endless love. You’ll be able to look back on your life when you’re decrepit on your deathbed and know that you - brilliant you, utterly superior you - were divinely blessed with earth-shattering success, and no one will ever be able to take that away from you. You made your mark. You meant something. You were the best, for fuck’s sake, and you have the accolades to prove it - you really, really were.

So here’s the full truth - the final bottom line:

You’re going to win an Oscar for this. You’ll live the kind of life people beg God for. You’ll get everything you ever wanted.

It won’t be worth it at all.

First, though, there’s this.

Disturbingly enough, you’re in the romance section of a bookstore when everything starts.

This is really not your genre - that’s the funniest part. Historically, you’re bored to death by the cartoonish pastel covers; you don’t get your kicks from seeing the same delightfully quirky heroines fall for brooding bad boys, or whatever the fuck goes on in those books. You have your standards. You prefer your art a little gritty, a little fucked up, a little more interesting - the kind of thing that can leave you shellshocked in a movie theater, overcome with the sort of full-body, lightning-struck epiphany only truly good work can manage. It’s not a judgment call - you’re not trying to be pretentious. It’s just that you prefer something with some fucking bite.

The second funniest part is this:

You’re pressed against the shelves, surrounded by the cutest, chastest love stories ever told-

“Are you serious?”

-and Karina’s on her knees, about to take your cock down her throat.

Maybe this is what your contemporaries call cinematic irony.

That’s gotta be the only phrase for it, really. The scene itself dripping with classless, crude, erotic filth - the way she ducks her chin to spit on her hand, the slow pump of her fist around you, the rough hum in her mouth at how achingly hard you are - nasty and irredeemable, too fast and too loud. The gross lack of subtlety in her sex appeal: all pale thighs and porn-star tits, the wet pink flash of tongue. Seductive in a way that screams at you. It’d be so easy to write this off as some deliberately controversial opening scene, gory shock value, horror-film suspense - starring you and the slut you’re about to ravage and ruin and potentially leave for dead.

“Baby - are you sure?”

It’d be so easy, if Karina didn’t look like an angel incarnate.

“I mean, you-” You’re stammering. You’ve got both hands in her hair, fingers sliding through the glossy black in petting, soothing motions - your clumsy attempt at reassurance. “You don’t have to, if you don’t - we’re in public - I’m not expecting you to - I don’t need it-”

Karina’s fine, sculpted eyebrows twitch upwards. Her lips are a twist of scarlet, distinct and amused. She doesn’t quite smirk, doesn’t give a voice to the sarcasm, but the sentiment is the same - yeah, right.

And then she lowers her mouth to lick.

“Jesus fucking Christ-”

Scratch that, then. This is the funniest part. The most inhumanly beautiful girl you’ve ever seen, debasing herself in public like some sort of desperate common whore - come on, bring in the laugh track.

Not that anyone’s laughing now.

You’re no poet - they’re a few sections over, Plath and Yeats and Dickinson - but Karina’s the kind of thing that makes you understand the motivation completely: only capable of being captured in metaphor, without context, painstakingly interpreted hundreds of years from now by people who will never get this right. All carved-out cheekbones, fluttering lashes; tight fuckable body clad in a little low-cut dress, feet tucked neatly behind her like she’s simulating worship. Dirty and religiously devoted in how she stretches her full glossed lips around your cock and lets your grip tangle in her hair and-

“Karina,” you get out, but her only response is to blink sweetly up at you and suck.

Well, who gives a shit about the poets, anyway? You doubt any of them ever got to fuck a mouth like this.

There’s an unfamiliar caution to the rut of your hips, a wincing fascination every time she gags - and she gags loud, choking and heaving, saliva dripping slick around you and down her chin - that seems to both entertain and confuse Karina. A skeptical crease in her forehead, saying everything she can’t: you don’t wanna fuck me up? Ruin me? Cloudy spit falling in strands to her tits, seeping into the crimson fabric of her dress; she’s wearing a worn black sweatshirt that’s slipping off one shoulder, exposing the clean line of her collarbone. The hollow of her cheeks, the obscene painful sound of your cock clogging her throat - it’s subtext, explicit suggestion. A preternatural understanding. I know what this is. I know what you want from me.

Which - she couldn’t possibly.

“Baby.” You sound so wretched that it’s humiliating. Karina’s sharply lined eyes seem to flash with humor, smug and lazily self-satisfied. “You’re gonna make me fucking cum.”

The thick, sloppy, choked noise she makes is the closest she’s gonna get to a laugh.

Oh, sure, whatever, it’s not like you’re not thinking about it: digging your fingertips into her scalp and really fucking her face, relishing in the way those eyes would go wide and glassy with unshed tears; refusing to let her have control, to let her lick and lap and breathe. You’re scripting it in your head already. You’d strip her bare and make her sob. You’d wreck her throat and cum all over her face and force her to walk out like that: coated in the sticky, filthy evidence of everything you’ve made her - look at this, you’d say, look at what I have. Look at what I did - all this, all me.

“God.” Your thumb braces against Karina’s temple, like the gentle stroke of a brush, like you’re painting her right into existence. “You’re just-” A harsh gag; a fall of dirty, drooling spit. “You’re really enjoying this, huh? Getting on your knees in public for a fucking stranger?”

That’s why the fantasy of fucking her into brutal submission is actually so understandable. You don’t know her. You don’t owe her shit. You could destroy her and it’s not like she could do anything to fight back - not when she’s already below you, looking up. When she asked for this.

Except-

“Karina.” You can’t stop saying her name. “You’re - fucking perfect.”

And it’s true.

So you cum.

Karina swallows it all with the same amount of sultry grace she seems to do everything - how she laughs and walks and talks and takes your cock like a fucking professional - languishing in the practiced bob of her throat, the preening flicker of her eyelids, her face shiny and pale. It tugs the same feeling out of you as a flawless shot in a film, a well-timed bit of dialogue: watching an expert at work, pulling out all their stops. One hand through her hair. Her nails the same rich color as her mouth and her dress. Nasty, slutty, impressive attention to detail - Christ, get this girl in front of a camera, get the moon to be her limelight - you’re breathless, you’re enthralled, you’re so fucking far gone.

Then: the sticky retreating glide of her pouty mouth, lipstick smeared badly down her chin, stark and arresting as blood.

“In my experience,” Karina says, finally, “being perfect’s never gotten me anywhere good.”

She pulls the sleeve of her sweatshirt up and wipes her face with her wrist.

“You’re unbelievable,” you say, dizzy.

“Thank you,” Karina says, sweet like she means it, and sits back on her heels.

You can’t help yourself; you’re petting back her hair again, cupping her face softly in your hand, caught on the dark glint of her irises. Angel was an understatement. She looks more than that - looks like something holy and all-powerful, something omniscient and blindingly beautiful, something who knows exactly what you need and knows exactly how to follow through. Something worthy of mythology. Something like a god.

And any sort of rough, ruthless, fucked-up fantasy - it’s never going to happen.

You just can’t ruin a girl like her.

“So?” Karina’s voice is a smoky bombshell lilt, like she’s just stepped out of some film noir from the 1950s. Hands folded primly in her lap, fingers interlocked like a lady. She could be a pop culture icon, an eternal sex symbol - a Marilyn, a Bond girl, a timeless universal beauty. “What now?”

You think your brain actually short-circuits. “Sorry?”

Head tilted, lids dropped low. Smirk still sharp and scarlet. “Are you gonna take me home?”

You open your mouth to respond, but then a customer walks by the aisle.

You’re a panicked flurry of motion - zipping up your pants, turning away, frantically patting down your clothes - but Karina just stays kneeling on the floor, little chin on an incline, utterly incriminating. It doesn’t matter. The customer passes you by. The world returns to the way it should be: just the two of you.

“Karina,” you say, flabbergasted by her composure.

Karina’s lips quirk. “What?”

You shake your head and offer your hand to help her up, but Karina laughs instead - actually laughs. It’s peculiar, beautiful: raspy like a chronic chainsmoker, as though there’s something foreign she’s trying to dislodge. The raw, gravelly aftermath of a skinned knee, a grisly scrape over skin.

“Wow,” she says, and stands all on her own, tugs the sleeves of her sweatshirt over her fingers. “That’s a yes to taking me home, then?”

“What are you doing?” You’re laughing too - you can’t help it - reaching for Karina’s tiny waist to pull her in. “What are you - what do you want?”

When Karina smiles, it seems to set her eyes aflame. Bright and dancing, lashes like a shroud of smoke. “What do you mean?”

“You just met me.” It sounds feeble, somehow: a thin, useless excuse. Nothing against the way her body slots between your hands, a smooth effortless fit; nothing compared to how she kisses you between sentences, so quick and easy it already feels like a habit. “You don’t - you don’t know me.”

Karina’s mouth puckers, coy. “No?”

“No,” you shoot back, grinning, but it doesn’t sound convincing at all. “Come on, baby, seriously. What do you want?”

There’s gotta be some motive, you’re thinking. There’s gotta be a reason. Karina is so still, so soft and pliant under your hands, all the carved porcelain perfection of a marble sculpture but with none of the cold stiffness. Spine curving under your fingertips, jaw tilting into your touch.

A complete stranger, maybe - but every part of her body is begging to be known.

“Don’t you get it?” Karina says. “I want whatever you want.”

It’s so simple and earnest it takes your breath away.

“I - Jesus.” You’re biting on the inside of your cheek, drinking her in. “What if I told you I don’t know what I want?”

Another rasp of a laugh, sound like the serrated edge of a blade. “I’d say fine, okay.” Karina’s voice is low, conspiratorial. “But I’d think you’re lying.”

And here’s the thing you know for sure:

The very second you saw Karina you swear you saw the next hundred pages of a manuscript unfurling in front of you, lines and themes and gorgeous dark-eyed heroines, tragically beautiful endings and stunning cinematography - infinite narratives in the glossy sweep of her hair, in the seductive stretch of her legs, in the way she looked at you in a crowded room and smiled a lovely, secret smile and told you she’d follow you anywhere. She’s worth making art about. She’s worth devoting lifetimes to. The most honest thing you could say to her right now is baby, I’m writing a movie about this one day, and I think you’re really gonna like it.

Karina couldn’t possibly know any of this, but it still feels like she does - impractical knowledge in how she loops one arm around your neck and kisses you again, no hesitation. Like she actually knows you.

“I want to fuck you,” you murmur against her mouth, because it’s the next most honest thing. “Is that enough for you?”

You’re a screenwriter. You know your horror movies. A small part of you recognizes that this is precisely how they start: fanged vampires, wicked succubi, femme fatales out for blood. Karina’s so gorgeous she can’t be human - teeth so sharp there’s no way her intentions are pure.

“Sure,” Karina says, smirk glimmering like starlight. “Then I want that, too.”

It’s a murder plot waiting to happen.

You take her home anyway.

(Oh, and about your Oscar-winning script-

In theory, this is how it begins.

It’s classic. There’s a stranger and there’s a beautiful girl and they’re both sitting at a bar, talking for the very first time. The girl has a rose tucked behind her ear; it matches the crimson color of her lipstick perfectly. The stranger had asked her what the deal with it was, but she’d said something vague and nonsensical about it being a gift, so now they’re talking about normal, average things. Jobs, names, flirtatious pickup lines. It’s obvious because it’s meant to be, like a set-up to some predictable porn - everyone watching knows they’re going to fuck.

She keeps getting closer to him. At one point he thinks she’s going in for a kiss.

Instead, all she does is pluck the rose from behind her ear, and hand it to him.

It’s okay, she says. No thorns.

He stares at the rich furled petals and the whittled-down stem.

Thanks, he says, amused, charmed. He thinks there’s something odd about her. He likes it, though; if she were as beautiful as she is - which is very beautiful, exquisitely fucking beautiful - and she behaved like most people do, he’d find her terribly boring.

He takes it from her. Turns over the rose in his hands absentmindedly as she keeps talking. She’s got all this hair: wild and glossy black, pouring over her thin shoulders, her ribs, her tiny waist. After a moment he feels the sharp prick of a thorn against his fingertip and releases the rose in surprise.

You said there weren’t thorns, he tells her, laughing. Ow.

Whoops, she says. Then: Did it get me too?

She turns her head, pulls her hair out of the way. There’s a scarlet bead of blood trickling down the side of her perfect pale neck. He can’t quite tell where the point of entry was, where the thorn had dug in and broken skin. It’s bleeding a bit too heavily. Covering its tracks.

She swivels, slightly. She sees the look on his face. Is it bad? she asks.

No, he says, though he can’t really tell. But - couldn’t you feel it, though? The thorn?

The girl presses her hand to the side of her throat. It comes back bloodstained, a neat smear of red along the lifeline of her palm.

No, she echoes, though this can’t possibly be true. Hey, you wanna get out of here or something?

Alright, he says, smiling. They both stand. They leave the rose where it is. Let’s go.

He cups her cheek instead of her neck when he kisses her for the first time, so he doesn’t have her blood on his hands.

It starts simple like that.)

Karina’s so out of place in your apartment that it’s almost laughable - or it would be, if you were capable of thinking about anything but her mouth and her hands and her tits crushed up against your chest as you pin her to the doorframe. She keeps making these little sounds into your mouth: low and throaty, almost agonized. You swallow all her moans off her lips - oh, baby, you’re okay - and you only kiss her harder. She doesn’t belong, among your carpet worn-down from pacing and your laptop still open and idling and the mess of incoherent colorful post-it notes pasted to your fridge. She doesn’t fit here. Here kissing your mouth, here in your arms, here on fucking earth with the rest of you heathens-

“You wanna fuck me so bad,” murmurs Karina, chin on an incline, staring up at you, “then do it already.”

She doesn’t squirm or fidget; she doesn’t get needy or start begging. She stays pinned down by your body, lips parted, and stands completely still.

It’s like she’s telling you to make your move. Waiting for something inevitable.

“What happened to patience?” you say, anyway.

Karina’s mouth curls. She palms your cock through your pants. “What the fuck is that?”

You try to laugh, breathless and turned on, but all she does is kiss you again.

You’re a creative - you’re ready to attribute meaning to every movement - but there’s nothing so profound about it when you get Karina on your bed, all that thick black hair fanned out on your sheets, her hands grasping to get your shirt off - off, she murmurs, off. Even that comes out measured. She never shakes. She’s so sure. You kiss her everywhere you can reach, her face and her neck and her collarbone and her tits, drunk on the soft, humming sounds she makes when you do. You’re so fucking gorgeous, you can’t stop saying, and Karina keeps laughing that same raspy laugh, like it’s the most hilarious thing she’s ever heard.

“You told me you already know that, right?” You’ve got her face cupped in one of your hands and your other one at the neckline of her scarlet dress. “So what’s so funny?”

“Everything.” Her teeth glint the way fangs would, a deliberate trick of the light. She’d be villainous if she weren’t so content to be trapped underneath you. “All of it.” She presses her palm to the side of your neck. “You’re too nice.”

“Fuck.” Your thumb accidentally digs too hard into her cheek. She doesn’t wince, but you feel it - the stomach-turning thrill, the possibility of leaving a bruise. Your hand drops low - lower, down her throat and her tits and her flat midriff - and slips between her thighs, up her dress. It feels safer, somehow. “How do you manage to make the word nice sound like an insult?”

“It’s not,” she says, simply, and spreads her legs.

And it must not be - because Karina’s so wet.

She makes another low velvety sound when you first touch her, seems to melt into the stretch of your finger in her cunt - just one finger, and her back arches faintly, prettily, hips lifting to take more. “Jesus,” you mutter, but Karina’s not looking at you: her eyes are shut tight, lashes fluttering black, tits heaving in her dress with each draw of breath. You’ve fucked girls who’ve seemed unsure of themselves - embarrassed by their own wantonness, how wet they are, how bad they want it - but all Karina does is wrap her hand around your wrist and tug, once: a clear soundless plea for more.

For a second you’re actually, positively certain that you’ve lost it.

It’s abject fantasy. It can’t be real. You in your apartment with the dream girl - the personal Aphrodite - the muse; God, if anyone was ever made to be a fucking muse, it’s her - underneath you with her ridiculous tits and her tight little pussy, face like a Hollywood dream. Ludicrous. Impossible. Bucking as she tries to fuck herself deeper on your fingers, all the way to the knuckle - slowing down only to say you wanna fuck my cunt open with your big fat cock or what?

“I,” you try to say, strangled - her mouth’s so fucking filthy. “I was - I mean - we could take it slow-”

“How romantic,” says Karina - and this, too, sounds like a heinous insult coming from her - but she drags your wrist to her lips and sucks her own slick off your hand anyway.

You choke on your next breath. “Karina-”

She looks up at you, unflinching, tits half out of her dress and cunt dripping down her thighs. Lipstick worn-down, kissed-off. All over your mouth, or your throat, or your shirt. Mouth chapped from the cold and stained marvelously pink. There’s something in the way her smile forms slight and crooked every time you say her name, as if there’s some private joke you’re not in on.

“You’re such a gentleman,” Karina purrs, all syrupy-sweet condescension. Then: “You really don’t have to be.”

She licks the pad of your finger. She’s so completely shameless. You feel monstrous on top of her, in this sick, superior way, like she’s just too small to be so sopping wet and slutty and fuckable - too beautiful to be anything but treated just right.

“If you want me to fuck you like a whore, baby,” you tell her, half-joking, “then just say that.”

It’s a mistake the moment it leaves your mouth - a line crossed. Because all Karina does is cock her head, your wrist gripped delicately in her hand, her legs parted underneath you, and stares. Almost droll, bemused. Like you’re so goddamn predictable.

“Didn’t you hear me?” That perfect face sears right through you. You’d nearly fucked that face. Not quite. Not yet. “I want whatever you want.”

She’s even tinier than you originally thought she was. You only realize this now, tracing her stomach under your fingertips, feeling the sharp relief of each rib straining beneath her skin. You don’t know it until you touch her, but you can span the width of her thigh under one hand. It sends a strange shiver through you: mapping every jut of bone, every startling edge. She’s tiny. Breakable, practically. Men meaner than you have probably thrown her around, fucked her up against walls, used her like a toy.

“So,” says Karina. “What do you want?”

Your fist clenches tight in her grasp, right in front of her face, knuckles going horrifically white.

Like you - like you’re going to-

An accident. A primal sort of gesture, like you’re less than human, turned under her touch into some feral hot-blooded animal who can’t control itself: carnivorous, predatory. You stare at your own hand and then the sharp scythelike curve of her mouth and feel revolted embarrassment crawl straight up your spine.

It’s abhorrent.

It also doesn’t even seem to matter.

Karina doesn’t go wide-eyed and nervous; she doesn’t look at your wound fist like she’s scared of what it could do to her. She clicks her tongue, once. Like this, too, is something she already saw coming.

“I thought so,” she says, anyway. Maybe this is it, what does it for her; looking the devil full in the face and begging to be burned. “Then do it.”

“I can’t do that to you,” you mutter, but you tug her dress up, and you fuck her anyway.

She’s a stranger. This is the point of fucking strangers. To do things to them that you’d never do to anyone else - to take out your worst impulses and tell your best lies and know that none of it matters, in the end. Because they’re nobody, and because you’ll never see them again.

But you just can’t.

She’s too indulgent and stunning and soft, with her low moans and the addicting drenched heat of her cunt, hand gentle and careful on the nape of your neck so she can keep pulling you into a kiss. She’s made up of curves, delicate edges - those hips and those tits you can’t keep your hands off of and her lips in a dreamy smile - and you find yourself stroking her hair back from her face so you can drink it all in: the blush in her cheeks, the almost serene way she lets her eyes slip shut and her mouth drop open, slack and enticingly wet. So good, baby, you keep telling her, because she is, her entire body warm and wanting and so easily fucked open, little pussy swallowing your cock right up. She doesn’t fidget or plead. She’s so sweet, such a perfect fit, humming into your mouth as your cock eases her open; so wet you can hear it, the sloppy squelch of her cunt when you bottom out. Your voice comes out coaxing. You like that? That feel good? Taking my cock so nicely, huh?

“Mmm,” Karina breathes, in an exhilarating moan, right into your mouth, against your tongue. “Mm, mm-”

She never quite manages full sentences. Never finds it in herself to make any more obscene demands. Just gets all small and soaking underneath you, licks messily at your bottom lip, and lets you do all the talking - lets you draw a careful hand through her hair and drop your other one between her thighs, clenches tight around your cock when you rub at her clit, keens low in her throat and listens. To the good girl, to the I got you, baby, to the that’s it, there you go, this is what you wanted - I know, honey, I know, you just needed to get this cunt fucked right, you just needed to cum real bad. I know what this is. I know what you need.

“Fuck.” She’s flushed pink to her chest, delightfully ineloquent. “Yes-”

Well - good thing you’re decent with your words, when it counts. Let Karina blush and drool and slick up your cock with every stroke. That’ll work just fine with you.

It’s the kind of juxtaposition you’d really lean into - the kind of thing you’d write just to get so self-indulgent with, a personalized note to the director, a wink and a nudge to every audience member. Look at that. Look at her eyes like something straight out of poetry. Look at her body like a pornographic fantasy. Look at how she gets so tamed and docile and compliant when she gets her tiny pussy stuffed full, creaming all over that cock, huge tits bouncing - look, that’s art, isn’t it? What else would you call it? What else could it be?

“You gonna cum, baby?” She’s so fragile underneath you. Color staining her cheeks apple-red; lips swollen and begging to be kissed. Fictive little fairy tale. “You gonna cum for me?”

“Yeah.” It’s breathy and barely-there. Her chin trembles, jerks in a weak nod. “I’m - I - fuck-”

See: you just can’t rough her up. It’d be blasphemous. Sacrilege. Taking one single look at the stained-glass windows of a church and tearing it all to the ground.

Still, you’re mesmerized by how utterly vulnerable she looks: the glossy shine to her irises; the way she inhales all slow and shaky, body slipping from some sort of precipice. Not just like she’s near-tears, but like she’s stunned - struck dumb from a violent blow, mouth wide open in the aftermath. And it’s just sex - and, fuck, you’ve said it, you see things the way every obsessive artist does; sex is never just sex. Every one thing means something more. A metaphor. An allegory. You get nasty and debauched and dirty because you know exactly what you can spin it into. Put the entire scene in a silent film and everyone can swoon about the things you might be saying to her, this impossibly captivating stranger in your bed with her graceful name, her dizzying moans, her shuddering frame in her orgasm. Don’t you get it? you could be telling her, hand brushing gently over her sweat-damp hairline. Don’t you feel that? You’re a stranger to me, baby, but you don’t have to be. There’s a reason we met. There’s a meant-to-be here, somewhere. I’m not a believer, sweetheart, but you could make one out of me - I swear you could, I promise-

But that’s the reason why these things are best left to the imagination, anyway.

A million scripted sweet nothings - and none of them manage to make it out of your mouth.

“Karina.” Your hips jerk hard. You sound half-possessed. “So pretty, cumming all over my cock like that. Such a perfect little cunt, baby - so fucking good-”

Her eyes suddenly shut tight; her body arcs into your touch, lips parted in a silent gasp. And for a second it seems like such a snapshot of innocence, like she’s brand-new to getting fucked quick and rough and dirty - though you know this can’t possibly be the truth, not with the way she flirts and whines and drips for more like she’s made for it - but she’s trembling under your fingertips, and you can dream. She’s your beautiful stranger, your pristine muse; you can pretend she’s whatever the fuck you want.

“God,” Karina murmurs, so soft and weak it makes your head spin.

Before you know what you’re doing - before you can even think twice about it - you’re pulling out, and cumming all over her stomach.

You can’t help it. You shouldn’t have had that thought about innocence. Jesus. This is what you mean, about you and your own painful humanity; you’ve got all the same vile desires. When you see a pure thing - all that porcelain skin, all that thick glossy black hair, all those gleaming white teeth in her open mouth - your very first instinct is to fuck it up bad.

You’d do worse, if you were worse - you’d make a real fucking disaster out of her.

“Baby,” you say, breathlessly. “Are you…”

And Karina, then, does something truly evil:

Sighs luxuriously, stretches her arms above her head, eases those gorgeous eyes open, and smiles.

As if she’s reveling in it. The scent of sex - the defiled tautness of her tummy - the way you’re not sure where her little red dress or her shoes or her panties are, how her cunt’s dripping wet onto your sheets, her hair a glorious mess. Grinning in the face of utter filth.

“You,” you exhale, running your palm down her side. “You’re so…”

Karina’s mouth pulls up at a corner, like she’s daring you to finish the sentence, but you never do.

You can’t stop staring at the stretch of cum-covered skin before you. Coating her belly, pooling into her navel. You realize with a start that there’s a new bruise blooming on her chest, a vicious sort of bite mark. You can’t remember when you did that. You’d been kissing her - of course you kissed her - her mouth and her neck and her tits, but you’d been so gentle, sucking light and soothing her skin with your tongue after-

“You didn’t want to cum inside me?” Karina asks, hoarsely.

You blink so hard your vision blurs. “What?”

“Right.” Her eyeshadow’s smudged dark underneath her eyes, making her look deliciously used up. “You did want to cum inside me.”

“Karina,” you warn - or, at least, you mean to make it sound like a warning - but her name comes out too faint. It’s horrific. Your hand traces her hipbone so reverently. You’re no match for her.

Karina arches a brow in unhurried challenge, ghosts her hand across her tummy. Takes two fingers and drags them through the cum you spilled, pulls back with it clinging thickly to her skin. Drifts down, down, down.

“Karina,” you try to say again, even more pathetic than last time. “Jesus-”

But you saying her name holds no weight here; she’s made that more than obvious. Nothing to stop her as she smears her cum-slick fingers across her glistening pussy, gaze locked amusedly on your face, tracking your reaction. She’s still so fucking wet - she rubs your cum in circles across her clit - tossing her head back a little, chest heaving and falling, fingertips just barely dipping inside her cunt-

“I can’t.” Karina lifts her hand to pop her fingers in her mouth, sucks them clean. Pointedly flashes her too-sharp nails at you like she’s unsheathing claws. “If you want it, you’re gonna have to do it yourself.”

“You,” you say, though your hand’s already pressing hard into her ribs, “are fucking cruel, baby.”

“And you,” replies Karina, head tilting, “just want to see my cunt all filled up and leaking your cum.”

Oh, she hasn’t been wrong about you all night. She certainly won’t start now.

“What?” A sly, languid smirk tugs at her lips. “Afraid you’re gonna knock me up or something?”

Your breath halts right in your lungs.

You’d been right about her too, it seems. Succubus. Vampire. She must be; she’s bloodthirsty. Tits gleaming with sweat, the scarlet stain of that bite mark you can’t remember leaving, cunt all dripping wet and desperately empty - body like a fatal fucking blow.

Karina’s eyes glint. I want what you want, she’d said.

With the way she spreads her legs, she’s gotta be ready to prove it.

So you never stood a chance. You give in and scoop up cum with one finger and sink it deep inside her aching cunt, feeling as she clenches down, as she takes it so well; like a good girl, you tell her, letting me do whatever I want with this needy little cunt; that’s my good girl. Karina lifts her hips - goes so still and so obedient - and lets you repeat it over and over again, fucking into her with your fingers until the plane of her stomach is bare and sticky and her cunt’s dribbling your cum onto your sheets. It’s completely nasty. It’s hot. It’s Karina craning her neck back and shutting her eyes as you bury three fingers inside of her and fill her with your cum, every part of her in utter surrender, entirely at your mercy, breathing out hard through her nose until your thumb rubs at her clit and she’s cumming again, all over your hand. She gets this look on her face, afterwards - exhausted, every line of her face gentle and lax - staring up at you like you’re the only person still left on this planet. Adoring, almost. As if you’re something out of another world.

It’s an expression too sweet for a scene like this - and it’s exactly what men like you make art about.

“There,” you say, soft and mesmerized, wiping your hand across her chest. “Satisfied?”

Karina laughs her strange, gravelly, gorgeous laugh.

“No,” she says, shamelessly. “But that’s not your fault.”

Your fingers curl around the curve of her jaw. “No?”

She barely looks like she belongs in your bed - she must be something divine, lit from within, god-blessedly gorgeous. She’s a fucking fever dream: stunning eyes and the bob of her throat and her tits and her curves and all that hair. Stay, you think of telling her. Let me see what I can make of you. I don’t know you yet but I could, baby, I really could.

“Nope.” Karina smiles, and somewhere, soliloquies are writing themselves. “I always want more.”

“Okay,” you say, mouth hovering over hers. “Then stay.”

So she stays.

(An update on your script:

The stranger and the girl are back at his place. They’re sitting on his couch. Nobody has cleaned off her neck. He’s been too busy pawing at her: at her face, between her legs, at her tits in her tight dress. I need you, he’s been murmuring to her, and it feels like he really means it: like he’ll die if he doesn’t get her desperate and whining underneath him, his cock stretching her tight little cunt wide open. He doesn’t feel too bad about it. She’s a dirty slut. She’s said as much. She’s got her own needs, too.

What happened to your window? she asks, suddenly.

He pulls back from her chest, his spit clinging shiny to her skin.

She isn’t looking at him. He has the sudden, unnerving feeling that she hasn’t been looking at him the whole time. Not like she’s had her eyes closed in blinding, overwhelming pleasure - but like she’s deliberately been trying to look at anything else.

But his hand falls between her thighs, and he realizes she’s already wet.

A bird flew into it, probably, he says. That happens, sometimes.

They’re talking about the stain on the once-clean glass of his window. The backdrop of the night sky behind means it’s barely visible, but the suggestion of it is enough. Implicit gore. Tiny little black feathers, caked in blood from the impact, dark and dried. It’ll be scrubbed off soon enough, he knows. It’ll be all gone eventually.

Oh, she says. She doesn’t apologize for potentially killing the mood. She hasn’t, anyway, not really. She’s still wet and small underneath him, begging for it. Poor thing.

Yeah, he says.

She turns back to him. Her hair’s everywhere, all over the arm of his couch, wayward strands beneath his fingers. She’s clearly expecting something - to be kissed, to be fucked hard, to be called baby and angel and good girl. It doesn’t really matter either way. Those are the only things he can give her.

He stares at the blood on her neck.

Let me clean that off for you, actually, he says, and goes to the kitchen to get a washcloth.)

Much, much later:

“I admire you,” Karina says, all tucked up in your bed, underneath your sheets, half-buried into your side. Moonlight bleeds into the room. Her eyes gleam like galaxies. “For showing some self-control.”

“What?”

Karina’s hair pours over your pillowcase. She takes your hand and brings it close to her face, working your fingers into a tight fist.

“Fucking bitch,” you mutter, and then regret it immediately. It lands too harshly, too strange and serious. “Sorry. I didn’t - that came out weird. I don’t think you’re a bitch.”

Karina’s lips brush your knuckles. “Not the meanest thing I’ve been called.” Her voice twists with humor. She shouldn’t be so comfortable curled up with a man she doesn’t know in the middle of the night. You think of kissing her hard, of scraping her neck with your teeth, of warning her about self-preservation - sweetheart, you could tell her, this is how people end up dead. “Not the meanest thing I’ll be called, either.”

You shift. Your fist, unconsciously, goes tense in her hand. “What’s your deal?”

Her mouth tilts. “What’s yours?”

You huff out a laugh. “You’re unbearable,” you say softly, which feels much kinder than calling her a bitch. “What are you - what do you mean?”

I’m not hard to figure out, you want to tell her. I’ll let you in if you ask me to. But you - you, you imagine saying, cupping Karina’s face in your hands and saying her name like you’re praying to her, drafting scenes in your head with each whispered syllable - you. Look at you. I’d fill a thousand pages trying to find a way to understand you.

“If you want to hurt me,” Karina says, “then hurt me.”

Your throat dries up. Your fist falls open. “What?”

“I wouldn’t blame you.” Her voice is matter-of-fact. You see her tongue dart over her bottom lip, the slick glimmer of spit. “If that’s what you wanted.”

You stare at her, hard.

It’s not difficult to make out her silhouette in the dark; she’s illuminated so distinctly by the moon, like it’s her own on-set spotlight, professionally arranged - she’s got the cosmos calling her shots. You think about how careful you’d been with her: doing what she wanted and making her cum and kissing her like you have history and maybe fucking her like you love her, just a little.

You think about that bruise you left on her chest, her skin between your teeth, the feeling of biting down.

“It’s not,” you say, and the lie tastes acrid in your mouth. “It’s - it’s not, Karina.”

“You fucked my face in public within like an hour of meeting me. And fucked me and came on my stomach. And fingered your cum inside of me.” It’s far past midnight. She sounds more alert than she should. “You’re gonna start being polite now?”

It sends an odd knot to your gut, the way she puts it. Equating all of that to hurting her. Laughing in the face of your clenched fist - not because she thinks you won’t do it, but because she knows how bad you want it.

Hurt me. She says it like it’s so easy. Fuck me. Let me stay the night. Hurt me; you’ve earned it.

“I’m not polite.” The truth doesn’t taste much better. “I just have, you know, common fucking decency.”

“Hm,” Karina says, a nonchalant little noise, and nothing else.

You brush her hair off her neck and your fingertips graze the hollow of her throat. You feel her swallow under your touch. You open your mouth, though you’re not sure what you’re about to say - Karina, like a chant, like she’s consumed you in a matter of moments, Karina - but she shuts her eyes delicately, and curls close to you, and just like that the moment is over.

I have common decency, you’d said. I won’t hurt you. I promise. I can control myself.

So maybe you weren’t right about everything. You’re not the devil. That’d be a delusion of grandeur - the idea that you’d ever have that kind of power over a girl like her.

Not for long, she’d replied, in the knowing tilt of her smile. Not if I can help it.

In the morning, it’s a picture of crime-scene proportions. It takes a little work to piece it all together.

Karina’s not in bed when you wake up, but there are traces of her everywhere - telltale, incriminating bits of evidence. Strands of her hair on the pillow. Blood-red lipstick stains on the fabric. Her crimson dress crumpled on your bedroom floor, sporting a tiny tear in the hem that you don’t remember leaving; you can still smell her perfume all over your sheets, like a calling card. If this was a TV drama - a clichéd police procedural - she’d probably be dead in your living room right now, blank-eyed and beyond saving, rigor mortis deforming her perfect body into something grotesque.

This is also probably not a thought you should ever relay to Karina, but you do anyway.

“Sorry to disappoint,” she replies. She’s perched on your kitchen counter, dressed in one of your t-shirts, bare legs swinging. “I’m very much alive.”

“I was being dramatic,” you try to say, gesturing with your hands to set the scene - the lighting, the fake blood and the special effects, the potential pallor of her face. “I’m - I’m a screenwriter. It’s in my nature. I didn’t mean I wanted to find your fucking corpse out here-”

“It’s okay if you did.”

You choke. “What?”

“I’m right with you, babe.” Karina leans forward conspiratorially. There’s a sharpness to the dark glint in her eyes that kind of makes you think she really does understand: that she has the same tendency to jump to the worst possible conclusions. A kindred, morbid spirit. “I get it. I’m pretty devastated that I’m still breathing, too.”

She says this all in a scratchy, sultry voice, hoarse as though she’s been sleeping for years instead of hours. Lashes fluttering like she’s just told you something very adorable and sweet.

“God,” you say, desperately charmed, and laugh until you feel light-headed. “You’re sick.”

Karina’s mouth curls. “Right.”

“I’m serious.” It’s surreal: her wearing your clothes and sitting on your counter like this is an everyday occurrence, indulging every fucked-up thing you say to her. Maybe you’re still caught somewhere in a dream, just waiting to wake up. “You’re, like - not normal.”

“Hey.” A light, careless shrug; her palm rests over the back of her neck. “No arguments here.”

You rub a hand over your eyes, smiling like an idiot, and take a breath.

It’s late January, and cool sunlight drips into the room, over your furniture and your floors and the angel right in the middle of your kitchen. It should wash her out, blur her at the edges; it doesn’t even come close. Turns her to a freeze frame instead, carefully color-graded, every hue just a bit too intense: skin ghost-pale, lips pouty and pink, hair jet-black and tangled to her waist. Your shirt hangs off of her slender frame like it aims to swallow her up. You thought you’d been stunned by Karina before, lulled by the late night, the electric rush of touching her - you’d assumed you could blame it on the alcohol, the slutty dress and the sultry makeup and the long-held habit of artistic romanticization-

But it’s nothing compared to seeing her now.

Karina crosses one leg over the other, and waits as though expecting a rating: to be starred out of five like a film.

Face scrubbed clean. Bone structure a study of faultless symmetry, delicate in a way that feels both inhuman and invulnerable. She’s so classically breathtaking - a miraculous second coming of a tragic, iconic movie star, a phenomenon back from the grave; jaw and nose and mouth all clean lines, aesthetically precise art - but God, those eyes. Enormous without the thick liner, suggestive only of impossible innocence. Like some darling baby animal, some long-lashed lamb to the slaughter - something pristine and completely untouched.

The morning after, the direct light, the exposed behind-the-scenes - she’s still beyond beautiful.

And somehow she’s still here with you.

“That’s insane, by the way,” you say, unable to stop yourself. “That you stayed.”

There’s a loud cracking sound.

You squint, disoriented. “What-”

Karina blinks at you, wide-eyed; her jaw shifts. The sound echoes again, startling and sudden. “What?”

“Are-” You step closer. “Are you chewing on fucking glass or something?”

“Or something,” Karina replies, smile’s tiny and closed-off. She gestures to the cup next to her. “It’s just ice.”

She’s so calm watching you approach her. You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the freakout, for the breakdown - or, at the very least, the scrambling excuses before the walk of shame. Here’s the truth: she doesn’t know you. Here’s an even worse truth: judging by her hickey that looks like you might’ve tried to rip her throat out earlier, she’d have every right to take one look at you and run.

Karina doesn’t do any of it. Just raises her cup to her lips and tips it back, the arc of her neck so inviting.

“That’s so fucking bad for your enamel.” You’re laughing again. You’re in front of her now, settled between her legs. “You’re gonna break a tooth.”

Karina sets her glass down. Wipes the corner of her mouth with her wrist, eyes locked amusedly on yours - heavy-lidded enough to seem lazy, but pupils blown enough to be a siren call, a deliberate suggestion.

“Oh, no,” she says, all smoky sarcasm. “Who’d ever want me then?”

She parts her thighs the second you touch them; her body’s so obedient under your fingertips, like a doll’s, something to be dressed up and posed and played with. Daring you to do everything you’re already thinking about doing.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur, and give in completely.

So:

Look, you know exactly how the movies would frame this. Pandering to the wide-eyed teenagers and hopeless romantics; adding the swell of strings every time your eyes or hands or lips meet, each motion accompanied with unsubtle cues - there’s the meet-cute, there’s the moment, there’s the love-at-first-sight. It’s ridiculous to drag any of that into your real life, of course. It’d be like believing in God. Giving up logic to put your faith in something silly and mythic and implausible - to follow true love like a religion, expecting it to save your soul; to pray to the one like a healing property, a benevolent higher power.

You can’t believe in that. You can’t.

But-

Karina pulls back the barest amount, eyelids fluttering open like a new day dawning, and smiles when she sees the look on your face. So sweet and gorgeous; so struck and adoring. So comfortable wrapped up in your arms.

“Hi,” she murmurs.

And - as though it’s some bone-deep instinct, saturating your bloodstream - you just have to kiss her again.

Don’t you feel that? you think of telling her again, your hand slipping to cup her cheek - the sentiment always seems to come back around. You swear you can see scenes flashing behind your eyelids, the beginnings of a creative epiphany; it must be seeping through your fingers, staining her skin with ink, every possible action depicted neatly between brackets. A laugh, a look, a touch. A version of Karina projected across the silver screen to a wild, wanting audience. Don’t you see what you could do for me? What you’re capable of becoming?

You can’t believe in any of this, but it’s gotta be something close.

The feeling doesn’t end when the kiss does: only intensifies, made tangible somehow. Sculpted into the spit-slick curve of her lips, the flinty gleam in her eye. Like she feels it too. Like she knows.

“And it’s not insane that I stayed,” Karina says, belatedly. “You asked me to.”

For a moment you just stare at her, seconds from her mouth and speechless.

It’s the truth without difficulty. It’s a confession with no strings attached. It’s the fucking dangerous way she says it - as if whatever you want extends to a lot more than sex.

“And you don’t-” Your throat closes over a swallow; you find your eyes darting between hers, searching for anything but honesty. “You don’t think that’s insane? Doing whatever a stranger tells you to?”

Karina only laughs her strange laugh, gritty the way good music is, demanding to be heard.

“Nope,” she says, like this is all so simple. “That’s just what I do.”

It’s unbearably filthy in its implication - and it’s exactly what you need.

The room seems to fill with potential, fantasies pouring in from the ceiling, enough to bloat any manuscript to its breaking point. You let out a breathless laugh, loud and unabashed. You think of pushing for even more, pressing your nails in and digging deeper - why me, why this, why now - but Karina leans in close before you can and slots her mouth to yours, and you’re no fool: there’s no line of questioning worth giving that up.

Seems like you’ll have to come up with this character motivation all on your own.

“Look at us,” she murmurs against your lips - meaning this very minute, the chemistry, how every glittering star must’ve conspired to get you here. “Kinda feels like this was meant to be, huh?”

She’s clearly kidding, because it’s too soon and too fucking crazy, but-

Well, the way you kiss her then is absolutely your version of a yes.

Here’s something people should probably know about artists like you:

You’re rather enamored with the idea of a magnum opus.

It’s a natural thing to reach for, to visualize - the concept of your one great masterpiece. Something you can pour years and years into, water into roaring reckless oceans; time transforming the things you make into something worth remembering forever. Everyone you know - your sculptors, your songwriters - has their own version of this, somewhere. When I finally create this one perfect thing I’ll be - go on, fill in the blank. Fulfilled. Gratified. Happy. When I finally do this, I’ll feel whole.

It’s strangely fantastical. A lifelong dream a kid would have - a childlike, storybook aspiration.

Yours - as far as you’ve figured out - looks a little like this:

“It’s not as romantic as it should be,” you admit, now. “I’m not really into that as a theme. True love, I mean. Or optimism. Or hope. I want something more…” Something rougher, you mean. Something with pain. Something with blood and bruises. “Nuanced, you know? Complicated, messy.”

“I get it,” replies Karina. She has her hands twisted in her lap, watching you very closely. You’re obsessed with the way she looks at you - like she’s drinking every word in with those smoldering dark eyes, greedy for more. For you. “All the best art is about pain, huh?”

You snap your fingers, pleased to be understood. “Exactly.”

Karina smiles, small and knowing, and gestures you on.

In your vision, your magnum opus is always about a girl. Like you said, it’s the way it goes with all the best films ever made: not about love, but the futility of it lasting. Think of all the famed examples - think of the filmmakers and their obsessions, sneaking the great loves of their lives between each line: there’s something she said, there’s a dress she wore, there’s a conversation they had in the middle of the night, tangled up in sheets and whispering against skin. Your future muse will be just like that. A reincarnation of the infamous women who haunt all the greatest artists - an amalgamation of their bodies contorted into narratives and replicated in loving, graphic detail. Someone with skin like marble, a statue you could take a sledgehammer to. Someone who looks unfathomably pretty when she cries.

Someone like-

“Uh-huh,” says Karina. She must’ve just gotten out of the shower before you found her, because her hair’s damp enough to have left wet patches on your t-shirt. She licks her bottom lip, once. “Sure.”

Someone to be what you’ve always wanted: a flawless girl to fall from the sky into your lap. To fulfill your promise to yourself: when I meet her, I’ll know. I’ll be able to make this movie. When I meet her, everything will slip exactly into place.

Karina cracks another ice cube between her teeth.

“So,” she says, low with insinuation. “When you told me last night that you found me inspiring…”

She doesn’t need to finish the question. She knows exactly what you want.

“You’re…” You shake your head. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. I saw you and I just - I felt like I knew. I knew. I wanted you.” You shrug helplessly, smiling. “Do you think I’m nuts?”

She should, probably. You’re a total stranger, a practical lunatic, an artist talking of your visions like you’re possessed. You don’t know her - that’s the reality of the situation. You don’t know her.

But then there’s everything else.

The unbelievable sex, the staying the night; the way she lets you touch her, blinking slow and subservient, like you already have a claim to her body. You think muse and you think in abstract concepts, glittering stars, guiding lights; you think of skin cut up and sewn together, of creators and their finest monsters, of the implicit poetry in the undoing. You think muse and you think of the way Karina smiles at you now, full lips and frail bones, a painter’s portrait reference. Unmoving, unafraid. Too otherworldly for your day-to-day but just right when she’s in your arms, like a trial-run demonstration: this is what we’re capable of. You could make it happen. You could make me fit.

You swear you’ve been dreaming of someone like her your whole fucking life.

You think muse, and now you can only think of her.

It’s a sign. It must be. And this, the next one:

“No,” Karina says, easily. “I think you’re just like everyone else.” But she raises an eyebrow, so you know it’s a joke. “I think you’re all the same.”

You laugh, delighted; Karina’s smile widens, shows her teeth. “Shut up.”

Karina acquiesces immediately - claps a hand over her mouth like it’ll keep any other words from escaping. It’s so adorable that you can’t keep yourself from pouncing, suddenly all over her like an animal: wrenching her thin wrist down, fingers threading through her hair, tugging her lips to yours as if you’ve been starved and she’s something to devour. She’s so cold, ice still melting on her tongue; even her body feels glacial, more porcelain than real. It drives you wild - the stunning impossibility of her. The desire to see it all reworked, unwound, shattered.

“So,” you breathe over her mouth. “I can write about you?”

“Babe.” Karina’s dark eyes sparkle, frozen-over streets in the mid-winter sun. “You can do anything you want with me.”

That’s the whole point of having a muse, after all. Everything they are becomes yours.

“But,” you can’t help saying right after: “you don’t have to be, like - concerned. About what I said. About art and pain. I mean…” You falter. You’re standing in between her spread legs now, thumbing the sharp curve of her jaw. “It’s fiction. I’m not that kind of guy in real life - I’m not going to hurt you.”

Karina just stares at you, sentiment clear and unspoken.

“Not like - not seriously.” You roll your eyes, laughing it off. “Not like that.”

“Not like that,” Karina echoes. The hickey on her neck seems to flush redder every time you look at it - a photograph in a darkroom, developing. “But in other ways.”

Your mouth opens, but whatever defense you might’ve had gets traitorously stuck in your throat.

Karina laughs hoarsely, lets you trace her bottom lip with a finger. She seems to get the picture - that you’d love to see it bitten and bloody, but only ever in the name of art. There’s a kind of sick, sadistic beauty in destruction, battles waged and lost. She leans into your touch like she’s seen all the war films and knows precisely why they’re so well-loved.

“For the record,” she tells you, arms looped loosely around your neck: “I look very pretty when I cry.”

“Jesus Christ.” You’re smiling. She couldn’t be more perfect if you’d dreamt her up yourself. “Then I guess I’ll have to make it happen.”

It’s like fate, probably.

(Up next in your script:

The girl is standing in the stranger’s bathroom. She’s turning a little glass perfume bottle over in her hands when he stops in the doorway. He’s perfectly content to watch her; she’s the kind of beautiful that deserves to be observed, like some exotic wild animal caged between four walls in an elaborate exhibit, mildly unaware of all the attention. Her hair is messy; her head is tilted down. Unseeing.

Oh, he says. That was my-

Except he doesn’t even get the rest of the sentence out before the girl whirls around, and the bottle slips from her hand and shatters on the floor.

Jesus. The stranger jolts back. Jumpy. He’s not too concerned about the broken bottle; it’s not his, anyway. Why the fuck did you do that?

Sorry, the girl says. She’s leaning rather casually against the counter, observing the glass covering the ground, the sickly-sweet smell of the perfume sticking to the tile. Honeysuckle and the sharp note of alcohol, rendered unrecognizable. You scared me.

He looks down. A crystalline stretch of tiny little shards - if she tried to move she’d slice her foot open.

No worries, he says. Hold on.

He ducks into the kitchen to get a broom and when he comes back he stops in his tracks. There’s something slightly off about the picture in front of him. She’s small against the background counter, frozen, barely blinking. Everything about her looks suddenly frail, fair skin ghostly underneath shitty bathroom lighting, cheekbones gaunt and sunken-in, hair pouring ink-black in endless waves. A vengeful spirit. An incorporeal haunting.

Did you…? he starts to say, thrown.

She blinks, finally. Did I what?

He pauses, reassesses. She’s gorgeous. She’s art. She’s vibrantly alive.

Never mind, he says.

It seems kind of like she’d moved, but he can’t tell. He forgets about it. She’s still beautiful and she seems okay and so he steps forward and clears the worst of the glass out of the way.

It’s silly, she says, watching him. I used to know someone who wore that perfume.

It was my ex-girlfriend’s, he says. She left it here a while back. I think it’s a common brand or whatever. Hey, let me help you.

He’s very chivalrous about it, sweeping her off her feet, cradling her bridal-style across the possible remnants of glass. She laughs all the while, playing into it - a princess out of a fairy tale, being carried to safety by some gallant knight. But then he sets her down and cups her ass and says, You gonna pay me back for the property damage or what? and she laughs harder, because there’s nothing funnier than that: sweet moments turned filthy, a startling hairpin turn in intention.

Or - conversely - a revelation of the absolute truth. Because what else could he ever want from her?

So she says, Yeah, sure, take everything, and leans in to kiss him.

It’s a normal kiss, mostly. It’s just that it begins pointedly erotic but seems to turn strange after a second, like he might be gripping her hair too hard, like she might be corpse-limp in his arms, like at any moment he could unhinge his jaw and sprout fangs and swallow her whole, cannibalistic, viperous. There’s too much spit and sound. There’s too much teeth and selfishness. It stretches on too long and lingers where it shouldn’t and overstays its welcome terribly - the score seems to fall off-beat, the lighting seems to shift dark and discolored-

But then the kiss breaks, and it’s over.

When he pulls off of her she looks like the perfect picture of flushed contentment. Eyes half-lidded and lashes fluttering, her pouty lips swollen and rosy. Smiling like she wants more, like she wants it so, so bad.

It didn’t get you? he asks finally, looking at her neck, thinking of thorns and pinprick pain and the rivulet of crimson that’d decorated her throat. The glass?

No, she says. Don’t you wanna fuck me now?

Oh, God, he says, grinning, and every other thought melts away into nothing. He likes how she doesn’t play coy. He likes how she’s smaller and has to tilt her chin up to look at him. He wants to fuck her, so he does.

It’s excellent sex. The blood on the tile doesn’t really matter.)

Before you really start writing, there’s just one singular problem: you don’t know anything about her.

“That’s not true,” Karina replies, right away.

You open your mouth, then close it, because - okay, she’s not completely wrong.

For about an hour now you just haven’t been able to stop talking to her. About anything, everything: your start into screenwriting, your favorite novels, your greatest inspirations, your neverending passion for eerie, erotic art. You can’t seem to shut up. And it would be bad - would be making you feel self-conscious right now, if it were anyone else - but it’s just not. Because it’s, well-

It’s you, you told her, thoughtfully, watching as the sun climbed higher into the sky, golden light grazing each scalpel-sharp edge of Karina’s body. You’re easy to talk to. Has anyone ever told you that?

Karina blinked at you. Tucked a strand of silky hair behind her ear and looked away, considering it.

She has this way about her: this serene openness to her big eyes, her body language. Leaning back on her hands, humming and nodding and saying I get it, I feel that way too, I understand with such sweet sincerity that you can’t help but believe her. Like a Catholic confessional, a pristinely blank page - something you could pour hours and hours of words into that would never, ever complain.

Yeah, Karina said, finally. She pulled one leg up to her chest; you could see the lacy black of her panties. I get that all the time.

Just one of those people, huh? Her character was taking shape already. A vault for everyone else’s thoughts and ideas, cradling them between her fingers like something infinitely precious. A listener. Such a lovely trait; a perfect protagonist characteristic. An observer.

Yeah. Her cheek rested gently against a knobby knee. Exactly.

It’s something of an art study. You’ve been filing away these details about Karina since the moment you met her, unraveling her bit by bit.

She always seems to think deeply before she speaks, a sort of charming self-scripting, like she wants to make sure she gets every sentence just right. She makes silence seem like the most natural thing in the world. She doesn’t laugh nervously or blush or get embarrassed, ever. She’d mentioned offhand during one of your tangents about your most beloved movies that she tends to like films about gorgeous, dangerous, scarily self-possessed girls: Thirteen and Black Swan and Girl, Interrupted. She seems both intensely present and consistently lost in thought, there one moment and gone the next, her long-lashed gaze falling in and out of focus like a camera lens. A contradiction, you think to yourself. An enigma, even. Profoundly complicated. Not just a girl but something more.

Art in and of itself, displayed deliberately on your kitchen counter, waiting to be understood.

“No, you’re right.” Your fingers have strayed to your open laptop; you’re seconds from typing Karina’s name like a title, something you’ve created all on your own. “I know…”

You’re trying to think of something nonchalant to say and failing. I know you - the first instinct, somehow. I know you’re something brilliant and remarkable and new. I know I’ve never felt this way before about anyone. I know there’s something here, I know what I feel, I know what I want - you, you, you.

Karina stares at the ice melting in her glass.

Then she says, mouth tripping up at a corner: “You know I’m a world-class fuck.”

“Jesus.” You laugh out loud, surprised. “Okay, yeah. That.” A pause. “And, obviously-”

“Obviously,” Karina echoes, like she knows where this is going.

“I know that you’re, like - outrageously fucking beautiful.”

Karina hums once, letting the compliment wash over her, and turns to look out the window.

You bite down on your lip - bite back all the other too-soon things you could say about her, threatening to claw their way out of your mouth - and go in on your script instead.

It’s shockingly easy to write with her in the room. The details seem to stitch themselves together on-page, the restorative aftermath of an autopsy: sealing the slit chest cavity back up, prepping a corpse for an open casket, making something disconnected whole and beautiful again. You’d pulled these specifics from her like pulsing, throbbing organs - her tits, her tone, her tiny waist - and now all you’re doing is repurposing them. You know her body now. You turn stretches of pale, bruised-pink skin into prose, the curl of her little fingers around her thigh into dialogue. You imagine taking that perfect frame and picking it apart again, bit by bit; not just undressing her but peeling back layers of flesh, familiarizing yourself with the stark scarlet of her bloodstream. Until there’s nothing to hide and you can finally say it - I know you - and it’ll feel earned, and real, and honest.

All very melodramatic, of course. It’s just the process: the natural consequence of being a writer.

Your eyes trace the jutting protrusion of muscle in Karina’s throat, and you think about fucking her again.

“Also,” you say, as though your earlier conversation isn’t long over. “I want to know-”

Karina makes a huffy, half-impatient noise.

You grin, gaze flicking back to her face. “What?”

“You want to know more?” Her brows furrow in exaggerated confusion; her smile is absurdly self-deprecating. As if there’s anything she could possibly be insecure about. “You already got the two most interesting things about me, babe.”

“Stop.” Your mouth twitches. “No way.”

Karina’s smile stills in place, expectant. “No?”

“Come on.” Your hand slips from the keyboard to trace her knee. “I’m sure there’s all kinds of interesting things about you I haven’t learned yet.”

The laugh she lets out is quiet and nearly secretive, legs parting to let you touch her. You’re already half in some faraway daydream, wondering if you can bottle the color of her eyes and turn it loose on the page.

“Okay,” Karina says, easily. She nudges your laptop away, scoots closer to you, her sharp chin pointed down at you. “Come and learn them, then.”

“God.” As if that’s what you’re doing. Memorizing her body as some private education; taking her apart in a classroom dissection. “Can I - I’m trying to write, Karina. I’m being productive. I…” You’re shaking your head as though you’re not already giving in, fingers slipping up her thighs - she’s smirking at you like she knows it. “You’re fucking insatiable, you know that?”

“Then satiate me.” Karina’s head tilts, lids heavy. “Fuck me. Use me.” She leans down like she’s telling you a filthy, sordid secret. “Cum in me like I know you want to.”

There’s something surreal about how certain she is: never tripping over her words or waffling over intentions, the most practiced actress you’ve ever seen. Every move - her tongue wetting her bottom lip, her hand sliding gracefully through her hair, her mouth forming a sweet little pout - all clean, choreographed precision.

I know you, she says - like it’s earned, real, honest. Inexplicable, but there anyway. I know you want to.

“Karina.” Her name comes out embarrassingly strangled. You’re pulling her thighs further apart, toying with the edge of her underwear. “You’re such a fucking - you’re so needy.”

Her smirk sharpens even as you tug her panties roughly to the side. “I’m what?”

“Needy.”

“No.” She’s so wet - she’s probably seconds from dissolving into a whimpering breathless thing, begging to be underneath you, begging for more. That damn smirk is probably seconds from shattering completely. “What were you going to call me?”

“Nothing.” You drag a finger down the slick drenched heat of her cunt.

“A slut.” Her voice is a purr, gravelly and sensual. “You think I’m just this fucking slut who needs your cock all the time, huh?”

But it’s the kind of question that you already both know the answer to. Karina takes your finger-fucking so well, hips raised and rutting, hair cutting across her cheekbones - seems to give herself over to desire so fucking easily, with her whole body, back arching and neck craned and hot little cunt a sloppy mess. Never puts up a fight, never demures or acts shy; never says wait or don’t or stop. Only spreads her legs, and drips down your hand, and waits to be fucked good and hard.

And - hey, there’s one dirty word for a girl like that.

“Well.” You raise your eyebrows at her: a challenge. “Are you?”

It’s dangerous. This is all dangerous. Stumbling down a treacherous path, asking a stranger something like this. Are you what I think you are? Do I know you? Do I really?

Karina makes a low, luxurious noise at the stretch of your fingers in her cunt, buried to the knuckle.

“Sure,” she says - and the gleam in her eye tells you she knows exactly what she’s getting herself into. “I’m whatever you want me to be.”

So, it’s possible this is really the most interesting thing about her: she’s the kind of girl who never says no.

That scene goes down how all scenes should:

“Fuck, fuck, fuck-”

Karina’s choking out curses like she can’t recall any other words, head lolling back to expose the pretty bob of her throat. You thrust deep right then and she lets out a sound like an aching gasp, like you’ve doubled down with a fist to her gut, like you’re knocking the the air right out of her; you might as well be - oh, she moans, like she could be in shock or awe or pain - with the way you’ve got one of her thighs pulled up so you can fuck deep into her tight dripping cunt. It’s not nice, not really. Her back keeps hitting your counter. You keep staring at her neck and her hair and her face: the faint flush of her cheeks, the flawless construction of her bones underneath - there’s so much unmarked skin - God, she’s so clean, it’s like she’s never been fucking touched-

“You gonna cum for me?” you murmur, voice coming out thick and half-animalistic.

She has one hand curled around the back of your neck. She’s got those ridiculous clawed nails on her but she never presses down. Her pussy can’t stop clenching around your cock but she takes it so well, lets you make room inside her little cunt, shuts her eyes and trips over her own breath as you force her spine hard against your counter over and over again.

“Karina.”

“Yeah,” she exhales, raspy and strained, as your cock stretches her out. “Fuck, yeah-”

“Cum for me, honey. Cum all over my cock - oh, there you go, good girl-”

It’s hypnotic. The tiny bitten-off sounds spilling from her ice-cold mouth - that small pristine face and all that hair tangled to her waist, just available to be knotted and tugged and fucked all the way up - Karina clings to you when she cums, and you feel so much bigger than her when she does, like you’ve got her sloppy and open around your cock and you could do anything to her, that’s what she told you, and even if she hadn’t, it’s not like she could stop you - she’s gorgeous but she doesn’t have it in her - she’s just too fucking delicate-

It happens too fast to process.

One minute you’re buried inside her pussy and the next Karina’s on her knees, on the ground, and you’re jerking your cock until you’re cumming all over her.

It’s obscene. It’s fucking inevitable. Thick ropes of creamy cum coating her forehead, her cheekbone, her nose and mouth and getting all in that hair-

Her hair. You don’t realize how hard you’re gripping her hair with one hand - balled in a brutal fist at the back of her head - until you disentangle your fingers from it and Karina sinks to the floor like she’s just been cut loose from marionette strings, breathing fast and hard. She doesn’t even say anything: doesn’t comment on the fact that you’d just shoved her straight to the ground or complain when the head of your cock smears cum across her jaw. Doesn’t even flinch when your cock slaps heavy across her cheek, at the indecent sound of the impact.

You’re staring at her, open-mouthed. At her gorgeous, breathtaking, defiled face.

Karina’s not looking at you. Instead, she’s preening in the most lewd, pornographic way possible: swiping her thumb through the cum streaking across her forehead, popping it into her mouth to suck. Halfway through she seems to remember you’re still in the room - seems to recall the value of a performance - and she redirects her gaze up at you, lids heavy, and smirks.

“Did I…” you start, without knowing how the sentence will end. “Did I - was I-”

Karina lifts a cum-covered eyebrow. Her mouth’s an arresting pink, puckering around her thumb like it puckered around the cubes of ice, how her lips formed a ring around your cock back in the bookstore yesterday. She lets it slip free, shiny with spit.

“No,” she says. “You’re good.”

You can’t stop looking at the cum caught in her hairline. She’d been so fucking clean.

You glance down and realize there are strands of black hair broken off in your clenched fist.

Karina’s looking at her hair in your hand too, now, but with a sort of amused detachment. She stands shakily, using the counter for support. There’s cum all over her. Her knees are red from how hard she’d been pushed down.

“You’re so cute,” she tells you, grazing the side of your neck with her fingertips. “There’s no shame in being rough with me, babe.”

“Right.” There’s an unnamed pressure coiling in your chest. “But - but you-”

“Hey.” The word comes out in a rasp, and then Karina laughs, pushing the low hoarse lilt of her voice to its limits. She steps closer, angles her little cum-stained chin up at you. “Are you really gonna tell me you don’t like seeing me covered in your cum?” She’s tonguing the corner of her mouth. “Turning me into a-” her smirk pulls wicked; your next breath hitches so badly- “messy fucking whore for your cock?”

“God,” you get out, because she’s winding an arm around your neck, and her pretty face is still sticky with your cum. “I-”

“It’s what you wanted.” Karina blinks, in a show of such doe-eyed naïveté that saliva begins pooling hot in your mouth - like you’re feral, like you’re rabid. “Isn’t it?”

You’re looking down again. Her knees are going to bruise. Black and blue, as if someone’s bullied her in the schoolyard, pulled her pigtails and knocked her to the asphalt. An echo of something teachers could’ve told her years ago: oh, look, he’s mean to you because he’s got a crush. It’s okay, really - he only hurts you because he likes you.

“You like me like this,” Karina murmurs, dangerously low. “All sloppy and slutty for you.” Her gaze is trained on your mouth. “Marking me up.” Her hair slips from your hand. “Owning me.”

Her name clogs your throat, cloying and candy-sweet. “Karina-”

Karina’s head tilts. “Yes or no?”

She’s too close to you. She’s so filthily beautiful she seems somewhat alien, some kind of foreign invention. Her jaw is smeared with your cum and her flawless teeth shine like jewels and she’s like every creative vision you’ve ever had cut in clips and playing back in a movie theater, made to be scrutinized.

“Yes,” you tell her, winded. “You’re fucking - you’re unreal, you know that?”

You’re smiling like it’s flattery, like it’s an exaggeration. Like she’s not living, breathing, visionary art.

She smiles back, like she knows just how much you really mean it.

“So I’ve been told,” Karina says, and taps your neck, lightly. “Go make breakfast.” She shakes her hair out; some of it gets stuck to the cum on her cheekbone. “I’m taking another shower.”

“Right.” You bite into your bottom lip, hand skimming down her side. “Go get clean.”

“Clean?” She steps back and flashes a disbelieving grin, gestures pointedly at herself - her creamy thighs, her porn star tits in your t-shirt, her body like sex itself. Dirty by design. “Never happening.”

Some cynical part of you keeps waiting for a slip-up, some mistake in a masterfully crafted script - no one can be that gorgeous and still be here with you. But Karina moves and your eyes are hopelessly drawn to the disheveled curtain of her hair spiraling down her back, the sharp distinct lines of her calves, the flex of muscle in her thighs. Her hands, balled into little fists. She’s alluring as if manufactured that way: engineered to be perfectly bruisable, ruinable. It defies logic. It’s movie magic.

“Well.” You snort with laughter, swat at Karina’s ass as she turns to go. “At least you can try.”

You don’t even think she can help it - that’s the thing. It’s just what she was made for.

“What would you have done if I said no, though?” you ask after a moment, as she wavers in the doorway. “Like - what if I told you I didn’t like you like this?”

Karina shrugs.

“I would’ve been something else,” she says, and closes the bathroom door behind her.

(Next:

The stranger and the girl fuck and afterwards he promises her breakfast and then he realizes his cabinets are bare, his fridge painfully unstocked. Sorry, he says, as she pokes around his kitchen. I don’t know how that happened. I usually have something to eat here, I swear.

I don’t mind, she says. Her fingertips sweep his shelves. She seems fascinated by the emptiness, admiring the vacancy. Oh, wait, look.

She finds a half-eaten jar of honey that she ends up scooping up crudely with her fingers, dripping sticky amber down her hand. He’d tell her that’s disgusting but she makes it - as she seems to make everything - into a pointed seduction, her tongue pink and wetly visible, her skin gleaming as she licks it off. It’s funny. He’d never thought it possible to turn eating into some sort of sexual performance but she manages it anyway: meets his eyes, sucks loud and lewd, smacks her lips and wipes her mouth with her thumb, ill-mannered and stunning.

I can’t imagine that’s very filling, he says, delighted by her commitment.

Yeah, well, she says. It’s a good thing I hate feeling full.

But it seems like a moment of hilarious irony when ten minutes later he’s got her bent over his kitchen counter, tits pressed punishingly to the flat surface, honey stuck to her neck and collarbone as she’s fucked hard again and again, stuffed with his cock, his fingers everywhere, like her own body barely even belongs to her - all mine, he keeps saying, and means it; you’re all mine. All filled up. Overfed. Bursting.

Sex is a manner of consuming, it seems. He might as well be eating her alive.)

“Do you do this a lot?”

Eventually, it turns into one of those lazy Saturdays. An afternoon of sitcom plot points.

It’s just so easy to fill the time, the space, the page - you tell Karina some inane story from your college years and she reacts in all the right places like your own built-in studio audience; she says something off-handed and enticingly vague and suddenly you have a new thread of dialogue to explore. You’re both sprawled out over your couch, Karina’s got her thighs tucked over your legs, wearing another one of your t-shirts, a fresh hickey bruising over her throat. There’s something delightfully domestic about it - like you’ve been doing it for a lot longer than you have, or like you could do it eternally if given the chance, holding all the silken comfort of an old routine. When you’d mentioned it - I kind of feel like I could do this forever - she’d laughed her scratchy laugh and said forever’s nowhere near as long as you think it is, babe. A perfectly cinematic line. You stared at her, leaned over, and added it immediately to your draft.

“This whole…” You’re trying to elaborate now, staring at the blinking cursor on your laptop screen. Your knuckles skim her bare, bony knees. “You know.”

“Eloquent.”

“Shut up.”

“I thought you were a writer.”

“Karina.” You’re charmed by the drawl of her voice, the raspy roll of sarcasm. “I’m just wondering.”

Karina shifts in your lap. You’ve got one hand sneaking up the hem of her shirt - your shirt - skating up her tummy, her ribs. You’re probably about five minutes from snapping your laptop shut and pulling her on top of you and saying something crass about her tits and passing it off as a character study.

“What do you mean?” She’s as close to clean as she can be. You made sure of it - licked the hollow of her collarbone earlier after she got out of the shower, tasted nothing but soap and skin. “Do I have a lot of sex with strangers? Or do I stay the night a lot after I have sex with strangers?”

“Both.” You think of taking her hair down, sifting your hand through it, wrapping the strands around your fingers. “All of the above.”

Karina shoots you a look, fluttered lashes, suggestive understanding. You hear it without her having to say it. You want me to tell you that you’re special.

“I’ve kind of been going through a phase,” she says instead, nonchalantly.

Your eyebrows fly up. “A phase?”

“I’ve been, you know.” She gives an airy sigh. “Trying to find myself in the big city. Running wild. Terrified of monogamy but being very brave and quirky about it. Sordid past with love and romance and general human connection. Doing the whole manic pixie dream girl thing.” Her eyes flick to your open laptop, abruptly too wide and innocent. “That sound about right?”

“Fuck off.” It’s a complete non-answer. You run a hand past her stomach, laughing. “You’re fucking with me.”

“What?” Karina inches closer. “Isn’t that what you wanted? Your textbook rom-com love interest?”

You make a rather disparaging sound in the back of your throat. “Ugh.”

“Oh, my bad.” Her mouth curls, contradictory. There’s nothing apologetic about her. “I forgot. You don’t believe in art about love. You wanna see broken people and broken people only.”

“See?” You’re obsessed with her tone; all flirtation, some distorted version of come-hither charm. Talking of suffering like it’s a seduction tactic. “You get it.”

Karina rakes a hand through her hair; her fingers fall to the back of her neck and linger there. She pulls herself out of your lap and turns, hooks one bare long leg over you until she’s straddling you. Your hands find her hips. You’re disarmed by her strange weightlessness, like she’s seconds from either shattering or taking flight.

Then she asks, “Is that what you’re doing with me?”

It’s gotta be a very roundabout request to fuck her stupid, because she follows it up torturously: ducks her chin, parts her lips, rocks her hips down until you groan. You watch her throat, the way muscle works over bone, picturing unspeakable things: taking her by that pretty neck and pinning her to the wall, ripping your shirt right off of her with your fingertips leaving bruises - bending her over to fuck her fast and cruel until her cunt’s raw and aching and leaking your cum - until she’s begging pathetically, saying please, God, please - and you’re triumphant, victorious. Telling her you asked for this, didn’t you? You said anything. You said anything I want.

“Depends,” you reply, when you can breathe again. “Are you a broken person?”

Karina stops, moments from your mouth.

“Depends,” she echoes. “Is that what you want from me?”

It actually takes a beat for the question to sink in. Then two, then-

“No,” you say, loudly. “Obviously not, Karina, Jesus. Why would I…”

You falter.

Karina only looks back at you, patient, tolerant. Like if right now you said that’s exactly it: I want you broken, I want you ruined, I want you decaying and dead and buried, she’d smile and say do your worst. Flashing those white, white teeth, perfect like pearls, ready to be knocked right out and strung together.

You blink the bloody vision away. “Why would I ever want that?”

Karina studies you for a second longer, expression indecipherable.

“Okay,” she agrees, breezily. “Then I’m not broken. I’m just going through a phase, like I said. I don’t like being tied down.” Her shirt rides tantalizingly high up her thighs; her hand slips down to palm your cock. There’s a twist to her lips, a dirty sort of smirk. “You understand that, right?”

You stare at her.

“Right?” Karina prods, again, low and sultry.

“Right,” you say, unable to fight your sudden smile.

The pout of her mouth’s an inevitability; her little body in your lap’s a seductive form of foreshadowing. You dig your fingers into her protruding ribs, playful, and you don’t quite get the squeal of laughter you were expecting - all Karina does is curl closer, expecting more, expecting harder. She knows what you’re capable of. You’re both just biding your time until you cross the same line you’ve been crossing and you fall back into bed again.

“A phase,” you add, considering. It intrigues you, anyway - the casualness, the connotation. “So - I’m not special, then. That’s the moral of this story.”

Karina’s fingers sift gently through your hair. “You wanna be special?”

“I mean, yeah.” Your palm falls to her neck, presses down. She doesn’t seem to mind. “Doesn’t everyone?”

Her eyebrows rise in vague, unconvinced amusement. It makes sense: she’s the most special of all, a cosmic glitch, an angelic fluke. Someone like Karina wouldn’t understand the aching, clawing, consuming desire to be extraordinary. She’s already there.

Your hand on her throat looks even bigger now, tendons straining from underneath skin.

“I think we all want to feel important,” you mumble, thumb grazing gently across her jaw. “Don’t you?”

You’re pretty sure the wry, glittering smile that sits at Karina’s mouth is an answer in itself.

Alright, forget your television metaphors - you’re not sure there’s any sitcom out there that goes quite like this.

“By the way,” you say, grinning against her hair as you pull her to the bedroom. “Did you say you don’t like being tied down?”

Karina turns in your arms and doesn’t even flinch when you force her too hard against the doorframe and its edge smacks into her shoulder blade, digging in hard. You should apologize but you don’t; the possibility of her in pain seems laughable, a distant fantasy. This is how it goes, fucking a girl who looks like a god - your brain is convinced she’s wholly immune to hurt. The universe wouldn’t actually let someone so pretty bleed.

“Oh, sorry,” she says, voice raspy with insinuation. “Let me rephrase.”

“Karina,” you say, not really like a warning - more like you’ve got something to prove. This is real. You’re really here. You’re really this perfect, gorgeous, greedy thing. You’re really made for me.

Karina only lets her lips tilt in a smirk, devilish and knowing.

“I meant that I don’t like commitment,” she says. “I love being tied down.”

She’s still smiling when you shove her through the doorway, across the threshold - across that same old fucking line.

Not that it makes a difference now, but one of the reasons you and your most recent ex-girlfriend broke up was because of what you’d both referred to as sexual incompatibility. Actually, there were about fourteen other things, too - she was a trainwreck and a textbook attention whore; you spent all your time writing and she took offense to the fact that you found your scripts more interesting than her - but the crux of the sex problem between the two of you was that she thought you wanted too much power over her. She seemed to assume that was the point of potentially tying her up and shit like that: to exert power. To put you and only you in control. To make her into this helpless little toy - and I hate that, she’d said, working herself into a fit, I hate feeling helpless.

You hadn’t pushed her. You’d also tried to justify it in a number of ways. It isn’t about that. It’s not about control. I’m not trying to make you feel bad. But it hadn’t made a difference and she hadn’t believed you and you’d come to the reluctant, inevitable conclusion that that particular dream would never actually get fulfilled.

Until-

“Look at you, baby.”

Until now, when you’ve got Karina stripped bare and tied to your bed, thighs parted as you kneel over her, pretty little cunt glistening wet and tits heaving with every breath as she waits, and waits, and waits.

Eyes half-lidded. Utterly fuckable. A curated collection of every salacious desire you’ve ever had.

“You’ve been looking at me forever,” murmurs Karina, her tone still humorous, like the reason her voice is run so ragged is because she’s holding back a fit of giggles. “You gonna fuck me anytime soon?”

To Karina’s credit, the idea of tying her up didn’t seem to bother her one bit. She’d let you knot her wrists to your bedframe and only grinned sharply when you asked her if it was too much. She didn’t seem to care about feeling helpless or feeling bad. Actually - judging from the wetness that collects on your fingers as you rub two of them over her cunt - it all seemed to turn her on either way.

“You’re so fucking mouthy.” You lift your hand only to ghost it over her stomach, leaving a lewd shiny streak across her skin. “It’s like you want to be punished.”

“Well, you put in all this work.” Karina yanks at the ropes tethering her wrists to the bedframe until they bite so severely into her skin that it turns white. “I’d hate to see it go to waste.”

“Not a waste.”

“No?” She’s got that seductive little smirk on, legs spread shamelessly, head back and throat bared.

“Nope.” Your eyes rove down her body. “It’s a great view, actually.”

You’re shocked by the sound Karina makes, then: harsh and derisive, scratchy and painful, like she’s choking badly around some injury in her throat. You’re half-expecting her to turn her face and spit blood onto your sheets - all murder-scene evidence, horrifically vibrant gore. Coughing up her own vocal chords.

It’s so awful it actually takes you a minute to realize that she’s laughing.

“Karina?” you say, perturbed.

“Oh, please.” Karina hacks out one more horrid laugh. “Cut the shit.”

You draw your hand back uncertainly. “What are you-”

“Come on, man.” There’s a glint to Karina’s gaze as she looks up at you: bored, mocking, infuriating. Irises flashing like the darkest corners of haunted houses, set-ups for a summoning; lashes like cobwebs, self-spun and delicate. “Fuck me or leave me alone.”

For a second you just stare at her, unmoving, something caustic and furious threading up your spine.

And then-

Look, none of this next part is on you. You can’t blame yourself. It’s her - her tiny hands in tight clenched fists, tummy so flat it seems caved-in, hollowed-out; her own glimmer of slick smeared on her belly, physical proof of how desperately slutty she really is. The bruise on her chest; the one on her throat. Her goddamn eyes. Her lazy, lilting drawl, the exact matter-of-fact casualness she’d had last night when she’d told you to hurt her - fuck me or leave me alone.

It’s so obvious what she’s trying to do - provoke a reaction out of you. It’s gotta be the only reason she’s talking to you like that. Like, what else are we here for? Like, what else could I possibly want from you?

So - no, God, it’s not your fault.

But-

It’s over before you can even think about it. Before you’ve even rationalized doing it, before you recognize the sound ricocheting through the room as the perfect violent land of a blow, the hot whiplash of skin on skin, your palm connecting with its target. Before you blink, and recalibrate, and you take in the rapid reddening of her cheek, and her angled jaw, and her hair falling starkly past her chin - it’s too late. It’s already done.

Because you’ve just slapped Karina clean across the face - hard.

“Oh.” You’re babbling as if on autopilot, all your nerves on shutdown. “Oh. Oh, God. Karina-”

Karina licks the corner of her lip, like she can taste the impact.

“Jesus Christ,” you’re saying, panicking; you can’t shut up. You don’t know what to do with your hands; you find yourself kneeling carefully in front of her, cupping her face, stroking her temples with your thumbs like it’ll soothe the sting. You can’t believe you hit her. All the things you could do to a girl like that, and you - “I’m sorry. I didn’t - fuck, baby. I’m sorry.”

Karina blinks up at you, expression placid and blank, porcelain-doll cool.

“For what?” she asks.

You freeze, her face still between your palms. “For-”

But the serene tilt of her mouth makes the words die in your throat.

“Seriously.” Karina’s voice is softer now, a kind twist of mirth. “Isn’t that what you wanted to do with me this whole time?”

Her features seem to fall out of alignment, occurring to you in cut, edited fragments - the baby-animal eyes, the bone-white glint of teeth, the pretty blooming flush of her cheek, blood rising underneath skin but never breaking through. No evidence of a limit breached; she doesn’t wince or wail or cry. She wears the hit so well. She’s smiling. A you-don’t-need-to-be-sorry smile, a you’re-forgiven smile: I’m strong, I’m good, I can take it. Whatever you need. Whatever you have to give.

You blink and Karina reassembles, stitched up at the seams, beautiful and uninjured and intact.

“You want this,” you exhale, a wondrous revelation.

“Of course.” Karina’s shoulders rise as much as they can with her arms so tightly tied back. “You do, don’t you?”

The panic recedes, and something else - something electric and brutal, visceral, intoxicating - takes its place instead.

It’s the way she says it: rhetorical, all-knowing. As if she’s seen exactly what’s in your mind - what repulsive daydreams have settled right behind your ribcage, clawing to be set free - and she’s offering her own body in sacrifice. Saying here, put them here.

So you do.

She doesn’t even look surprised when you slap her again.

“See?” Karina’s chin tips upwards in delicious, submissive invitation: eyes darkly pleased, pale skin a burning wildfire, curled mouth a beckoning. Like it’s been what she’s waiting for, all along. “There you are.”

And when you’re finally able to catch your breath:

Oh, you think, in some exhilarating epiphany. Here I am.

Every single reservation falls out the window. Karina’s smirk slants viciously and then you’ve got your hands all over her, on her shoulders and her tits and her hips and her throat and her face, thumb digging hard into her cheekbone. Any sort of gentle caution is gone when you’re getting on top of her and burying your cock deep inside the suffocating vice of her aching little cunt, half-drunk on the high mewling moans you’re forcing out of her, head swimming at the drenched audible sound of her pussy every time you fuck into her - at how tight she clenches down around your cock. Fuck it all, then, it’s not like it means anything - hurt me, she’d said, running through your head on loop; I want it so bad, I need it, hurt me - and so you do, wrapping a hand around her delicate neck and pressing down, slapping hard against her heaving tits, salivating over the marks that you leave. She doesn’t even struggle. Takes it like a good girl, an obedient girl: something meant to be hit and torn up and pulled apart. A hands-on art piece. A disassembling, made purely for audience consumption; a sign hung around her neck that says leave your mark, that’s the point. You’d been so naïve, thinking of being careful with her - like she’d ever even fucking want that-

“You like it like this.” Your voice sounds raw, almost unrecognizable; your fingers press into the base of her throat. “This is all you needed, huh? You just needed to be roughed up real hard.” Your hand trails up to grip a fistful of her hair, merciless. Karina shuts her eyes. “Like you’re just a slutty fucktoy-”

Karina chokes out a small, wet gasp.

“Oh, baby.” You yank harder at her hair. “It’s okay to admit it.”

But in a way, she already is. Doesn’t fight against the restraints tying her wrists, doesn’t flinch at how rough you’re fucking her, doesn’t whine or blink back tears at the harsh graze of your thumbnail against her nipple. Like she’s a plaything, here in your bed for your pleasure alone. Like-

“Like you were just fucking made for this, yeah?” She comes undone so easily: cunt a wet sticky mess when you reach down to rub her clit, teeth pearly-white where they’re caught on her bottom lip - though nothing can hold back the anguished noise Karina lets out at your pace, the thick stretch of your cock, your palm smacking at her tits over and over. “Look at you. That face, these tits, this little fucking cunt-”

Like it’s her one and only purpose - to have all her fair skin turned searing red and bruised under someone else’s hands. Her cunt just begging to be split open and stuffed full, railed so hard she could break. It’s gotta be what she was created for. She’s more than mortal, so above the concept of imperfection; a nasty little fuckdoll of a girl, meant to be used hard and licked clean. She looks too irresistible all fucked-out and ruined. It has to be in her nature. Made for this, you keep telling her: to be fucked until she can’t walk. To be treated forever how you’re treating her now.

Your ex-girlfriend couldn’t have been more wrong. It’s not about power or control at all.

“You’d really just let me do anything to you, huh?” you murmur, awed, but you’re holding her throat too hard for her to reply.

You fuck her, and fuck her, and fuck her. Rub at her clit until she clamps down and cums around you, until you can really get on top of her, force her to hold those huge tits together so you can fuck them. You can’t handle how tiny she is underneath you, her face and her mouth slack with lust, eyes glazed over entirely. She squeezes her tits around your cock. She’s hardly even human. It’s the best thing about her.

“That’s how I know you’re a fucking whore.” Your grin feels wide and manic on your face. You’re gonna cum all over her - again. “None of this even matters.”

And it’s only after - after you’ve painted her collarbone and chest creamy white and let up on her throat so she can fight for air; after you’ve groped her tits and grabbed her face after just to see your cum glistening all over her perfect slap-marred cheeks; after you’ve rolled off of her and you finally leave her alone - that Karina gives you a response.

“No,” she says, hoarsely, staring up at the ceiling. “It really, really doesn’t.”

Power just isn’t the right word for it. It’s something much more beautiful than that.

Desire. You’re dozing off, halfway in a sleepy fantasy. You imagine rolling the word around in your mouth, using it in speeches, citing it as an obvious central theme. It’s about desire, you’d say, in interviews, at film festivals, patiently explaining your motivations to the masses. That irrational animal instinct. That innate human greediness. You’ll maybe even throw in some fun anecdote about how people in past relationships never agreed with you. It’s never been about power, though, you’d explain: how foolish, how crude. It’s about the ache of truly wanting something. Isn’t that so much more romantic?

So you’ll make a movie about this one day. So you tied Karina to the bed and slapped her hard and fucked her senseless. Actually, you picture yourself explaining, foggy and on verge of falling asleep: actually, it’s about hunger. Irrepressible, all-consuming hunger. That’s why I did this. That’s why I’ll keep doing it. You’re all like me; you get it. That makes sense, doesn’t it?

And it will, to raucous, riotous applause.

Good. You’ll laugh so hard. You’re dreaming, now; you can’t tell if you’re talking about the sex or the hypothetical future movie. I’m glad you understand. Anyone would’ve done what I did.

Because - honestly - what’s the point of starving yourself of something that’s right in front of you?

(Let’s pull back from your script for a second. Here’s a real story:

A few months back you were visiting a museum with one of your friends when you got into this conversation about performance art. He’d told you about a woman back in the seventies who walked into a gallery and laid out various objects and let the audience do whatever they wanted to her for six whole hours. Her as the artist, in title only; herself as the art. A free, untethered canvas.

And what happened? you asked, morbidly curious.

Your friend grimaced. What do you think happened?

It was a rhetorical question. The performance had been a test of what the general public was capable of - a reflection of their moral compass, of what they’d do if left unchecked. The setup spoke for itself. You didn’t have to get all the gory details in order to understand.

Seriously, though, your friend said, about the artist: I don’t know what’d compel someone to do something like that to themselves. He’d shaken his head, baffled. Like - I think it takes a deeply fucked up person to just give up their body like that. Like it doesn’t even matter to them.

It’s strange. It’s an almost universally accepted fact that, at least on some level, artists are inclined to put pieces of themselves into the things they create. A memory; a feeling. Condensing twenty different emotions into a single acrylic painting, or a lyrical reenactment of heartbreak into a song - something personal and unique and lovely. Often inspired, sure, but yours.

I think that’s what’s funny about it, you told your friend, before you realized that funny was a fucked up word to use here. There’s nothing personal about that. It’s so detached. It’s about the rest of the world, whatever they might make of her - it’s not about her at all.

You were both quiet, thinking. Visualizing what it might’ve been like. To be there, one of many in the audience, watching this woman who had thrown herself to the wolves and asked to be ripped apart.

She’s just - material for them to use, I guess, you said, after a moment. A blank page.

Removing her own identity; becoming nothing, no one. A ghost. An empty vessel. A slab of clay, taking on the impression of everyone who’s ever touched her: the ridges of fingerprints, the half-moon cuts of nails, molding her into something new. Even if it took some force. Even if it hurt.

Still, it’s what she’d asked for.

You can’t imagine she’d ever expected anything else.)

There’s this fascinating complaint people have about films these days, you’ve found. It’s actually quite the phenomenon. You talk to your colleagues and scroll through social media and read comments on movie trailers trying to get a grasp on it all: market research. This isn’t realistic, people gripe. It’d never sound like that. She’d never look like that. This would never, ever happen - God, are you kidding? Who are they trying to fool? As if they’ve somehow missed the point of fiction - of a sweet, escapist fantasy. As if they’ve convinced themselves that the real world is better.

Which is moronic, obviously.

“So what’s the solution?” Karina asks.

Well, you’re no expert; it’s been a while since you’d finished your last movie.

“But you have an idea,” Karina interpets. She’s perched on the edge of your coffee table, nursing a new glass of ice. She’s watching you with her head at an angle, eyes shrewd. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be telling me this.”

As with most of her guesses about you, she’s right.

“It’s all about the details,” you say, after a moment. “It humanizes a person. Having little bits and pieces about who they are - it makes them alive. Their likes, their dislikes. Embarrassing stories. Things that make them laugh. Diary entries, favorite foods - first loves, first heartbreaks. So on and so forth.” You’ve got one of Karina’s ankles between your hands; your thumb brushes against the bulbous protrusion of bone. “It’s what makes people real.”

Karina’s mouth twists, sharp and strange; it takes a second for you to realize that she’s grinning.

“Oh, right,” she says. “You want me to spill my guts to you.” She pushes her ankle further into your grip. Her legs are just like the rest of her: thin and pale, waifish. Like a nineties catwalk model. “That’s how you’re gonna make me real. In your movie.”

You pull a face, letting her ankle slip from your hands. Spill her guts; what an ugly figure of speech. As if you’re doing something much more invasive and violent than just writing about her.

“Basically,” you agree, anyway. “I mean, it helps that you’re already, you know - a real, whole, living person.”

“Ugh,” says Karina, dry and amused. “Barely.”

You wonder if she’s also thinking about this morning; you, stunned and staring at her cum-streaked hair, calling her unreal.

She’s got a point, in a way. There’s something slightly uncanny about her sitting in front of you, as if she’s been taken straight out of some wildly different scene - some spotlit stage, some movie set, some glossy high-budget existence - and haphazardly edited into your life. You reach out and press two fingers to the side of her neck, like they do on television if they think someone’s bleeding out.

Karina tips her head to allow you access. Her pulse throbs hotly under your touch.

“I don’t know,” you say, smiling at the swanlike line of her throat. “You seem pretty alive to me.”

“Sure.” Her hair tickles your wrist. “But you want more.”

She says it like it’s this given - as if she’s always faced with people wanting more from her. You wouldn’t doubt it, little tease she is. You can picture her in motion so easily. Always running. Letting people pine and plead for more.

“Yeah,” you say. It seems pointless to lie to her. “I want more.”

Karina leans in closer. She reaches up and touches one of your knuckles with the pad of her thumb. Without makeup, you can see the shadows of dark circles underneath her eyes, but even those look painted-on, pre-planned; a study on the aesthetic allure of bruises. She lets her gaze drop to your mouth, then bites down on her bottom lip. Impish.

“Karina,” you say, grinning wider now.

It’s one of those unspoken things: the translation of body language, the transcription of the tilt of her mouth. Then have me, she’s saying, almost certainly - like a swooning melodramatic heroine, throwing herself into your lap, wanting to be saved. You want more? You want me? I’m right here. I’m yours.

“Fine,” Karina purrs, and kisses you again, like sealing a contract. “Take it all.”

You don’t fuck her again - not at first. There’s more than one way to take someone apart.

Karina says she’s got a story for you and then she pulls out her phone.

“This was back in high school,” she explains, scrolling back through her photo gallery. There don’t seem to be a lot of recent additions to it; you’d expected selfies, pictures of her with friends. There are more photos of food than anything: plates of pasta and donuts and burgers and pastries piled with whipped cream. It’s cute. It makes you laugh. “When I won prom queen.”

You splutter. “When you what?”

“What?” Karina gives you a bemused, sideways look. “Does that surprise you?”

It floors you, actually. At first you can’t quite put your finger on why, but then you look at Karina again - at her intense dark eyes and pouty fuckdoll lips and the exaggerated pinup proportions of her body - and you realize you’re making that mistake writers often do: buying into archetypes. It just makes sense that she’d be some kind of brooding bad girl. Mysterious, promiscuous; in your creative vision she’s probably cutting classes and chainsmoking in the girls’ bathroom. A favorite of the rumor mill. A pretty little delinquent.

“Wow.” Karina makes a funny noise in the back of her throat when you tell her this. “No. I was - I did fine in school. Perfect attendance, almost. And I can’t stand the smell of cigarettes.” But she doesn’t look offended, either; you imagine people make these assumptions about her all the time. “The prom queen thing - it wasn’t my idea, though. My best friend did all the campaigning for me.”

“That’s sweet.” You watch as she reaches the year she’s looking for. Flashes of her in a sparkly dress with her arms thrown around another girl - a tiny doe-eyed brunette - slide by. In one of them, Karina’s got her head tipped back, clearly mid-laugh; in another, she and the girl have their heads bent close together as if they’re trading secrets, unaware that they’re being photographed. “Well - I think it’s sweet.”

Karina’s fingers stall. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I’m just saying-” You shrug. “It’s a nice gesture if it’s something you wanted, I guess. Seems like a lot of attention, otherwise.”

“Oh.” There’s a pause. “Yeah. It was - I didn’t get to go to junior prom, so it was kind of - this was - senior year. Senior prom.” Another pause. “Yeah. She did it to make me happy.”

“And did it?” She passes by pictures that fill up with more people: friends with big grins who stick close to her side, wrapping her up in an embrace. “Make you happy?”

“Of course.” Karina’s thumb pauses on a video, the preview dark and unfocused. She says it like she doesn’t even have to think about it. “She was my best friend. She always knew what I wanted. Hey, look at this.”

The video’s of her in the back of someone’s car, prom queen tiara askew on her head, satiny sash falling off one shoulder. She’s yelling, laughing; the sound isn’t on, but her mouth’s wide open and her dark eyes are crinkled to half-moons, creased underneath heavy false lashes and glittery makeup that’s begun to smudge and fade. It makes her whole face look very soft. Young, too - cheeks full and flushed pink with excitement, hair blown-out and everywhere, glossed black. As if she’s having the time of her life.

“How old were you here?” you ask, in awe.

“Eighteen. Just turned, I think.”

“You look-” Like a baby, you almost want to say. It’s true, though. Big brown eyes, scrunched little nose - grinning like the rest of the world hasn’t quite dug its claws into her yet. Skin unmarred and infant-smooth. “You look pretty.”

Karina doesn’t look at you, but you can see the slight, entertained upturn of her lips. All the nasty things you’ve called her - all the irredeemable ways you’ve touched her - and now, inexplicably, you’re going for pretty.

“Thanks,” she says, and clicks the volume up.

“Shut the fuck up,” baby Karina is saying, delightedly. Her voice sounds high, childish and carefree. “You’re so dumb. It wasn’t - it wasn’t even like that, I swear!” She flaps one hand in the air, her nails all short and painted the same rich deep maroon as her dress. “No - you’re just saying that because you’re jealous, you idiot, I know you - you just-”

The person behind the camera says something that you can’t quite make out.

Baby Karina presses one hand to her sternum, pearl-clutching, and gasps.

“I would never,” she admonishes - over-the-top like an actress from a movie - before she throws her head back and laughs.

It’s a startling, wonderful laugh. A little-kid laugh. A mess of wild, unabashed giggles, hiccupy and sweet, so loud and infectious you can hear the other people in the car start cracking up with her; out of frame, someone reaches out to interlace their fingers with Karina’s, waving their joined hands until they smack against the car window and Karina only laughs harder. With her whole body, shoulders shaking and all. Streetlights flashing across her face, making her look sort of blurry and surreal, like something out of a painting.

“Your laugh,” you find yourself saying, stunned.

Karina’s touching the back of her neck, completely engrossed in the video. “My what?”

You don’t laugh like that anymore. That’s what you mean to say. That scratchy, almost painful laugh that she’s been gracing you with since the moment you met her - there’s no trace of that in how baby Karina wriggles with laughter in the backseat of the car until her happy, breathless blush spreads to her neck and her chest. Head tipping back against the seat, like she’s all tuckered out.

“Um,” you say, voice caught in your throat.

On the screen, her eyes fall shut, lashes fluttering so delicately.

You can’t do anything but stare. Brilliant, past-life, prom-queen Karina - grinning at nothing, and sleepy from a perfect night, and laughing as if she’ll exist as this version of herself forever. As if she just doesn’t know any better, yet.

“You,” you start to say, again-

Karina shuts her phone off, and turns.

And you’re about to say something - something about the gnawing, uncertain feeling you get when you watch this former self of hers. It’s on the tip of your tongue. You don’t laugh like that. Something happened to you. For a moment the whole image just seems off - like the way people make posthumous holograms of pop stars, superimpose faces of long-dead actors on stunt doubles. A kind of intense wrongness. A murmured, uncomfortable: that’s not really you, is it? It can’t be. I barely recognize her.

“What?” Karina asks. Her smile reveals her teeth. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Then reality hits you, all at once.

“Sorry.” Your hand finds her thigh. You laugh because you’re being ridiculous - how would you know who she really is, anyway? “I was just thinking - I don’t know. Never mind.”

She seems to take that at face value. You like that about her. How she seems to trust so easily - going home with you, winding up in your bed, staying when you ask her to stay. Giving you whatever you want: her body, her story.

“So,” you say, eventually. “I can put in my movie that you totally peaked in high school, huh?”

Karina snorts. “Yeah,” she says, playing along, and taps her dark phone screen with a clawed nail. “Say it was the last time I was happy.” She pulls a face, like the thought of it is just unspeakably pathetic. “That’s a tragedy if I’ve ever heard one.”

“Shakespearean,” you agree, and let her clamber into your lap. “It’s perfect.”

But you know she’s kidding. You’d like to think that you understand girls like her. They live in a different world than the rest of you - the kind of world where every person on earth looks at them and falls to their feet, falls madly in love. You’ll write about it one day; you’ll feel out the narrative for her, a curious exploration. That rose-tinted life she must flourish in, closed-off and flawless like a snow globe, her spinning and protected in the glass.

“Perfect,” echoes Karina, and kisses you - like she’s proving she really means it.

That’s the reality, here. That’s it. This is all there is.

Well, almost.

Karina lets you scroll through the rest of her photo gallery, front to back. You take the opportunity, because you’re greedy for as much as you can get.

There’s a lot of photos that are just her, funnily enough - selfies posed in front of the same full-length mirror, over and over again, clad in unholy outfits. Swimsuits, sports bras and little running shorts, lingerie: shit that makes your mouth water, eyes lingering, groaning out loud as she laughs at you. But it’s also her in faded old t-shirts, holding the hem up to expose her stomach. Body angled to the side in girlish sundresses. Hair pulled up, showing off her neck, her gorgeously sharp collarbone - in makeup or out of it, stare intensely focused and sultry.

“That’s hot,” you comment. “Self-obsessed as fuck, but hot.”

Karina smiles - her tiny private-joke smile - and doesn’t say anything at all.

There’s one video in particular that catches your eye. It’s recent, relatively - the date reads late December, last year. Less than a month ago. Christmastime. You click on it, curious.

Karina’s immediately recognizable in it, black hair winding past her shoulders, drowning in a large black sweatshirt. She’s smiling, but it looks sort of tense and tired - bags under her eyes, like she hasn’t slept in a while. She’s got both hands balled up into fists, held close and protective to her chest; her sharp chin rests on her pale knuckles. There’s a tiny smear of red across her mouth, lower lip bitten bloody.

“You just got here,” she says. She’s looking at something behind the camera. “The first thing you wanna do is hear me sing?” She laughs once, scratchy and hoarse. “Why are you even filming this?”

The answering strum of guitar strings, a pretty, perfect chord. An invitation, or a demand.

“You’re kidding.” Karina’s voice is flat.

Another chord - evidently not.

“Wow,” says Karina. Her smile, out of nowhere, goes very soft at the edges. “You just do this because you know I can’t say no to you.”

“What?” you ask Karina now, laughing. “Is this - what is this? Do you - are you really going to sing?”

And then - crazily enough - she does.

“Oh,” you say out loud, adoring, and Karina turns her face into your shoulder.

Her voice in the video is breathy, sweet. Shyly unpracticed, raspy from disuse, completely and utterly gorgeous; lids slipping shut and open again, laugh leaking into her melody line in lyrics about black eyes and kisses and wanting someone who’s just so, so bad for you. But what surprises you more than anything is the look that dawns on her blurry on-screen face - irises sparkling and smile bashful, hiding her mouth behind the sleeve of her sweatshirt, curled up with her knees to her chest. You see now that she’s wearing pajama pants, fuzzy and patterned with snowflakes.

She looks radiantly pretty. She looks vulnerable. And not even in a sweaty, satiated, filthy post-fuck kind of way - actually, genuinely vulnerable. Soft and wide-eyed and tender.

Suddenly, you just can’t tear your gaze away.

“Stop.”

The song’s over. On-screen Karina’s fully grinning now. Porcelain-fragile, but undeniably happy, too.

“I hate you,” she says. “Baby, I really do.”

“You love me,” says the person behind the camera. “You’ll love me for the rest of your life and you know it.”

And in the video - in vivid, fluid motion - Karina laughs.

Whole-hearted, lovely. Familiar. For a moment, you swear she’s still that girl sitting in the backseat of a car with her prom queen tiara on, giggling free and uninhibited, unhurt, untouched. A month ago - less than that, even - looking like she’s coming back to life.

That’s where the clip ends.

It doesn’t change anything, if you actually think about it. It’s just another version of reality. A Karina from a whole other universe, laughing like a child, and so, so far away from whoever she is now.

(Back between the lines of your script-

The stranger and the girl drink to get drunk and that’s about it. She reads the label of his wine; he makes fun of her for being a snob. She doesn’t really drink, she says at first, but he laughs like this is a challenge, and pours her a glass anyway. She flushes pink and fidgets around. She seems to shed hair like a cat and he thinks this is the most hilarious thing he’s ever seen, picking up thin black strands off of the arm of his couch, teasing her about girls and how they really like to leave their mark, huh?

Leave their mark, she repeats. There’s some trick of the lens here, some sort of strategic camera work - he’s in the forefront and she’s in the background, and she looks so much smaller than him. Why do you say that?

He still had his ex-girlfriend’s perfume in his cabinet. He probably still has some of her clothes in his closet. Not out of any particular emotional attachment, but sometimes this is just the way things are: when you spend years intertwining your whole existence with someone else’s, it’s hard to rid yourself of that connection. You’ve grown into each other’s spaces, tangling limbs and heart lines, putting down roots. It’s gonna take a little force to get them out.

They’re just so much, he says, gesticulating with his hands. And they affect everything in your life, like a fucking infection. And then it doesn’t work out, and you - he makes a wide, sweeping motion here, attempting to encompass the wreckage. You have to fix everything they broke. Purge them from your system and all that. It’s so fucked up.

It’s like this, he means to say - you love someone and then they leave you behind and you’re left staring at the blown-up decimated crater that used to be your life together. You love someone and they don’t love you back and all you have now is the debris.

They’re both drunk. There should be music here and there isn’t. It’s only eerie, too-still silence, suffocating the both of them with every passing second.

Well, she says, laughing, and takes another sip. You and I can agree on that, at least.)

It happens like this:

There’s a monologue you want to write.

You tell Karina this after you’re finally fucking her again, when she’s balanced on the edge of your glass coffee table with her legs spread and your mouth slick with her cum. Well - not after, technically. She’s between orgasms and you have your thumb on her clit, tracking the expression on her face, the split-second moment where she comes apart. It’s then when you realize so badly that you want to write some great speech for your heroine - something about the sweat beading on Karina’s midriff and her tits that you can’t stop touching and the jerky movements of her hips, trying to get your tongue back on her clit, panting and delightfully desperate. Something about desire.

“Desire,” repeats Karina, voice halfway into a raspy, worked-up moan.

“Yeah.” You’ve replaced your mouth with your fingers, fucking up into the obscene tight heat of her cunt. She’s trembling, dripping everywhere; she’s the very picture of what it means to want, probably. “But I just can’t figure it out.”

Karina laughs roughly, and then she cums.

“Is that funny?” you ask her, after, when you’re wiping your wet mouth with your wrist and she’s sucking on your glistening fingers, licking the taste of her own cunt off your skin. Her eyes big, lips all full and pink - slutty angel on her pedestal, perched above you. “Me writing about desire?”

Karina lets your fingers free with a loud pop. She’s still clutching your hand close to her mouth, thumb dragging through the sticky gleam of her spit. “No,” she says, eyes distant. “It just reminded me of something. There’s this Anne Carson quote, about men and desire…” She shakes her head. Presses her lips once to your fingertips in a small, startlingly sweet kiss. “It doesn’t matter. Tell me more.”

There isn’t much to tell, truthfully. Except that you’ve got this love for movie lines that are just so utterly quotable - things that make their way into the pop culture consciousness. That’s the kind of work you want to be doing: creating something that has an impact, something that’ll exist long after you’re gone. Everlasting. If you had to pull for an example, you’d say-

“You ever seen Closer?”

“Yeah.” Karina drops your elbow into her lap. “Oh, I get it. He tastes like you but sweeter. Lying’s the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off - et cetera.” She hums the melody line. “So you want an early 2000s pop-punk band to make a song about your movie? Ambitious.”

“More or less,” you say as she shimmies her shirt back down, hem falling back over her midriff. “But like I said, I’m kind of stuck.”

Karina rolls her neck. Her hair is everywhere, sweet-smelling; snapped-off strands decorate your table, looking like cracks in the glass.

“Any suggestions?” you ask, thumb skimming along the pale bruised inside of her thigh.

She smiles, mischievous. “Maybe.”

That’s how you both end up curled on your couch together with your laptop in front of you, Karina’s eyes glued to the movie playing on the screen, watching as the four main characters fuck and flirt and cheat on each other and scream at the top of their lungs. Melodramatic dialogue. How do you feel about him using your life? You’re lying; I’ve been you. This will hurt, which Karina laughs at - as if announcing the pain will make it better, playacting at exoneration.

It’s also - predictably - how you end up fucking again. You barely make it an hour in, and then-

“Hey.” Karina’s breath tickles your ear. She’s already seconds from climbing in your lap already; her thigh is hooked over yours, bare and inviting. “Are you inspired?”

You’re swallowing back a grin. “Sure.”

“Oh. Great.” She’s no actress herself, clearly. She couldn’t be subtle if she tried. “Do you wanna be more inspired?”

And - whatever. It’s a movie about sex. If anything, at least you’re sticking to the theme.

The dialogue plays in the background as Karina rocks her hips down on your lap - you can feel how wet she is again, like she never stops wanting to be fucked. You’re telling her something about how she’s the most insatiable girl you’ve ever met; the sound of the film saturates the room, setting the tone like it knows its purpose. How? How does it work? How do you do this to someone? This big, infidelity-ridden confrontation. Did you phone her? Beg her to come back? Asking him why he falls for another girl, getting this ridiculous answer - it’s because she doesn’t need me.

“Huh.” You smile into the curve of Karina’s neck, already palming her ass. “That one’s funny.”

“Is it funny?” Karina’s sharp jaw brushes against your cheekbone. Her eyes are so dark, shadowed by her long lashes. “I think it’s pretty realistic. People don’t like needy girls. It’s a burden to be loved so hard.” Her tongue darts across her teeth; her smile’s somewhat caustic. “Too much to handle, I guess.”

“What are you talking about?” This strikes you as fairly fucking ridiculous, too. “What men have you met who don’t like needy girls?”

Karina just laughs and leans in for another kiss.

It’s easy to let the rest of the film float away in the background, the lines coming disjointed, unconnected. A spoken-word soundtrack, tone perfuming the air: the angst and pain and eroticism seeping into your clothing. Once in a while you’ll pull back from kissing Karina’s neck or tits or mouth and see a thoughtful little quirk to her mouth. Like she’s genuinely listening, even as you’re taking off her shirt, slipping a hand back between her legs. Where will you go? Disappear. I can’t still see you - if I see you, I’ll never leave you. I amuse you, but I bore you.

“I bet you’ve never felt that,” you say, half into the silk of her hair.

Karina pauses. Her shirt’s on the floor; she’s gloriously naked on top of you. “Felt what?”

“I amuse you, but I bore you,” you recite. You already sound sort of fuck-drunk, far gone. “You’re the farthest thing from boring.”

Back in the movie, the female lead sobs into her fists. Karina studies you, fingertips grazing the nape of your neck. You try to imagine it - her as one of those heartsick heroines, crying herself to pieces, begging a man not to leave her - but you draw an utter blank. Some people just aren’t breakable in that way.

“You’d be surprised,” Karina says, after a moment. “People get bored of me all the time.”

“Oh, please.” Even when she’s the one top of you, you can’t help feeling so completely in control. It’s gotta be the look in her eyes, dying to be obedient. “I bet you have lots of ways of keeping guys interested in you.” You smack her ass hard just to make a mark. “I bet you let them fuck you however they want.”

“Exactly,” Karina agrees, without missing a beat. She moves in close until your noses bump together. Lets her voice go all smoky and suggestive. “Wherever they want, too.”

You open your mouth - probably about to say something very rude about what a dirty whore she is and how you should’ve realized it the second you saw her; I knew it, I know you - but then your hands slip lower and Karina presses her lips to yours and licks into your mouth, over your teeth, making you swallow your words. Filling you up until there’s nothing but her and the movie, playing on.

I think I’ll be happier with her.

You won’t. You’ll miss me. No one will ever love you as much as I do. Why isn’t love enough?

“Romantic, right?” murmurs Karina, sweet against your tongue.

“Shut up,” you say, and grab her by the hair, tugging her off your lap as you stand. “Bedroom. Now.”

Later, you’ll take the time to consider the different ways filmmakers illustrate a power dynamic - it’s playing on your laptop screen right now. The heroine’s sitting on the arm of the couch, clutching desperately at the hero’s jacket. Gorgeously emotional and pleading for another chance, her tiny chin tilted up, eyes so large and watery. Made fragile and fearful by everyone: the protagonist, the narrative, the director, the audience beyond. By herself, even. It’s a stylistic choice - she wants to look that pathetic.

And you-

Well, you’ve got Karina’s long hair wrapped up in your fist, tits bouncing as she stumbles to her feet, ankle knocking hard and horribly loud against the leg of your table. Cute little ass all red from your hand. Thighs shimmering from how drenched she is, cunt dripping from how you’ve treated her. She hasn’t managed to work her mouth into a trademark smirk fast enough: when she looks at you over her shoulder, her eyes are abyss-dark and bottomless, crease between her brows, lips parted in pained surprise.

The definition of pathetic, too - but that’s exactly the point. She’s just so much more fuckable like that.

“Ouch,” you say, touching her hurt ankle with the side of your foot.

“It’s fine.” Karina’s skin feels clammy and cold. Her smirk’s intact now, camera-ready. “I’ve been through worse.”

Her ankle throbs under the pressure of your touch; you still haven’t let up on her hair. You’ll go through worse, too, you think of telling her: a sly comment about how rough you’re about to fuck her, what vicious marks you’re about to leave. How you’re gonna hurt her exactly like she asked you to.

You don’t say a thing.

She must already know all of that, anyway.

So, Karina’s not breakable like the helpless, weepy, soft-hearted girls in the movies - but that’s alright. She’s breakable in much more enticing ways.

Case in point:

“Oh, get real, baby. Don’t pretend you don’t love it.”

Well, breaking someone down doesn’t really get better than this.

It’s all a scene of your own making, a perfect pre-arrangement. You on your bed, Karina limp and bent belly-down over your lap - you in control and Karina as the most impressive toy you’ve ever gotten your hands on, creamy ass and needy cunt and skin that turns bruises to artwork. You’re goading her and failing - trying to get her to just admit to what she is, what a filthy slut, what a nasty eager fuckdoll - but it’s hard to get a response when even breathing seems to be a chore for her right now. Every noise out of her mouth is nothing but a gasping, choked-out whimper. Her face is buried in her forearm, hidden. And through the shine of lube dribbling down your hand and her ass and into the sticky wetness of her cunt, you’ve got two fingers stretching out her little asshole - and you’re just getting started.

“I know you fucking need this.” Your other hand slides up her back, slips to tangle in her hair. “You’re just too good at it.” You pull hard, wrenching her head from the crook of her elbow. “Too good at being an obedient fucking whore for me, huh?”

Karina’s whole body stiffens when you fuck your fingers deeper, as if tugged taut on a string: the flex of her feet in the air, shoulder blades straining, neck craned back almost painfully. You pull harder. It’s a buzz at the base of your skull, live-wire thrilling: the knowledge that you can yank her into whatever position you want - fuck her anywhere, work her ass open with your cock, fill her up with cum - and she’s just going to have to take it. Like she’s this pliant, powerless thing. Like she’s yours.

Your self-satisfaction seeps right into your voice. “Answer me.”

You hear Karina gulp down a breath. “I,” Karina mumbles, but she can’t do anything but babble. “I - fuck-” All teeth-clenching nonsense; she shoots a baleful glance over her shoulder, desperation clawing its way into every word. “Please-”

Your fingers pause. “You want more?”

Her cheeks are splotchy and pink; you swear there are tears wobbling in those big dark eyes. The heavy arousal in your stomach turns to violent hunger, as though your mouth could start watering at any second. You can’t help it. The thought of seeing her cry is fucking exhilirating. “You - oh-”

“Answer me. You want my cock?” You’re waiting for the breaking point. “You want me to really fuck your ass?”

“Fuck-”

But that’s not a proper reply and Karina knows it, so she doesn’t protest when you pull your glistening fingers out of her and smack your palm hard across her ass. Once, then twice, and then you just don’t stop. She yelps like a hurt animal - trembles uncontrollably, her thighs and her shoulders and her quivering bottom lip - and makes a sound in the back of her throat that might be a sob, but she still lets you hit her: gives into the harsh crack of skin on skin, over and over again. Listens as you tell her that she deserves this, that she wanted this, that you’re making her into a good girl and this is what good girls get when they’re too cock-hungry to follow orders or answer a fucking question, you know that - you know I’m this rough for a reason. It should hurt. It’s so much more fun that way.

“I’ve been too fucking nice to you,” you mutter, teeth gritted in an effort to hide your grin - as if you even need to. It’s obvious how much you enjoy this. It’s the point. “That’s the problem with girls like you - you never learned your fucking place, huh? Never really been punished for anything?”

Karina mumbles out something unintelligible, slurring from her drooling mouth to the sheets.

“Yeah.” Your hand comes down again - she flinches just before her body goes slack. “That’s what I thought.”

And after you’ve spanked her so hard that her fair skin is ravaged and raised with goosebumps along the slope of her back - her whole body in revolt - you finally, finally stop.

Karina doesn’t budge except to breathe, and even that releases shallow, unsteady. You read it all in the shaky lift and fall of her thin shoulders, her hands in white-knuckled fists, her face pressed to your sheets and hidden - her hair coats everything, all ink, all words written but left unsaid. She shivers beneath your fingers. Her cunt’s dripping all over your lap. She’s a masterpiece. She’s a wreck.

You’re filled up with thick, swollen pride. “Karina.”

Karina. Your own personal creation, transformed under your touch. Might as well have your name carved into her, too. A brand right across her back, slicing through tissue, scarring to seal her fate - this is who you fucking belong to.

“Poor baby.” You follow the sharp ridges of her spine, tracking notches, keeping a tally: counting how many times you’ll hit her, how many days she’ll stay in your bed. How many movies she’ll let you make out of her, being your brilliant muse for decades. “It’s painful when you don’t listen to me, huh?”

But then - inexplicably - you think of her bruising ankle. Her twist of a smirk, detached and humorless. I’ve been through worse.

You’re abruptly glad you can’t see the look on her face.

“Come on, sweet girl.” You dig the heel of your palm into her lower back, half a warning. “Pull it together.”

Between the strands of glossy hair tumbling over Karina’s skin and your sheets, you spot a reddish mark on the back of her neck. Like the impression of a thumbprint, small and round. Blurry enough in the dim light that your brain starts conjuring up strange theories; an old wound, maybe. A birthmark or a burn, a childhood injury.

You graze her shoulder blades with your fingertips, exploratory. She feels so small draped over you like this, a tiny wet wisp of a girl. A doll.

She still hasn’t moved.

“Karina.”

Nothing.

“Karina,” you say again, suddenly uneasy. Your hand stops. “Are you-”

For a few terrible seconds, you can’t even hear her breathing.

But then Karina shifts. Slow, sensual, deliberate. Pushing herself up off your lap, arching her back, the slick pucker of her asshole obscene from where you fucked it open with your fingers. Her bruised knees dig into your mattress as she straightens up, and her gorgeous pale face seems to glow in the midday light - heavy dark eyes, bitten-pink mouth, black hair curtaining her cheeks like a frame to a portrait.

“You,” you start to say, feeling suddenly like you’re looking at her for the first time.

“I’m really sorry,” Karina murmurs.

She doesn’t look close to tears at all. She’s so unfazed, as if having her ass spanked punishingly raw is something that happens to a girl like her on the daily. A run-of-the-mill occurrence - a consequence of having a body like that, made to be brutalized. She’s already reaching towards the nightstand for the lube.

“I just wanted it so bad I couldn’t think straight,” Karina tells you, with erotic-film certainty - reciting all the lines that’ll make her seem the most insatiably slutty. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Her lips form a pout; she leans down to press them to the tip of your cock, all sweet and demure, like she thinks she needs to convince you. Eyes flicking up at you through her thick lashes, molten-hot. “I should’ve listened.” It’s only a breath, warm and torturous. “I deserved that, I know.”

Your hand winds tight in her hair. You want to force your cock down her pretty throat, make her gag and choke over her simpering apologies, spitting up your cum until it trickles down her chin, her tits, her tummy. Both a game and a power play: prove how sorry you are.

Karina pulls back before you can, and holds up the lube.

“Babe,” she says, the term of endearment almost a singsong - a lilting reminder. “I thought you wanted to really fuck me now.”

“Uh-huh.” Her tits heave as she moves, crawling closer, offering herself up. “And I always get what I want, right?”

You feel drunk with power. You forget that this isn’t supposed to be about power. You watch as Karina coats her palm with lube and pumps your cock, her fingers slick and hot, her veins starkly blue at her delicate wrists. Expression delighted at how hard you are, pink little tongue poking out between her teeth - seduction down to an art form, meticulously calculated.

“With me?” Her smile burns. “Obviously.”

You pull her in by the neck to kiss the smirk off her mouth.

It’s interesting. There’s this other thing regular critics and moviegoers have been saying about films these days: sex scenes need to have a purpose. Some sort of coherent motivation. Strip your lead actress down to nothing and get her keening and moaning and you’ve got to explain it away somehow. It forwards the plot, you could insist, pitching it to producers and directors. It does something for the character dynamics. It’ll draw in just the right audience, the ones dying to see their favorite celebrity debauched and getting dirty on-screen - they’ll see it over and over just to get a taste. Isn’t that enough? To satisfy the masses? Isn’t that why we’re all here?

Because otherwise all people are staring at is a play at pornography: useless half-convincing make-believe. The heroine can writhe and whine and arch her back all she wants. Everyone knows she doesn’t feel anything.

“Tell me the truth.”

Oh, if you two were a movie - you don’t know how anyone could justify a sex scene quite like this.

It doesn’t matter what artsy angle you take. It all comes down to the same unforgivable details: Karina face-down ass-up on your bed, the perfect bowed curve of her spine, the depraved wide stretch of her asshole around your cock - the sweat shining along her shoulder blades, the hard smack of your palm against the red raw skin of her ass, your other hand at the crown of her skull with your fingers wrapped entirely in her tangled hair - her cunt fucking ruining your sheets, wet all the way down her thighs, each brutal shift of your hips sending her little body into full-blown shudders-

“Tell me that you fucking love it.” Your hand slips lower until you’ve got her pinned down by the back of the neck, fingers pushing down: a grip she couldn’t escape even if she wanted to. “Whoring out your slutty little ass like this for a stranger. Getting on your hands and knees for me just because you’re so fucking needy for cock, baby - don’t even try to deny it, you’re so wet, nasty fucking girl-”

You just can’t stop yourself. It’s so easy. She really is so fucking pathetic. Too fragile to get free - too easily manipulated and manhandled. Trembling and drenched and giving way as you make room inside her, forcing space. She’s just so tight - it’s godless, how you make your cock fit in her lube-slicked asshole, how she moans like a bona fide bitch in heat over it: needing faster, needing harder, needing more. Cheek pink and pressed hard to your mattress, sharp nails digging into the sheets rough enough to tear through the fabric. Giving herself up to be fucked cruelly and stupid and senseless.

Like she’s a real-

“Natural fucking cockslut, huh?”

Look, seriously - you can’t be held accountable for the things you say to her here.

Because when you say shit like you’d just let me do anything - like you’d let me fucking tie you up and keep you here forever, be an eager fucking cumdump for me whenever I want you, I know it, I know you - that’s just the moment talking. The circumstances. The pretty arch of her back and the drooling wetness of her cunt and the indecent tightness of her ass, conspiring to make you lose your mind mid-fuck - that’s the whole reason you even tell her any of it. You think you’re good for anything else? Right at her ear, your body covering hers, your cock buried deep. You’re not. Just made to get this slutty ass fucked open, and your mouth, and your cunt - this is all anyone’s ever gonna want from you and you know it - better get used to it now, baby. This is all you got. This is all you are.

It’s Karina’s fault, really. She just takes it - all of it. She doesn’t even try to fight it.

“But that’s okay,” you murmur, as she gasps and squirms and cries out like you’re killing her. “I’m still gonna make you cum.”

And with your cock filling her ass and your hand between her legs, slapping hard at her sopping cunt until she can’t do anything but collapse - shaking, shattered - her whimpers fucked-out and drool-soaked and bleeding into one big nonsensical mess, everything about her used and ruined-

“You’re mine,” you tell her, laughing as she falls apart. “You get that? You’re mine.”

-then, you do.

When it’s all over, Karina rolls over to face the wall, breathing hard. She’s slick everywhere, sweat and saliva and lube, your creamy cum dripping out of her well-fucked asshole and trickling down her thigh. You trace her lower back and grin at the way her skin seems to give into you, turning pink with a press of your fingertips. You’ve come to realize you adore her like this, the fugue state after you fuck her: utterly dead to the world.

Like she could become a permanent fixture in your bed. Too tired to move. Too tired to ever leave.

“Mine,” you say again, softer.

Karina doesn’t argue.

It’s basically all the confirmation you need.

So, really, if you two were a movie-

It goes like this: life can imitate art, too. It happens all the time. The line between fiction and reality blurs together until it’s indistinguishable - until you can’t tell where the fantasy ends, or if it ever did at all.

(It goes like this: the heroine smiles sleepily and tells the hero he’s the best she’s ever had. You’ve seen this film before. The movie stars with their fake on-screen fucks might not feel a damn thing, but at least it’s still fun to pretend.)

Also, the mark you saw on the back of her neck isn’t actually what you thought it was.

“It’s a tattoo,” you realize out loud, drowsily awed, brushing her hair away so you can get a better look. You’re both tuckered out, an inevitability when you fuck like you do; you’re seconds from dozing off. Karina’s looking away from you, on her side to escape the soreness of her ass, sheets loose across her chest. She lets you touch her wherever. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice that before.”

“You don’t know me,” mumbles Karina, half into your pillow. “It’s not your job to notice anything about me.”

The tattoo’s crimson-red, all delicate linework. It really does look like it hurts: like someone painstakingly cut the shape into her skin. It’s of a heart, rendered in anatomical detail - valves and ventricles and arteries. It’s beautiful, you realize belatedly. Bright instead of faded, and obviously cared for. Lovely.

The only permanent stain on her perfect body. You press your thumb against the ink, fascinated.

“What does it mean?” you ask, but Karina’s already fallen asleep.

(In your script, the girl and the stranger watch some gory crime show, except they don’t pay very close attention and he tugs her into his lap and makes her ride his thigh. The episode they’ve got on is about a serial killer who murders so-called sinners - liars, adulterers, the like. Slaughters them like sacrifices, cutting their throats with vicious efficiency. Fake blood drenches the screen with every crime scene: a form of fucked-up baptism, a psuedo-religious cleansing.

The girl’s putting on an equally decent show on top of the stranger: head thrown back, eyelids fluttering, high-pitched little moans. He sinks his teeth into her shoulder and keeps watching the TV.

Hey, he says, a murmur against her skin, a close-up on his mouth. You’re a sinner, right?

She’s got her hands on his shoulders, hips rolling. Sure am.

How do you think this guy would kill you?

He thinks this’ll shock her, but she doesn’t even pause. Like he kills all the rest, she says. Like an animal.

I think he’d be more careful with you, the stranger muses. You’re too gorgeous. He’d have to use, like - a scalpel, or something. Something cleaner. Something that’d keep you intact.

It’s no use. Nothing he says seems to scare her. Her eyes are far-off, almost glazed in recollection. Like she’s thought about it too - her own untimely end. Her own vivisection, skin flayed and organs visible, viscera and bone. There, hold the shot: now the audience can consider it with her, ponder all the ways she could be torn apart, all the repulsive things they could do with her desiccated body. All the ways flesh can warp under a human touch: the blue-black yellow-green purpling of bruises, a whole palette on one tiny girl. There’s value in that, isn’t there? There’s something intimately, incomparably beautiful in suffering. There’s art.

Isn’t that why everyone’s watching?

I get it, the girl says, still soaking his thigh, smiling as if it’s an inside joke between them. You want me dead. That’s been obvious since the moment you met me.

I don’t want you dead, he says, and grabs her by the jaw. I just want to fuck you.

Okay, she says, uncaring, like there’s barely a difference. Fine. Whatever you want.

They don’t turn the TV off. They let the characters scream and bleed out in the background; he fucks her like she’s got a death wish. It’s funny - he expects her to get louder the harder he fucks her, ruthlessly working over the tight clench of her cunt - but she keeps getting less and less responsive, as if he’s pushing her little body into some sort of trance: expression vacant and blank, body limp and lifeless, mouth open and speechless. It makes him angry. Give me something, he’s saying, frustrated, clawing at her hair: baby, it’s not fair, it’s no fun like this. The on-screen shrieks aren’t enough - he wants it from her. Actually, he keeps saying he needs it - as if fulfilling desire is on the same level as food or air, as if he’ll drop dead in seconds if he doesn’t get her sobbing. He gets his overlarge hands on her face and starts contorting it, pushing her mouth open, her eyes wider, his fingers down her throat until she spits and gags and chokes. Oh, the audience will love this one: it’s reminiscent of those filthy exploitation films with their cult followings, so cleverly referential. Look at her pathetic and pinned down. Look at her helpless and struggling. Think of your favorite on-screen murder scenes, and then think of this.

Anything I want, the stranger reminds her, yanking back her hair as she drools down his wrist. You asked for this, didn’t you? You said anything I want.

Except now the girl can’t say anything at all.

This moment will start rumors, invite horrified scandal the same way some purposefully marketed horror movies are passed off as snuff films - that really went down, they really died like that. This scene’ll get a similar response. Did he actually fuck her? Did he actually hurt her? Did everyone - the writer, the director, the crew, the captive audience - actually just stand by and let that happen?

Sure. Or she might just be a really, really good actress.

There. The stranger’s murmuring to her now, watching her manufactured expression, watching the tears fill her eyes. There you go. There’s my girl. And she is his, she really is - transformed into something all beautiful and new under his clumsy fingertips, molded right into art. The camera will zoom in close on her gorgeous, cadaverous face, a perverse little gift for the audience: here, have this, take a look. She’s all yours now.

There’s something to be said here about the manmade link between sex and violence - inescapable, brutal, primeval; bodies in all shades of red - but he forgets it the second he touches her, and she’s being fucked too hard to remember.

Maybe they’ll get to it next time.)

AND WE'RE BACK!!!!!!!!!!! <33333

all my luv ever to @capslocked @worldsover @passingnotions @braaan for beta reading my dumbass shenanigans and also for being the best ever I LOVE U!!!!!! AND ANYONE WHO IS READING THIS I LOVE YALL TOO.................. PART 2 COMING SOON!!!!!!!!!!!

#kpop smut #kpop fanfiction #kpop fanfic #idol x reader #idol x male reader #reader insert #karina smut #karina fanfic #aespa karina smut

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mphountitled · 3 months

Text

𝐇𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐞 ♡

Summary: Taking care of your touch starved boyfriend proves to be more difficult than you initially thought...

Warnings: Established Relationship, Sickeningly sweet Fluff, Heated Making Out, Smut +18 (Minors DNI), Touch Starved!Wonbin, Groping, Dirty Talk, Choking, Daddy Kink, Slight!DDLG, Praise Kink, Fingering

Literally no one asked. But I just had to write something sweet and domestic

A melody that is equal parts romantic, equal parts horrifically tragic bleeds from the strings being coaxed by Wonbin's long fingers. You watch dreamily as he plays you a tune, while you both lay utterly defeated on the couch.

The Friday night lights scattered around the city, bleed in through the cracks in the curtain and your entire front is warmed by Wonbin's back. Your eyes had fluttered closed sometime in between his playing and so you would never know that his eyes were trained on you, as his head rested backwards and his fingers played away.

“Why are you always playing me some Orwellian shit?” You attempt to sound annoyed.

Your eyes are still closed but a light chuckle reaches your ears and you smile, satisfied. Wonbin peers down at his fingers, mindlessly dancing ober the cords as he says,“I think it was supposed to be romantic,” His voice is like gravel and thunder and your stomach warms inside you.

“Almost as romantic as two teenagers killing themselves for one another.” Your eyes flutter open as your fingers find their way at the tips of Wonbin's messy hair, “Would you die for me, Binnie?” his answer is grim in its intensity and instancy,

“Die? Probably not. But I would probably attempt to hurt someone very, very badly for you,” his gaze is still lowered to his strumming as he softly says, “not just physically, but there's plenty of other ways to hurt someone. I'd probably do that, instead of actually dying for you.”

You were forced to get accustomed to Wonbin's morbidity because it almost came as a by-product of his various other terrific attributes. He speaks with a near constant air of grimness that makes your irrational heart swell.

He continues his morose little tune until you cut him off quite abruptly, quite rudely when you say:

"When was the last time you did some hair care?"

That had probably been the very last question he expected to hear (and perhaps maybe even wanted to hear) so early into a rainy Friday evening. His limbs were laden with post-performance exhaustion and all he wished to do, was continue laying between your legs, his head cushioned by your breasts. He was in absolute bliss with your hand patting down his head nearly coaxing him into an early slumber.

It was the perfect way to end a stressful day, until you invariably decided to choose violence.

Wonbin cranes his head back slightly and he narrows his sleepy eyes as he groans out, "Is this your characteristically nice way of telling me my hair looks bad?"

You try to coax his head back down onto your chest, and he steadily complies as you try to pepper him with reassurances, "This is my characteristically nice way of telling you that you need some hair care."

And he concedes, almost immediately with a daft little shrug. He's not sure if it's the affect of the softness of your chest pillowing his cheek or the softness of your body underneath him but Wonbin chooses to see this as the universe gifting him with the possibility of being seated between your thighs while you weave your fingers through his hair to your heart's content.

The thought effects him in ways he did not anticipate and soon, he is turning his face into your chest and nuzzling into the cleavage. "When do we start?"

An obnoxious, borderline unladylike laugh pushes its way through youre throat as you try to shrug the boy off of your chest but to no avail. Wonbin's kisses along your cleavage are unrelenting and you release a breathless little chuckle. "I proposed that we do your hair-" You finally succeed in pushing his head back, "Not that you end up inside of me on the damn couch."

"Why can't you do my hair…” Wonbin turns to ease his fingers along the waistband of your sweats, “...After you let me inside.” He continues to splay wet, needy kisses along your chest.

While he distracts himself, you inconspicuously hook your fingers into the hair tie securing his raven hair back and you pull, letting his hair fall like a across his face while he continues to assault your skin with hickies. You're momentarily stunned by the sheer length of Wonbin's hair as he continues to lap hungrily at your skin, deciding to stretch his bravery and let his hand crawl up under your loose shirt.

"Your hair is so pretty, Binnie,"

"Your everything is so pretty, baby," He groans and you can tell from the low panting in his voice and the hand skimming the underside of your breasts that he is getting himself worked up.

While Wonbin shifts his weight on top of you so that he begins to straddle you, you're very alarmed but not surprised to find him already completely hard.

A very familiar, very distracting bulge pushing against your thigh brings you back to earth.

"I need to fuck you now," He affirms robotically with a curt nod of his head of hair spilling around his face.

"Down boy,” you shoot out a hand against his chest. Keeping him at arm's length. “We need to wash it now,"

"I need to fuck you now,"

"You're insatiable today,"

"You say this as if it's something new."

"Fair enough," you murmer, letting your head fall on the armrest as you watch your boyfriend seated above. His bushy eyebrows scrunch up until he's racking his fingers through his hair, attempting to detangle the web of raven locks and failing horribly.

"Hurry up, so I can tie this back up," he grumbles in apparent vexation. "I hate having it like this." You throw your head back as you wrestle to wriggle yourself up from underneath him but he stays put.

"Afterwards, you let me give you the most mind blowing orgasm you've ever had,"

"Afterwards," you grumbled back, using his distraction to knock his balance of kilter, "-you let me put some of my hair clips in."

He had been a grumbling, moody mess throughout the entire process. Washing his hair in the bathroom sink while Wonbin sat on a stool had been a nightmare filled with you having to swat away at Wonbin's hand whenever it got too bold and decided to attack you while you were hovering over him, letting the water wash the suds away. You were pleasantly surprised by just how much you were enjoying running your fingers through his scalp, stirring up the shampoo until it created a halo of bubbles on his head, all while you were humming steadily to his latest song.

"You're very pretty," Wonbin said suddenly as you proceeded to towel down his hair. Your heart squeezed with adoration inside its cage.

"You're very pretty, too."

Your reply released a whirlwind of butterflies scattering inside his stomach, threatening to climb out his oesophagus and spill out of his mouth. The exchange was perhaps so tender it almost felt unreal.

His eyes, as dark as they are, as endless as they are, bore into yours. You're still hovering above him, but the towel falls gently to the floor, and soon, you're being pulled into that spindly web that was the force of Wonbin's entire freaking aura and you're leaning in close.

“I have to finish up.” It comes out as a whisper.

You immediately know when your eyes flit down to his lips, thay you're already too far gone.

“Why are you leaning in then?” He whispers back with a lazy smirk spilling across his lips.

“Because you're making me,” whispering is all you're both able to do, in fear of shattering this incredibly charged energy between you.

“Am I?” He asks with a slight tilt of his head with his own eyes now staring up at your lips. He is feeling less apologetic for his unsavoury thoughts because Wonbin's has been forced to endure all of 5 minutes of you scrubbing at his hair, while your breast pushed right against his face.

Apologetic is the last thing he feels right now.

“You're a fucking tease,” he breathes out. And his large hand is slithering up the back of your neck until your lips are crashing onto his with a surprised yelp.

As your lips move in tandem with one another, Wonbin's hand never leaves your neck. Instead, he chooses to prolong the kiss by breaking away in short intervals. Never straying too far.

Wonbin's mouth is all encompassing. He slithers his tongue in almost conspiratorially and you gasp at the sudden yet swift intrusion. Both your tongues meet in a fiery, borderline barbaric kiss and you swear on everything you love that you could cum off of making out with him alone.

How utterly embarrassing that would be.

When the faintest moan slips out of your mouth Wonbin abandons all other inhibitions. He rises from the chair like lightning and you nearly roll backwards from the sheer size of him.

His heavy shoulders are bent down to keep your lips locked against his as he pushes you against the sink. With one more kiss, Wonbin spins you around until your front is facing the foggy mirror, and his front is pressed against your back.

He leans his head down, pressing his lips to your ear as he says, “Are you gonna let me in now?” His fingers slide against the waistband of your sweats and you immediately know what he means.

A wanton sound bleeds from your chest and you push your ass backwards, pressing it against the bulge in his sweats.

Wonbin's other hand finds the front of your throat as he cranes your neck backwards.

“You gonna be good for me, Princess?” He asks in a vaguely condescending manner as he juts his bottom lip out and gazes down at you, mirroring your pained, wanton expression.

“You finally ready to be a good little girl, huh?”

You couldn't stand his infuriating teasing any longer and so you make the daring decision to push your own hand into the front of your sweats- or perhaps you try to. Wonbin's hand locks around your wrist and squeezes until you're wincing in pain. His gaze is unfazed as he releases the grip on your wrist and pushes his own hand down your pants.

“You're so fucking stupid sometimes, Angel.” His words run like rain on the forest floor and your eyes flutter shut when his fingers push past your drenched underwear.

“You're fucking soaked, baby,” He croaks, keeping his nose nuzzled in your neck as he swipes his fingers along your folds. Wonbin soon loses himself the movements of his own fingers, until his bucking against your ass while muttering dirty nothings into your ear in a dizzying amalgamation.

“M-More, please-”

That immediately rouses him from his pleasure filled state. Wonbin blinks away the pleasure and straightens his slightly hunched frame.

“You want my cock inside you baby?” His eyes are trained on the side of your face while swiping his hands across the mirror so you could see the mess he's already made of you.

Your lips hang open and Wonbin's damp hair falls over his face as he towers over you.

“My good girl wants me inside of her so badly,” he whispers, almost robotically, as if he were chanting the words to himself as he pushes his hand in his sweats. As he begins to fist his aching cock Wonbin lazily brings his hooded eyes up to your reflection and you both watch each other through the mirror.

He looks so incredibly hungry and so you do nothing but comply as he places a hand on your lower back, forcing you over the sink.

“You're gonna be good for me?” He looks visibly pained when you nod slowly before allowing him to pull your sweats down enough to accommodate his cock at your centre.

“Tell me you'll be good,” his voice shook with the force of his own arousal and you could tell, from his voice alone, that he was already slipping into domspace.

“I'll be goo- fuck!” He's already easing to you with little to no preparation and from his shallow thrusts alone, you can tell how needy he is.

“Ah-fuck, you're so tight…”

Wonbin loses himself in the warmth of your cunt. He paws at your breasts, his fingers tweaking your nipples as he cock fucks you deeper and deeper. He breathes heavily as he pulls the hem of his shirt up, dead set on watching his cock disappear inside your wet folds.

And you watch in the mirror: his flat stomach glistening and moving in tandem with his needy thrusts while his hand swipes obliviously away at his bangs.

“F-Fuck you feel so good- You feel so fucking good, baby,”

You're clenching around him in the wake of his endless praise and your moans are amplified inside the bathroom.

“F-Fuck- Binnie-”

“Binnie?” He pants out with his fingers latching onto your hips, pulling you back to meet his furious thrusts, “Who the fuck's ‘Binnie’?”

You squeeze your eyes shut and your arms grow particularly weak when Wonbin hits that incredibly sensitive bundle of nerves inside you. You're so completely cock drunk but Wonbin holds your weakening frame up with his hand around your throat.

Wonbin's lips tickle your ear as he says, “You wanna call me Daddy, don't you?”

You're absolutely fargone, and you're muttering incoherently while he uses you. In a moment like this, you would say yes to damn near anything.

“It's too m-much, Daddy,”

He's shaking his head, big eyes boring into yours as he tuts in a faux baby voice, “It's just the right amount, baby,” His thrusts grow irregular as he gazes down at your fucked out expression, “Daddy's fucking you just right, isn't he Princess-”

“Daddy, I'm gonna-”

“It's okay, Baby,” His melodic voice succeeds in bringing you to the crevice of your orgasm and melt into him, “You're listening so well, aren't you?” His voice cracks as he spills his seed inside of you, “S-So fucking good.” Wonbin buries his face in the crook of your neck as he shoots his cum inside of you. The hand on your neck never eases away and you're still caught in throes of pleasure when he splayed multiple drunken kisses against the side of your head

“God you're such a good girl.” He whispers before splaying one final kiss to the back of your head.

You would always be terrified that one day, you would wake up and realise that this big hearted raven haired boy had been a fragment of your imagination.

Nothing but a dream.

A really, really good dream.

That thought, no matter how irrational, never left you without a wave of unease.

"Now I need to brush your hair,"

#park wonbin x reader #wonbin x reader #wonbin fluff #wonbin #riize #riize x reader #riize imagines #riize smut #wonbin smut

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aemvnd · 13 days

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Crybaby!reader being cradled by rafe!! She just needs her daddy, he’s tough but soft at times and he just reassures her, calming her down from her little tantrum 🤍🤍🤍

𝓇.cameron. ┆ lovin' on you.

◟ ㅤᡣ𐭩ㅤㅤ ݁.﹒ won't be able to write much today… goin' shoppin' for my new apartment. 💐 here's a lil' somethin' for the soft girlies . <3

"c'mon baby, stop your cryin'—you're gonna make yourself sick," he sighs softly, cradling you in his lap, keeping a firm pressure around you as he gently rocks you, and you feel so safe in his thick, strong and protective arms, so loved.

"i.. 'm sorry, daddy, jus' can't help it sometimes," you mewl with a cute pout, another stream of fresh tears falling down your cheeks, making you bury your face into the crook of rafe's warm neck, and he sighs again, pressing a gentle, loving kiss to the top of your head, getting a whiff of those feminine hair products that he loves on you, something sweet and vanilla scented, just utterly and perfectly you.

"just needed dad, huh?" rafe chuckles softly, giving his head a slight shake to himself in amusement, and he can still hear you sniffling softly, trying to be quiet and not upset him, which he hates, because he's been trying to work on you and your shyness, always so nervous to upset him in someway, somehow.

it probably has something to do with your daddy issues, rafe thinks, slightly smug and malicious, but that's why he was the man who stepped up—not just as your man, and not just as your boyfriend, but as someone you can always look up to, someone you can go to for guidance, someone who'll be firm with you and punish you if need be.

and it was too easy, becoming that someone you desperately needed as he manipulated his way into your life.

however, rafe wasn't the bad guy—no, he knew you needed him, needed that extra love and attention, always so needy and whiny when you didn't get it, but now that rafe was here, with you, now that he has you under his control, you're the most perfect, docile little angel, all submissive and obedient and so, so sweet it's almost sickening.

"don't worry, dollface," rafe croons sweetly, before gently lifting your face up with two light little love-taps to your jaw, catching your attention as you instantly look and perk up, locking eyes with your handsome boyfriend.

and fuck, rafe thinks you're so pretty when you're crying.

"no more crying, ya' hear me?" rafe commands, though he keeps his voice light and gentle, but still firm, knowing he doesn't truly need to keep you in check, you know his rules already, and you've always been rafe's good girl.

sweetly, almost tenderly, rafe carefully wipes away the flowing tears down your flushed cheeks, already knowing you'll wanna redo your makeup once you see that your mascara and eyeliner had run down and created quite the mess—but again, rafe still thinks you're the prettiest girl in the world.

"sorry again, daddy—jus' love you 'nd missed you," you answer meekly, eyes watery and bloodshot, and your pouty lips swollen slightly from you always anxiously biting them, another bad habit that rafe is trying to work on getting you to stop.

"don't worry 'bout it, baby—daddy's here now, yea?" rafe hums softly, pressing a few soft, loving kisses all over your face, making you giggle sweetly and playfully roll your doe-like, misty eyes, which makes rafe smile.

"how about we put on a film and stay in for the rest of the night, yeah?" rafe offers politely, not minding watching one of your stupid romantic movies if it makes you smile, and get you outta this terrible mood of 'missing him' as you always like to complain.

but again, rafe finds that he doesn't mind his girl missing him, not one bit—in fact, he enjoys that fact a bit too much, but he would never admit it aloud, not even if he had a gun to his head.

"okay!" you chirp happily, already over your little tantrum from minutes ago, snuggling even deeper into rafe's lap as you both get comfortable on his bed, looking for one of your favorite movies to watch.

afterwards, once you decide on the film 'the notebook', rafe can't help but release a small, little grin to himself, because he already knows in just the next ten minutes, you'll be hysterically crying all over again, and he'll have to comfort you as you watch noah and allie's love story.

and if rafe already secretly knew that was the film you were gonna pick, and that 'the notebook' was one of your favorite romance films of all time... well, he didn't mind that too much, either.

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edenesth · 7 days

Text

[2:36 PM]

"Holy crap, I'm stuffed! I feel like I've eaten enough to last a week," you exclaimed, embracing your bloated belly in amazement as you glanced at Seonghwa, who was still happily devouring his meal. You'd been indulging at the all-you-can-eat buffet for hours, yet he showed no signs of slowing down. "Thank god one of us has a black hole for a stomach; I swear, Hwa, you make every buffet meal so worth it."

Your boyfriend chuckled, "You say that now, but I bet you'll be craving convenience store snacks by tonight like always," he teased, feeling a rush of affection for you as you stuck your tongue out playfully.

It was your fourth anniversary together, and he had let you choose the venue for your date. You opted for the Japanese buffet near your shared apartment, knowing it would make him happy. And it did; he was over the moon, utterly in love with you for your thoughtfulness. So much so that he could propose to you on the spot. In fact, he had a ring ready and was eagerly planning to seize this perfect moment to pop the question.

As he finished his bowl of ramen, his heart warmed at your immediate response—reaching over to delicately wipe the corner of his lips with your napkin. You smiled, asking, "Was it good?"

He nodded, holding your hand and planting a kiss on your wrist after you finished cleaning his mouth. "Everything tastes better with you around, my love. Now, be a good girl and wait here while I go get us some desserts."

You giggled before exclaiming, "Ooh yes, I want to come with you!" as you began to rise from your seat. But he panicked and stopped you, "N-no, please, let me take care of you today. I'll be back real quick, I promise," he said before darting out of the private room you had reserved. He had plans to hide the ring in one of the cakes for you to discover later, and if you were to go with him now, he wouldn't be able to execute his plan.

With a satisfied hum, he admired how perfectly he had hidden the ring in one of your favourite cakes. Oh, he couldn't wait to see the look on your face when you realised what was inside. Walking back to the room, his heart raced and his mind swirled with all the possible romantic outcomes of this surprise. If all went well, you'd be his fiancée by the end of this meal.

It's going to be perfect.

"Yay, you got all my favourites! Thank you, Hwa, you're the best," you cooed, pulling him down by the collar to give him a chaste kiss on the lips before allowing him to return to his seat across from you.

He grinned, biting his lip excitedly as he watched you begin to eat, "Anything for you," he murmured. His attention was momentarily diverted when his phone chimed with a few texts from his friends in their group chat. He clicked open to find a couple of silly memes, offering a quick 'Haha' reaction before returning his focus to you.

"Hwa, say ahhh," you said, holding out some cake to feed him. Absentmindedly, he looked up from his phone and accepted the bite. "Thanks, babe. You enjoy it, I'll get more later," he said, his words slightly muffled as he spoke with cake in his mouth.

Wait a minute, I—

His eyes widened in horror as he realised the ring was in his mouth. He was dangerously close to swallowing it when he attempted to push it back out, causing him to choke violently and startling you in the process.

"Oh my god, are you okay?" you rushed over to his side immediately, lightly slapping him on the back. Your concern intensified as his body shook. "Cough it out, Hwa!"

And he did, eventually spitting out remnants of the cake onto his trembling hand. In the midst of the mess lay a shiny object. You didn't know what it was, but one thing was certain: it clearly was not meant to be in a cake. "Wh-what's that? Why would they put something like that inside a cake? Are they trying to harm someone? This is unacceptable; I'm going to file a complaint."

"N-no, babe!" he called out, gently grasping your wrist and pulling you close before you could scold anyone for his own mistake.

"But Hwa, you could have died—"

He sighed, "It was me, I put it in there." He grabbed a few new napkins and cleaned up the mess in his hands, and your eyes rounded, your breath catching when you recognised what was in his hand. It was a ring you had once jokingly shown him, telling him how pretty it was and that you would love it if he could propose to you with it. You didn't think he would actually do it.

"God, this went way differently in my mind. You were supposed to discover it on your own; it was supposed to be so romantic, and I ruined it all because I'm an idiot—"

You silenced him with a kiss, pressing your lips to his and cradling his face while you caressed his cheeks, tears tracing down your own. Pulling back slowly, you rested your forehead against his with a soft chuckle.

"Well, I think it's rather romantic."

"I swear, I'll redo it properly—wait, really?"

"Mhm. Oh and, yes, I do."

ATEEZ Masterlist

Look what you made me do, @itstheghostofmypast😭 this was a little something my pookie and I came up with while we were talking hehe ilysm istg pls never stop feeding me these ideas.

Anyways, hope y'all enjoyed this random little timestamp and as always, let me know your thoughts! <3

General ATEEZ Tag list:

@aurasblue @marievllr-abg @itsvxlentine @minghaoslatina @huachengsbestie01 |

@evidive @weedforthoughtz @minkiflwr @cheolliehugs @ho3-for-yunho |

@the-kpop-simp @itstheghostofmypast @vantediary @green-agent @skzline |

@sharksandminhos @writingwieny @heyitsmetonid @tinyteezer @hollxe1 |

@pandabur666 @vampzity @tournesol155 @lilactangerine @oddracha

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #park seonghwa #ateez seonghwa #ateez timestamps #seonghwa x reader #seonghwa x you #ateez drabbles #seonghwa drabble #seonghwa fluff #ateez fic #ateez imagines

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itgirl-111 · 4 months

Text

Embodiment of love

She looks just like a dream.....

I am literally the prettiest dream girl ever. Looking at my face means instantly getting serotonin and adrenaline, dopamine rush. Just being in my presence is itself a present. My presence alone has value in it, feels like a literal nostalgic Deja Vu like dream you never want to wake up from. I embody love and beauty, physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually, energetically.

The prettiest stars in the world.....

My beauty is unrivaled, I look like the prettiest angels and stars of the galaxies. I am simply so breathtaking, irresistible, and unforgettable. I embody the prettiest sunsets, prettiest stars, prettiest skies, prettiest oceans, and prettiest art. My beauty is otherworldly, the one that you'd want to capture it so badly. Even the camera couldn't capture a tenth of my beauty, because I'm just way too beautiful. I am a living, breathing work of art. I am so mesmerizing it's insane. Every single day I wake up looking a billion times prettier than I was yesterday. My beauty knows no limits. I am just naturally and effortlessly beautiful. My beauty is the one that is once in a blue moon, it's rare, it's too precious. The moment you lay your eyes on me the only thing on your mind is "wow". Seriously, how is it even possible for someone to look this pretty that you'd take their breath away? But it is possible for me, yes, because I'm the ultimate dream girl.

Embodiment of love.....

I am the embodiment of love itself, you don't know true love until you see me. One look is enough for you to fall utterly in love with me. I am the first love, I am the definition of love. I'm the embodiment of love in the purest form. If love was a person it would be me. I'm immensely in love with myself inside out, and this love only keeps increasing. I act, walk, talk, like I'm a blessing because I literally am!!. There's something so lovely, adorable, otherworldly, ethereal, magical and angelic about my aura that people simply cannot help but to fall in love with. I have 0 haters, I mean come on, I'm literally the best of the best. I'm simply loved, respected and admired by everyone. I am everyones favourite everything. I am the dream girl, the one that you dream of. I'm the typa girl you wish you had. I'm the typa girl you wish you would become. I'm the typa girl who you see once and never forget. I'm the typa girl who you can't help but to love and adore. I'm the typa girl you want to protect and cherish with all your heart. I'm the typa girl you wanna see win. I'm the typa girl that takes your breath away. Im the typa girl that makes your heart race. I'm the typa girl who reminds you of everything. I'm the typa girl who reminds you of love songs. I'm the typa girl you miss when I'm not around. I'm the typa girl you wanna spoil. I'm the typa girl who brings the soft side out of you. The only one.

A dream....

I would just be sitting there and doing nothing and everyone would go crazy over me. Everything about me, my aura prompts people to smile uncontrollably like an idiot in love. Even the coldest of people turn soft for me. It's like everything around me just turns into that one romantic and dreamy shoujo manga. Being in my presence is strangely addicting yet comforting. The world is literally a happy, ethereal and magical dream when I am in it. People automatically feel better in my heavenly presence. I literally embody makoto shinkai's movies, so breathtakingly beautiful, dreamy and the literal embodiment of love. I embody all the majestic love songs. My beauty, presence, aura, vibe, personality, mindset, my voice, literally everything about me is so dreamy, perfect and lovable. It's like I walked right out of a love struck, euphoric dream. That's right I'm a dream you never want to wake up from.

#vaunting #vaunts & affirmations #beauty affirmations #manifestation #manifesting #loassumption #affirmations #affirm #affirmyourlife #affirmdaily #manifestingreality #manifestyourreality #master manifestor #neville goddard #dylan james #dream girl #desired reality

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auras-moonstone · 9 months

Text

i can see you — ethan landry

word count: 2,623

pairing: non-gf!ethan landry x fem!reader

based on: i can see you by taylor swift

summary: y/n and ethan work at a summer camp which has very strict rules—relationships between the staff is completely forbidden.

author’s note: this song is the epitome of horniness, so there are some suggestive things in this story. no smut, but there are sexual activities implied.

part two

ONE OF THE FIRST RULES YOU’RE TOLD ON YOUR FIRST DAY OF WORK AT THE GARDEN GATE SUMMER CAMP IS: RELATIONSHIPS BETWEEN STAFF MEMBERS ARE COMPLETELY FORBIDDEN. At first, Y/N didn’t mind that rule at all. No one on the staff has ever caught her attention in the two years she had been working there. But then, he bursted into the room—breathless, red cheeks (probably from running), perfect curly hair, big brown enthralling eyes, tall and broad shoulders, absolutely mesmerising features—and she knew she was utterly and absolutely fucked.

“Sorry I’m late… flat tire” he said, trying to catch his breath. And his voice was irritably hot, just great, Y/N groaned internally.

“It’s okay. I had just explained a few rules. The most important—and if we found out you broke it, we’ll have no choice but to fire you—no romantic relationships between staff members, got it?” Jessie, their boss, said. The guy nodded in understanding.

Y/N tried not to look at the mysterious new guy for the rest of the meeting—but it was impossible, his magnetic field was a little too strong. It was going to be a cruel summer, she could feel it.

Ethan, even though he didn’t show it, felt her gaze ever since he walked into that room and it excited him. He had been crushing on that girl ever since Chad showed him a picture of her. He had told her how funny and sweet she was and let it slip that Ethan was exactly her type, so that’s why he ended getting a job at Garden Gate Summer Camp—to meet her.

“Y/N! It’s so nice to see you!” Tara hugged her tightly. Y/N and the group —Tara, the Meeks-Martin twins and Sam—met the previous summer, on their first day of work at the camp. They went to different colleges, but they still texted and face-timed a lot.

“Oh, by the way, Y/N/N, this is Ethan, the roommate I told you would be joining us this year?” Chad introduced her to the personification of a daydream.

“Oh, yeah! Welcome to the nightmare, Ethan. A job at a summer camp is not cool as it sounds” Y/N looked at him with a smile.

“Oh, okay. That makes me feel so excited” he said sarcastically. “But thank you. Hope you heard all good things about me”

“Don’t worry, man. I told her you are a shy, dorky nerdy boy” Chad said, patting his shoulder. Ethan rolled his eyes at him, of course he said that.

“Don’t feel bad, Ethan. Shy, dorky, nerdy guys are cool… jocks, on the other hand…” Y/N faked a gag, and the tall boy laughed.

“Okay, okay I deserved that” Chad laughed too.

That night, both Y/N and Ethan went to bed with excitement filling their chests, trying their hardest to sleep early just so tomorrow would come faster—they couldn’t wait to see each other again.

THE WEEKS PASSED AND THE TENSION THE TWO TEENAGERS FELT AROUND EACH OTHER WAS BECOMING MORE AND MORE UNBEARABLE. Y/N never thought she would hate that fucking rule Jessie set so much. She despised the fact that all she could do was enjoy the way he brushed past her in the hallways. It was getting so hard to retain the need to touch him.

And Ethan… no one would believe the things that went through his mind everytime he saw Y/N. Like right now, she she was waiting down the hallway—to lead him to the closet they were tasked to arrange—and the image of Y/N up against the wall with him, kissing her into oblivion, crossed his mind. Holding back from her was a complete nightmare.

“Eth? Everything okay? You look a little flushed” her sweet voice invaded his ears. His thoughts had been so loud he wondered if she could read his mind.

“The day feels hot and heavy today” was his excuse. The day was indeed intolerable, but that was not the reason he felt like that. It was totally her—the way she made that ridiculous camp shirt look hot, and the shorts that showed her beautiful legs.

“I told you. This job is not as cool as it sounded. Everyone is having fun at the lake and we are stuck in this closet” she laughed “And how is it even hotter in here? My god”.

“Let’s just hurry so we can leave” he said. “Hey, I heard you’re transferring to Blackmore, right?” Ethan tried to make conversation as they worked.

“Yup. I’m rooming with Mindy and her girlfriend. So, you’ll be seeing more of me when the summer ends”

“Thank god” he said. Y/N looked at him in surprise, and then a smirk formed on her face. Ethan widened his eyes and tried to explain himself. “I mean, with Tara and Chad, and Mindy and Anika being couples, I’m kind of always fifth wheeling… now I have you. In the group, I mean, n-not as in… my g-girlfriend”.

“You’re adorable, Ethan” Y/N told him. Ethan held back a sigh. Of course he was the adorable one, the cute one, never the hot one. He didn’t know how he could’ve thought it would be different with Y/N. “I like adorable, for the record”.

Yeah, as a friend, I bet, Ethan said to himself. “Done” he said, already wanting to get out of the closet to drown himself in his own disappointment.

“Right” Y/N stood up, cursing herself for having messed up. She totally meant it as a compliment—yes, Ethan was hot but he was also really sweet and adorable and she liked him a lot. But clearly the boy had been teased about being dorky, nerdy and adorable so much that he started to hate it.

The curly-haired boy turned the handle and tried to open the door. “No, no. No way” he said shaking the door with force. “Y/N it’s not opening”.

“What? Let me see” she said, pushing him aside. “Shit. It must be stuck”.

“Do you have your phone?” Ethan asked. Y/N shook her head. “Fuck, me neither. What do we do?”.

“Well, we’ll have to wait. I mean, they’ll eventually notice we’re missing, right?”

“But that could take hours” Ethan groaned.

“Yeah, we don’t have any other choice so, get comfortable”

The minutes passed and the little room turned warmer and heavier. Their shirts were soaked in sweat and the fabric of Y/N’s jean shorts was starting to feel hot against her skin.

“We’re going to die” Ethan muttered. They were sitting against a wall next to each other. “The shirt is sticking to my skin” he said, trying to create some air by shaking the fabric with rapid movements. “I need to take it off”.

“Please don’t take it off” by his muscled arms and broad shoulders, Y/N could tell Ethan spent some considerable amount of time at the gym. That means that he probably had abs and the last thing she needed at the moment is her body to turn warmer.

“I’m sorry but I might melt if I don’t” he said before getting rid of the dark blue Garden Gate Summer Camp shirt.

Y/N really did try not to shamelessly look at his body, but she was just a girl with only so much self-restraint. “This is torture”.

“I know, let’s just hope they’ll notice soon” he said.

She was, definitely, not talking about the hot room, but the hot, shirtless boy next to her. But she just said “Yeah”. After a couple of minutes, she couldn’t take the heat any longer so she followed Ethan’s actions and took off her shirt, leaving her in only shorts and a black bikini top.

“What are you doing?” he asked in panic, trying to look anywhere but her chest.

“The shirt was so sticky it disgusted me. Chill, it’s just a bikini”

“It’s not the bikini, it’s who is wearing it” the words left his mouth before he could even process them.

The blood rushed into her cheeks, making her even warmer “Ethan, fuck, you’re making this harder” she cursed.

“I could say the same about you” he accused her.

“Ew” Y/N teased him.

Ethan widened his eyes “No! That’s not what I meant!”

“I know, I’m just messing with you” she bursted out laughing. Her shoulder accidentally touched his and the laughter stopped. Their breaths hitched at the contact. “Maybe we should… try banging the door? Someone might hear us”

Ethan nodded frenetically. He needed to get out of this room before he did something stupid. “This is useless” he said after a couple of minutes, leaning against the door.

“I’m sorry for what I said” she blurted out, making him look at her in confusion. “About you being adorable. I can tell you didn’t like it, and I’m sorry”.

“I know it’s silly, I mean getting offended by a harmless compliment, I just… I’m kind of tired of being the one who stays in a corner at parties because I’m not enough confident or hot like Chad or other frat boys. I’m the cute guy, the adorable one, the one that girls want as a friend not a hookup”.

“That’s not how I feel about you, Ethan. God, you have no fucking idea, do you? The effect you’ve had on me since the first day? You don’t know half the things I see inside my head when you are near me or even when you’re not” she didn’t even notice she was pinning him to the door. But Ethan was well aware of it, and he loved it “So yes, Ethan, I think you’re the sweetest and most adorable guy I’ve ever met, but you are also so fucking attractive. I like you and want you so bad, it drives me absolutely insane”.

“What would you do if I went to touch you now?” Ethan asked in a low, raspy voice.

He was so irresistible. “Keep taking to me in that voice and I will do anything you want, let you do anything you want” he definitely had her in the palm of his hand, and she didn’t mind at all.

“Y/N, Ethan? You’re in there?” they heard Chad’s voice on the other side of the door.

“Are you kidding me? They appear now?” Ethan groaned in a whisper. Y/N grimaced and shrugged. It was probably for the best. “Yes! We’ve been stuck here for hours!”

A WEEK HAD PASSED SINCE THE CLOSET SITUATION and while they managed to keep everything professional, they both felt something had changed between them now that they knew they were attracted to each other. They now exchanged seductive smiles, brief teasing touches, and shared meaningful glances only the other was able to decipher—it kind of became their secret language.

But the thing was ultimately treacherous, those little actions just made the situation worse because if they had trouble holding back from each other before, now it felt physically draining.

“We have night patrol, who volunteers?” Sam asked, no one raised their hands. Everyone hated night patrols. “Oh, please”.

“Fine, I’ll do it” Y/N spoke up.

Sam sent her a grateful smile “Who else?”

Ethan faked a defeated sigh and said, “I’ll go too”. Y/N held back a smile.

“Perfect!” Sam exclaimed, giving them the lanterns.

“Good luck, guys” the rest of the group said before entering their respective cabins.

“So, are you going to make a move or are you going to keep eye-fucking me during every fucking meeting?” Ethan asked.

“Mmm, I don’t know. I kinda like seeing you clench your jaw, how you discreetly adjust your shorts, how you try to look away from me but totally failing” she whispered in his ear.

Ethan groaned, gripping her waist tightly “You temptress… you drive me insane. You know it hurts, right? Like, a lot”

“I’m sorry… maybe I should make it up to you?” Y/N smiled innocently, while dragging her hand from his shoulder all the way down to the waistline of his shorts. “Follow me” she grabbed his hand, leading him towards a secure place, very well hidden.

“You’re so gorgeous” he said, pressing her against the wall. He was so tall that she had to look up at him. “Are you going to let me kiss you, Y/N?”.

She looked at him with begging eyes and nodded. As soon as their lips touched, they could see themselves being each other’s addictions. There was so much urgency and neediness in the way their lips moved, they couldn’t imagine ever wanting to pull apart. Hands wandered everywhere—chests, cheeks, jaws, necks—wanting to feel and memorise every inch possible. Nothing could ever be enough though, they wanted more and more of each other.

“I want to make it up to you, Eth” she whispered once they had to pull away.

“Whatever you want. I am okay doing whatever you want” he whispered against her neck, the smell of vanilla and coconut blurring his senses.

“You’re going to keep quiet for me, pretty boy?” Y/N asked descending her kisses from his neck down to collarbone.

“Yes, I promise. Just… please”

So Y/N got down to her knees and Ethan totally broke his promise.

ETHAN LANDRY, Y/N FOUND, WAS THE MOST TRANSPARENT PERSON SHE KNEW. Or at least when his emotions were on edge. The next morning, when the girl joined the rest of the group for breakfast, Ethan almost fell out of his seat. And it certainly caught the attention of their friends.

“Are you okay?” Sam asked him confused by his sudden behaviour.

“Y-yeah, I just thought there was an insect on my leg” he laughed nervously. Y/N wanted to kill him, they were going to find them out if he continued to act like that.

“Well, we are at a camp… in the woods. There are a lot of insects, so you have to get accustomed to them, Ethan” Y/N said.

“R-right, yeah. Obviously” he nodded.

“Man, do you feel alright? You’re acting weird” Chad asked his friend.

“We stayed up late last night” Y/N said, and Ethan choked on his coffee. “-patrolling. And Ethan here is basically a grandpa who wanted to go to bed like ten minutes after we started. So, maybe he just needs a little rest”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what is wrong. I need more hours of sleep” Ethan nodded.

“You’re the worst partner ever” Y/N said sending him a look that said ‘act normal’.

“Yeah, I don’t know what the fuck is going on here but we better get to work” Mindy said.

Y/N AND ETHAN DECIDED TO HAVE THE LEAST INTERACTION POSSIBLE DURING THE DAY. The group did not buy the sleepless excuse at all, they knew something was going on between them. So, looking around to make sure no one was near, Y/N casually walked past Ethan and left a note on his hand.

meet me tonight at my cabin

make sure no one sees you leave your cabin

“You really need to start behaving, Ethan” she said as Ethan entered her cabin, closing the door behind him.

“I just… I keep replaying you on your knees and looking up at me with those fucking beautiful doe eyes and I can’t help it. You make me fucking nervous and flustered”

Y/N smiled, even the thought of being annoyed at him was impossible. She just had a soft spot for him.“Maybe I should get you accustomed to the feeling of me… of all the things that haven’t happened between us yet. And maybe then you’ll start behaving like a normal person around me” she had pushed him to her bed. He looked at her with wide hungry eyes, pulling her to his lap.

“I really like the sound of that… like a secret mission. But first, I need to return the favour. Then, we can do anything you want” Ethan said kissing her collarbone.

Y/N smiled, grabbing him by the jaw to kiss him softly “It’s okay, Eth. You don’t need to”

“I don’t need to, but I want to. There’s nothing I want more” he said, grabbing her tights to switch positions. Now, she way lying on the bed, and he was kneeling between her legs.

“They suspect something, though, they had been keeping watchful eyes on us. So, just in case, we need to be fast. You can’t spend much time here” Y/N said, the feeling of his hand on her tight sending her electric shocks all over her body.

“I can be fast. Just keep quiet, gorgeous”

And soon enough, her hands were in his hair and the rest of their clothes ended up splattered across the room.

#jack champion #ethan landry #scream iv #ethan landry drabble #ethan landry fic #ethan landry oneshot #ethan landry fluff #ethan landry x y/n #ethanlandry #ethan landry x you #ethan landry x reader #jack champion fanfic #jack champion x reader #jack champion x y/n #jack champion oneshot #jackchampion #jack champion imagine #jack champion fluff

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papercorgiworld · 2 months

Text

An unintended double date

Draco and Theo

Enzo doesn’t want you ruining his date so he calls in back up to keep you busy, which leads to an interesting date.

Warning: Draco none, Theo is very suggestive

Today’s little cameo is Noemi ( @njutul ). She’s a new student and you’re a bit protective of her. Enzo asks her on a date, which ends up being an unintended double date.

Sorry, the intro is a bit longer than necessary, but I love writing Enzo being a love struck idiot. Also, sorry I’m in the mood for short little silly stories so that’s what you’re getting… I have two more to finish and then I’m focusing requests. Anyways, as you know feedback is always welcome, but most importantly happy reading!

You had been assigned with the task to show the new student from Italy around, after that Noemi and you quickly became friends. Now after two weeks the Hufflepuff was settled and seemed to know the castle even better than you. However, your biggest worry wasn’t that she would get lost in the castle, rather that she would get lost in Enzo’s starry eyes. The slytherin had fallen for the new girl at day one and had been an absolute menace to you, regularly interrupting you when you toured Noemi around the castle.

And today was the day he was finally going to make his big move. Filled with confidence he struts over to Noemi after class. “Ciao bella-”Enzo starts with a forced Italian accent, but immediately goes back to English seeing how Noemi looks utterly confused. “So I was thinking- wanna go for a swim later?” Enzo curses himself for getting flustered, when he normally was so confident.

“Sounds lovely, can (y/n) join? She was talking about swimming just the other day.” Aah no! It’s supposed to be me and you in the water, close together, without (y/n) swimming around! “Sure, sweet, perfect.” Enzo forces a smile and Noemi calls you over from across the hall. “Let’s join Enzo and his friends for a swim later?” Noemi asks with sparkling eyes and you look at Enzo who’s begging you with his eyes to say no. “Sure, sounds fun.” You say and grin at Enzo.

***

A frustrated Lorenzo enters the Slytherin common room. “(Y/n) is joining in on my date with the most gorgeous girl at Hogwarts.” Draco and Blaise start laughing at Enzo’s dramatics and his failed attempt at a date. “Romantic.” Draco snickers. “How can you be so in love with Noemi? She’s only been here for two weeks?” Theodore asks dryly. “It’s because she’s Italian.” Blaise explains with a serious voice.

“I’m Italian! None of you are jumping my bones.” Theodore argues being difficult, but just then Mattheo enters the common room. “I would jump you, Theo.” Mattheo jokes, not knowing what the conversation is about and making his way to his room. Blaise snickers, explaining the situation to Mattheo as he passes by. “Enzo is in loooovvee with the new Italian girl, he asked her on a swimming date.” Mattheo stops in his tracks and looks at Enzo. “Better not screw it up, Berkshire, or I’m asking her out tomorrow.” A confident smirk tugs on Mattheo’s lips as he grins at Enzo before entering his room

“Merlin!” Enzo groans, realizing he has competition. “This date needs to be perfect.”

Draco

“Draco, you’re going to entertain (y/n) so I can make Noemi fall in love with me.” Draco snorts and wants to protest, but Enzo throws him a dangerous death glare and Draco just nods. “Right, I’ll… entertain (y/n).”

***

On your way to the lake Enzo and Noemi are walking in front of you and Draco. When Enzo shamelessly slings his arm around her you want to intervene, but as soon as you take a quick step forward Draco grabs your hand, pulling you back to him. “Please chill, he’s just being casual Enzo and the girl can make up her own mind.” You stop walking when Draco doesn’t let go of your hand. “Yeah, but she doesn’t know that, just like you, Enzo comes with a warning label.” Draco snorts and pulls you a little closer. “And what does the warning say, too hot to handle.” You roll your eyes. “You wish.” You move away trying to hide the little blush creeping up on your cheeks, but Draco still doesn’t let go of your hand and laces his fingers with yours. You stare at your entangled hands with a questioning look. “I have orders to keep you at bay.” You throw your head to the side out of annoyance and he just smirks. He was really enjoying this, glad to finally have an excuse to literally keep you close.

You watch Enzo playfully drag Noemi to the water and cross your arms. Draco’s hands reach for your shoulders kneading them softly. “You need to chill. You’re like a worried mom or something.” You raise your eyebrows and ignore him, but Draco doesn’t mind your lack of response as he slowly reaches for the zipper of your dress. “Let’s relax in the water, shall we?” With one swift move he unzips your dress, making you yelp. When you turn around, he’s playfully grinning at your baffled smile. You narrow your eyes, but let your dress slide down to reveal your bikini. Now you get to see his smile fade as he gawks at your figure. You smirk at how simple he can be, not being able to keep his eyes off of you. When you turn around heading for the water he’s still staring, focusing on how your ass moves with every step you take. “You're gonna just stand there, Malfoy?” He forces a smile as he curses himself for simping.

Once in the water, you cast a spell to get it to the perfect temperature and allow yourself to relax. “Look at that you’re not stressing for once.” Draco jokes and you glare at him. “I can be fun.” You argue, but just then you spot Enzo and Noemi in the distance. “He’s so preying on her.” Draco rolls his eyes and pulls you closer. “He’s not preying on her, he’s flirting and I think she doesn’t mind.” You look at Noemi laughing as Enzo playfully pulls her against his chest. “And you should be glad it’s Enzo, apparently Matt was planning on asking her out as well.” You turn your gaze back to Draco with a slight panic in your eyes. “Okay, now I hope Enzo marries her.” Draco laughs and you let the hand he’s once again holding, rest against his chest. “We’re not all bad you know.” Draco whispers sincerely with his hand on yours and you realize that maybe you were in the wrong. “I guess I sometimes get a little caught up in the gossip about you guys.” You let yourself drown in his eyes for a moment, which doesn’t go unnoticed.

“I think you’re warming up to me.” He wiggles his eyebrows and you blush at his words. When he notices this, he closes the distance between you two. “No Malfoy, that’s just the warm water.” He nods with a bright smile at your incredibly lame excuse. “The gossip about you being incredibly full of yourself is still true.” You joke, but can’t help enjoying being this close to him. When you don’t move away from him, he feels confident enough to snake an arm around your waist. Now you were way past warming up, you were heating up. “I think you like me.” Draco sings and you instantly protest. “No, I-” You shake your head, creating a little distance between you two, but he won’t allow it and immediately pulls you against his chest again. “I think if I would kiss you right now, you would let me.”

He makes a soft sound out of amusement and curiosity as he leans in and you don’t move away. Were you really about to kiss Malfoy? Hermoine is going to kill me. When his lips brush yours you lean in for a kiss, startling him with your eagerness, but he had been dreaming of this moment for too long to let it pass by. His hand reaches for your head keeping you close as he kisses you tenderly. You feel your whole body melt into his as he goes from a grinning moron to a passionate lover. These slytherins really should come with a warning label.

Theodore

“Theo, you’re going to entertain (y/n) so I can make Noemi fall in love with me.” Theodore frowns, but Enzo stares at him with a stern look. “Fine. I’ll keep (y/n) busy.”

***

Maybe not the worst thing I’ve had to do for a friend. Theodore stares at you as you wiggle down your dress, but you don’t notice him as you are too busy worrying about Enzo’s advances on the innocent hufflepuff. You groan and narrow your eyes at Enzo as he plays with Noemi’s honey brown hair. “Unbelievable.” You mutter, stepping out of your dress, ready to intervene as Enzo’s about to pull the classic sunscreen move. However, Theodore doesn’t allow you to get very far as he shamelessly wraps his arms around your waist and pulls your back against his chest. His lips brush your ear. “Okay, little miss I’m on a mission, I can’t let you ruin their date.” You huff trying to wiggle your way out of Theo’s arms, but unintentionally only making it more enjoyable for him. “Careful there, you might give a guy the wrong idea if you squirm against him like that.”

At his words your face heats up. Is this man incapable of not talking dirty for one moment? “I bet you’re on a mission as well? Enzo asked you to watch me, didn’t he?” You ask with a stern voice and he lets you go. You turn to face him and there’s an amused grin on his face that tells you your assumption was spot on. “Enzo, that sneaky bastard.” With determination you try and walk past Theo, but honestly you had zero chance as he simply grabs you and lifts you up. “Theo!” You scream as you notice he’s walking you to the water. “You can just throw me in! I need to slowly adjust to the temperature.” Theodore stops a few steps away from the water and lets you land on your feet. He smirks with suggestive eyes. “You’re one of those girls, hm.” He teases and you frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask, crossing your arms and unintentionally pressing your boobs together, giving Theo an even better view. He licks his lips and ogles between your breasts and your eyes until you look down and drop your arms.

He takes a slow step towards you with teasing eyes. “What I meant was that you’re one of those girls who needs time to adjust and gets all whiny when it’s too much to handle.” You place your hands on his chest to keep him at a distance. “I think it’s fair to assume you’re not talking about the water anymore.” Your voice is unamused, but Theodore knows you’re enjoying his little teasing game. “Are we still getting in the water today? Or are you already wet enough?” Your mouth drops at his blunt filthy talk. “This is exactly why I think guys like you need a warning label.” You say taking a step towards him in an attempt to come off as intimidating, but Theodore just raises his eyebrows in amusement. “A warning label?” Theodore questions, leaning in with his eyes focused on yours.

”Ye-yes, you-you’re trouble.” You stammer feeling your legs get weak under his piercing gaze. His eyes move to your lips. “Oh, I’m much more than just trouble, trust me.” His voice is low and seductive. You notice how his eyes stick to your lips as his tongue slowly moves over his lips. “Don’t you dare kiss me.” You breathe out sounding not the least bit convincing. A smug smile tugs on his lips and he lets his hands rest on your hips, allowing his thumbs to draw small circles just above your waistband. “What are you afraid of?” He whispers and brushes his nose against yours. That’ll become even more desperate for you than I already am or worse that you’ll figure out how in love I am… if you haven’t already. You open your mouth in hopes that you can come up with a good response, but just then Theodore takes a step closing the distance between you two, causing a soft whimper to leave your lips at the feeling of his body pressed against yours.

Embarrassed by the sound you just made and flustered by his closeness you look away from him, but Theodore doesn’t allow it and reaches for your chin. It’s then that you notice something has changed in his eyes. Looks pretty, sounds pretty and a little bit annoying… to Theo you were irresistible. His hand moves from your chin to cup your cheek and within seconds his hungry lips are on yours. He softly grunts and his large hands grip your ass, lifting you up and allowing you to feel his hard member through swim shorts. He walks you to the water, so your make out session is at least partly private.

#slytherin #slytherin boys #theodore nott #theodore nott imagine #theodore nott x reader #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy imagine #draco malfoy #papercorgiworldwritings

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moonlightdreamzz · 9 months

Text

As Mark lies next to you, you can't help but smile adoringly. He's exhausted, yet he's battling the slumber that's attempting to take hold of him, just so he can affectionately gaze into your eyes. Every few minutes, his eyelids close and his head begins to sink into your couch, but he quickly catches himself, startling awake.

His hands are at a respectful place, your left hip, and yours have been caressing his cheek, scalp, and neck since the minute he laid down. This moment, although it won’t last long considering he has to leave in the morning, is so fulfilling.

“Go to sleep.” Your try your best to make your smile warm and inviting. You continue rubbing gentle circles onto him, but on his earlobe now, hoping it will be even more confirmation for him that you’re not upset at his exhaustion. His hand lifts from your hips for a mere second in protest, and you smile deviously as you know his resentment is coming from a place of deep comfort. The longer you rub, the more tired he gets, and he doesn’t want to be tired.

“I’m good. Let me just enjoy this, please. I haven’t seen you in way too long.” He wines, scooting closer to you. Your nose is on his now, and you can’t help but giggle as he begins to wiggle his eyebrows at you, as if that’s going to make you stop your antics.

“Utterly in love” is the term to describe the warm and fuzzy feeling you get whenever he’s around. He’s as perfect as a human being can be, and you’re not sure if he’s in love with you too yet, but you really hope he is. He has to feel something deeper than like with you at this point, considering instead of going back to his dorm and collapsing due to his intense schedules, he called you, begging to lay up with you because “I just wanna feel you in my arms tonight.”

You force him down on the sofa and climb on top of him, pressing his soft cheeks into your palms. In a delicate and encouraging kiss, your lips meet his, and he melts into yours. His breathing is slow and easy as his strong arms wrap around your waist, drawing you in as close as he can.

“Rest.” You giggle once you pull away. Your fingertips try to close his eyelids, and for a brief second, you believe you've won, but his doe eyes open at you again. He swallows hard, as if he had a secret to reveal but doesn't want to be judged for it.

“Say it.” You whisper encouragingly, although you have no idea what he could have on his mind. You know it will be sweet and romantic—definitely along the lines of him telling you how much appreciates you for always being so understanding, but he always says things like that to you. So what can it be?

“I think—I really think I’m in love with you, Y/N.”

Your heart stops for a split second before restarting. You're sweating profusely and itching all over, but you can't scratch because you don't want Mark to see how he's eroding your frigid aura day by day.

"I know I'm head over heels in love with you." You exclaim, exhaling a breath you weren't even aware you were holding.

“Really?”

“Really.”

Nothing else needs to be said after this. Mark smiles at you in a way that you’d never seen him look at anything before, not even himself in a mirror. His hands are on your cheeks now, pulling you in for a kiss that shows you that there is no question about it—he’s in love with you too.

#mark fluff #nct 127 #NCT mark #mark nct #kpop black reader #nct imagines #kpop x black reader #mark imagines #mark lee #mark scenarios #mark drabbles #nct imagine

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thehollowwriter · 6 months

Text

Summary: Jade is drunk. That's it that's the story. Nah, there's some fluff and dancing with gn reader too.

(Pls reblog and leave a comment ❤)

Mostro Madness

In the midst of bright neon lights, blaring music, and a crescendo of of excited voices, you wondered if your eyes were deceiving you.

They had to be. It was the only explanation. Because the man in front of you right now could not possibly be Jade Leech

Surely, this was Floyd Leech. It couldn't be anyone else, given his current state.

Suit jacket and hat discarded, bowtie undone, shirt unbuttoned all the way down to just above his belly button, his hair an absolute mess and sticking to a face flushed red and stretched with a wide fanged smile.

Alas, Floyd was currently on the dimly lit stage to your left, singing remarkably well into the mic while swinging back and forth with a half empty glass of whiskey in hand

Therefore, unless someone had duplicated Floyd, the eel smiling at you right now was none other than Jade Leech.

Completely and utterly hammered.

"Puffball." Jade was swaying on his feet, his special pet name for you lilted and floaty on his tongue. "You look..." He giggled softly. "You look beautiful tonight."

You briefly wondered if he was pulling your leg, laughing like that, but you decided to humour him anyways.

"Thanks, Jade." You said, sickly sweet. "You look absolutely enchanting yourself, hon."

Jade's eyes widened in surprise and he covered his face with his hands, his golden eye peeking out from between his gloved fingers.

"Oh my." He slurred, giggling again. "My love is kind to me tonight."

You rolled your eyes at his sudden bashfulness. He was going to be quite embarrassed about this tomorrow (unless he decided to be happy about all that transpired) and he had nobody to blame but himself.

A friendly- if you could really call anything involving Jade friendly- drinking competition with Azul and Floyd had gone laughably awry, leaving all three of them a mess.

Azul lay spawled across one of the couches, glasses askew, with eyes as wide as saucers. He mumbled feverently to himself, ignorant of Floyd drunkenly singing on stage and Jade turning into a giggly puddle at your words.

How the twins managed to get Azul to agree to such a competition in the first place was a mystery.

Truly, the Mostro Lounge 10th Anniversary party (staff exclusively) had devolved into chaos, given the utter state of everybody else there too.

"Jade, I think you should sit down." You say, raising an eyebrow at his horribly wobbly legs.

"Hmm... nooo..?" Jade's voice slurred. "I think... I would like to dance."

"Jade, you're in no condition to walk, nevermind dance!"

Jade's smile was lopsided. "But my love, it'd the perfect time to dance. Alcohol on the tongue, a beautiful setting, romantic music in the air~"

You would hardly call Floyd snarling crude lyrics into the microphone romantic, as good as his voice was, but you hardly had the heart to say no to Jade when he looked so excited.

"Darling~" Jade gripped your hands with own. "Dance with me. Please?"

He looked at you with wide bright eyes, crocodile tears threatening to spill down her cheeks.

You sigh.

"Okay. But don't whine when you topple onto your ass and bring me down with you.'

Jade didn't reply, instead opting to let out another airy giggle and pull you to his chest.

Right hand on your back and left hand intertwined with yours, Jade led you into a messy attempt at a dance that had you swinging around with erratic janky movements.

You nearly fell over a number of times from stepping on each other's feet and knocking into people and furniture.

Jade didn't seem to mind. In fact, he looked utterly delighted. His sharp teeth were on full display, mouth stretched in a genuine happy smile as laughter bubbled from his chest.

It was a Jade that was on cloud nine, happy and free of care. He wasn't blackout drunk, oh no, but he was close. Enough to let go of his carefully crafted facade for a short while, surrounded by friends and loved ones.

Suddenly Jade picked you up and spun you in a circle, grinning at your shriek of surprise.

He came to a sudden stop and pulled you close once more, stroking your cheek cheek his thumb.

"I love you so much, my little puffball.' He whispered. "More than any mushroom in the world."

-End

......................................

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this little fic! I like the idea of Jade calling his s/o mushroom pet names so you're his Puffball hehe

Tagging: @krenenbaker @jadeleechisagoodboy @jaylleoo14 @hoboyherewego @officialdaydreamer00 @dadofdisappointment and @azulashengrottospiano @honey-milk-depresso for the Azul cameo ;)

#jade leech x reader #octavinelle x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #jade leech #octavinelle #twisted wonderland #floyd leech #azul ashengrotto #writing #one shot

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lilbunnis · 6 months

Text

❛ ♡. header credit. ⎯⎯ 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲. ❜

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐩𝐭᛬ michael gavey as your boyfriend.

author’s note᛬ hii ! ♡ first time posting a concept on here--- & first time writing for my boyfriend, michael gavey. [also… i know we haven’t seen michael smoking cigarettes in the film; but it’s my canon that he does!] i hope y’all like it…& please, reblog & give me ur feedback. thank u! 🍒

warnings᛬ mdni! mentions of smut, profanity, she/her pronouns, afab reader, pussy whipped!michael, mentions of oral sex (m + f), demeaning names, [slight] mentions of bullying, pet names, romance, fluff. any grammatical errors are my own--- in advance, i sincerely apologize.

word count᛬ 591.

𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝑭𝑼𝑪𝑲𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃.

꒰ ⋆ ♡⃘ michael gavey would be the most perfect, adoring and loving boyfriend--- though he could also be quite cruel sometimes; a bit of an asshole, too… all due to him being a cocky, little smartass. michael gavey is head over heels in love with you. like, obsessive--- ‘will do anything you ask of him’ in love with you. michael gavey can be a complete and utter menace; one moment, he is a total dick to you because you’re not understanding what he has been trying to explain to you [for almost two hours now], from a class you both share--- and the next, he’s apologizing with a bouquet of a dozen red roses and his mouth on your cunt for hours. afterwards, romantic words from your favorite poets would spill from his soft, naturally curved mouth, while he’d casually hand feed you cherries, occasionally lighting up cigarettes for himself. michael gavey is so ridiculously smart, he finds it quite unbelievable how utterly dense you can be whenever he compliments and flirts with you, though you'd think he's just joking around, or being a tease--- honestly, he thinks it’s kind of cute how oblivious you can be to his affections.

michael gavey might not look like it, but he’s the type of man to fuck you nasty style; can be quite possessive over you, too. most days, when your boyfriend michael gavey is studying for an upcoming exam, a lit cigarette hanging loosely from his plush lips, while his nimble fingers continued skimming through page after page of his massive textbooks, studying nonstop. sneakily, you’d go into his dormitory and drop down to your knees, before taking him into your mouth and eagerly sucking him off, causing a shout from him when he eventually comes down your raw, sore throat--- “my poor, little baby girl… such a naughty fucking thing,” he’d coo mockingly, clenching both of your blushy cheeks together with his long fingers, before he’d claim your mouth in a dirty, deeply passionate kiss.

michael gavey adores seeing you wearing his clothes, especially his oversized sweaters, because that way he can ruthlessly rut into your weeping cunt while fucking you from behind; with you only wearing his sweater. michael gavey loves the taste of your strawberry flavored lipgloss [nearly as much as he loves the taste of your sweet little pussy]--- he loves kissing your plump, juicy, glossy lips whenever he can; and fuck, having your glossy lips wrapped around his cock? let’s just say, it’s embarrassing how quickly he shoots his load down your willing, suffocating throat.

michael gavey loves the way that you smell--- like red roses, strawberry lipgloss, vanilla perfume, sweet scented candles [courtesy of you lighting them all around his dormitory], and your skin… fuckin’ hell; soft as satin and sweet as honey, always smelling of the lavender body lotion he bought for you one random day that the two of you were out shopping [yes, he was holding all of your bags like a perfect gentleman]. michael gavey might be called on the daily a loser or even a freak, but he knows that regardless of the name calling; you’ll always stand by his side, defending him with your foul [glossy] mouth. michael gavey thinks of you as his soft, delicate little angel with a heart made of glass that he must protect at all costs. michael gavey would do absolutely anything you ask of him, he is just so fucking whipped for you; you’re his first love, and hopefully, you’ll be his last.

#꒰ ⋆ ♡⃘ 𝗇𝗈𝖺’𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌. ꒱#saltburn #michael gavey #michael gavey x reader #michael gavey x you #michael gavey x y/n #ewanverse #ewan nation #ewan mitchell

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oswildin · 5 days

Text

Loki x Bestfriend!You Headcannons (He’s In Love With You)

A/N: Avenger!Loki AU, Avenger!You

You’re the first person he has ever felt he could just be himself around. There were no titles, no expectations, just Loki. It was freeing.

Loki always searches for you first whenever he hears the latest bit of gossip around the compound (yes, he most definitely is a gossiper, he just loves the drama, and if he can stir the pot, oh he will).

Quiet evenings with you. You force him to watch films with you, and he always grumbles and will consistently commentate through the whole thing, but secretly, he loves it. He loves being able to spend time with just you, away from everyone else.

He thinks he masks his feelings well, he’s known for deception after all, but no… It’s clear to everyone that the man is totally head over heels and would do anything (and I mean anything) for you. They have bets on how long it takes for him to finally tell you.

He didn’t realise what he felt at first, having never really felt romantic love before. Sure, he’d had fancies, but never anything… real.

It took him a long time to realise that yes, it was in fact ‘love’ he felt for you. The moment he realised was when you were both taking a stroll around the compound grounds, the sun was shining, the birds were singing, everything felt perfect. And then you turned to look at him, the sun sitting perfectly behind you, casting you in an almost ethereal glow.

It was then he felt his heart skip a beat, a flutter in his belly, his eyes widening a fraction at the sight of you. He felt sick and excited at the same time. Nervous yet comfortable. Scared yet peaceful. How was that even possible? Even for a God of his own contradictory nature, that all felt so contrasting.

“Loki? You good?” You’d raised a brow, giving him a strange look as he hadn’t said anything in a good ten seconds - which was rare for him.

“Hm?” Loki had blinked, clearing his throat. “I- uh, yeah, yes. Fine.” He had awkwardly told you, nodding, trying to regain composure.

How utterly cliche. Like a scene from one of those awful romantic films you made him suffer through.

Oh, how his gaze softens whenever you’re in the room. Almost like a lovesick puppy. If his past self could see him now, he would’ve called him ‘pathetic’ and tell him to ‘get a grip’.

But current Loki, he didn’t care. The way you made him feel was unlike anything he’d ever felt before.

Of course he had to fall for his best friend. It couldn’t have just been simple. Easy. But then again, of course he had to fall for his best friend… To even be considered his best friend, well, that was no easy feat.

He takes any reason to be ridiculously close to you. Cooking? You bet he’s standing right beside you at the stove, moving every time you move to grab a spice. Watching a film? Yeah, there’s plenty of space on the sofa, but on the other side of it he can’t make sure his arm is touching yours. Handing him something? Oh, he is practically grabbing your whole hand just to feel the tingle go up his arm.

There was one time he had overheard Natasha mentioning she was planning to set up a blind date for you. He had never interjected himself into a conversation so fast before.

“A blind date? How… tedious. Besides, doesn’t it seem counterintuitive? Going to meet someone you have never seen before? Don’t even know the name of? They could be a- a psychopath or a murderer, or worse yet utterly hideous and dull.”

Yeah, he handled that with his usual tactile diplomacy. (Sarcasm)

“That’s not how blind dates work, Loki.” Natasha told him with a smirk. “I know the candidate.”

“Oh, well that makes me feel a lot better.” Sarcasm, obviously.

Loki was extremely relieved when he found out you had turned down her offer.

“Babe, could you pass me the salt?” You’d once said.

Natasha AND Loki both reached for the salt.

You looked at Loki strangely. Natasha simply smirked. Loki looked extremely embarrassed. He didn’t even like the thought of being called ‘babe’. Well… At least not until you’d said it. Even if it wasn’t to him.

“I thought you said ‘hey’-“ Loki had tried to cover.

You got hurt on a mission? Even just a scratch? Oh, Loki is worrrrieeeddddd.

“Let me see.” He’d insist. “Loki, I’m fine-“ You’d try. “Yes, maybe so, but I’d like to be sure, you mortals are extremely fragile-“ He’d say with his usual dry humour.

He’d dress your wound, even if the med staff had done, he would always find something to critique, something that he could do better. All because he wanted to be the one to make sure you were okay, safe, looked after.

The sun is in your eyes? How dare it, utterly unacceptable, he would not have it. He would destroy it for such an offence. (Not really, but you get the idea).

“Loki, no-“ Tony had said. “Loki, yes-“ Loki had said. “Loki, no.” You had said. “Loki, no.” Loki had said. (Again, you get the idea).

He just found you… utterly comforting. Safe. You accepted him for him. Not the masks, just him. And he finally felt like he belonged. And he would be damned if he ever lost that. Whether he ever revealed how he felt or not…

Spoiler: He does, by accident. Slip of the tongue. What a tragedy for a God known for his silver-tongue, but it seemed even he had his slip-ups, his moments of humanness.

Another spoiler: Of course, you loved him too.

#loki #loki x reader #loki headcanons #loki imagine #loki laufesyon x reader #loki laufeyson #marvel loki #marvel x reader #mcu headcanons #loki x you

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formulaforza · 7 months

Note

hbd my lil' lemonade connoisseur!

I'm saying blurb for Charles; him coming to surprise you at University or something?

—the nearness of you

summ. title from this. i'm only twenty-two days late on this req. that's got to be a new record for me. 800+ words.

It was like any other day as of late. Full of brutal seven-am alarms and even more brutal eight o’clock classes across campus. Half a dozen assignments due before the end of the week, a baker’s dozen by the following.

Campus was surprisingly dead and the weather was wonderfully crisp and you had no idea the turn your evening was about to take when you’d decided to take a walk at sunset, to clear your mind with the cool autumn air.

It greets you with a shudder and the sound of browned leaves crunching under your feet. It was like a scene from a movie—something utterly fall-ish and romantic. When Harry met Sally, maybe. All cable knit sweaters and falling leaves and careful scenery.

Unbeknownst to you, he—Charles, your Charles—is walking around the same campus, enjoying his walk a hell of a lot less than you are. He doesn’t notice the smell of burnt orange or the falling leaves on the green grass. He’s too occupied trying to find his way to your friend’s hall—to your friend’s dorm—to you. His mind is full of mumbled directions and the pursed lips they leave. Of how perfect yours are, of how badly he wants to kiss them.

He’d been planning the surprise for weeks. For months, almost, since before you’d even left home for the year. He’s prouder of his ability to keep it secret from you than he is of his directional skills. Carefully, he’d coordinated the whole thing with your friends to ensure the perfect surprise, and it was finally here. It was finally here, as long as he could find his fucking way around.

Your phone vibrated in your back pocket, a text from your best friend. She was asking you to swing by her dorm ASAP, swore she had a shirt of yours that you could swear you’d folded and put away two nights earlier. You complied, though, and gave her your ETA before making a U-Turn on the path you were walking down.

When you finally make it there, you’re surprised to find her always-open door is shut. You’re even more surprised when you move to turn the door handle only to find it locked. You look around the hall like a trick is being played on you because her door is always open. Always. And you don’t think she even knew there was a lock.

You knock, thrice, and call her name on the other side of the door, reminding her that this isn’t as funny as she surely thinks it is. Nothing, however, could prepare you for who answered your knock.

Charles. Charles with a bouquet of flowers. Charles with a bouquet of flowers and a big goofy smile on his face. Your stomach drops three separate times in a single second—from annoyed your friend isn’t answering, to horrified by someone else answering her door, to recognizing that it’s him. That he’s in front of you.

You squish the flowers horribly, completely disregard their presence in your joy of slamming yourself into him with the force of every hour apart. “Putain, c'est quoi!” What the fuck! you say, and your voice comes out far more cracked than you’d intended on it being.

With Charles, you’ve found that you don’t realize just how much you miss him until you’re with him again, ambushed by the reality of it all, of everything that is to love about him. There’s so much, so much more than you realize each and every time you’re apart. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but you’re always fond of him. The fondest.

The evening unfolds into a flurry of laughter and stories and love. So much love. It’s like his presence had cast a spell over campus, made it all magical and energized like it was your first time there. The buildings fall into the background, nothing more than the scenic backdrop for your love story, for your catching up and calming down.

Your dorm becomes a cozy haven for endless conversation. Spontaneous chest games and first-hand accounts of last week’s race keep you smiling, and his never ending genuine interest in your life here makes you fall head over heels over and over again, every word that leaves his mouth making you feel particularly cherished, like the luckiest person around.

Dusk turns to dark and the two of you sit together at the dorm window, watching the same stars you’re always looking at. The same moon that serves as a reminder the world is never too big, the distance is never too much. It doesn’t matter where the two of you are, it’s always the same moon and stars in the sky. It’s a silent kind of love, careful like an early morning, beloved like a matching cup of coffee.

It’s a short visit. Too short, always too short, but it ends with promises of more, of this weekend and that.

You should be sad when he leaves, maybe, but you aren’t. You aren’t. You’re just full of love, and so, so happy to spend even a few hours with him.

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iwas-princess · 1 year

Text

iwaizumi hajime • wedding bells

“wait- what’s that?”

the question was seemingly harmless, just a simple ask of misunderstanding and curiosity. but to you, it made your heart stop momentarily and you swore that you felt your soul dying and leaving your body to die.

“um, what? what’s what?” you asked, acting as if he wasn’t pointing right at the very obviously titled pinterest board of yours.

you both were snooping through each other’s phones, giggling about dumb photos or apps you both had and creating teasing inside jokes that would become meaningful in your relationship, when suddenly, he found the one thing that slipped your mind when you handed him your open phone— the wedding pinterest board.

you created it the moment you knew you loved him, hand selecting every detail that you desired your big day to include, even going as far as pinning lingerie that you wanted underneath your dress for him to rip off of you at the end of your reception.

it wasn’t unusual for women to go this, you’ve heard of it being a very common interest that most have when in love, so you’ve never felt insecure when showing your female friends or looking at whenever he sent you a text that had your heart bursting late at night— but you knew that men didn’t feel the same.

you’ve seen girls all over social media venting about their boyfriends calling them weird or obsessive when they discovered the ceremony plans, making a reaction of disgust and shattering their romantic girl’s dreams. you were utterly terrified of hajime reacting that way, for your relationship was practically perfect and you didn’t want something so… trivial to get in the way of that.

“this, baby. what’s ‘me n iwa’s wedding’?” a smirk quirked on his lips as he read the title out to you, his chest feeling full and stomach leaping with butterflies as he realized how much you loved him.

the cover photos were of floral arrangements on a long table outdoors, most were shades of both of your favorited colors and beautifully organized set tables. interested, he clicked on the board, ignoring all of your meme collections and driving his attention to your romantic interests.

“nothing!” you defensively answered, snatching your phone out of his hands but he was quick to grab it back.

“baby, c’mon, let me see.” he chuckled, his eyes flicking to your stunned and embarrassed face before retorting back to your phone.

you whined, nervous and humiliated as he carefully inspected each photo, taking in your preferences and custom selections.

most didn’t surprise him, having already known that you would favor certain colors and styles when it came to designs, but some were so gorgeous that he couldn’t believe they existed. your hopes for your wedding were high, leaving impression that he was who you were happy to tell stories of you both to your future grandchildren.

the ceremony matched every photo that was meant for it, proof that you had your little heart set on one idea. it was beautiful, he thought, and just your taste. but what really caught his eye, was the dress.

he could picture it all now, you walking down the isle in your dream dress, holding the bouquet you had already picked out with a smile on your face as he stood at the alter, teary eyed as he watched you make your way to seal forever with a kiss. your throughly thought out wedding was the setting, every detail he just discovered being in his vision.

“iwa, come on. stop it, i’m already embarrassed.” you whined before finally forcefully yanking your phone out of his hand.

he snapped out of his imagination as soon as your phone left his hands, the dress his eyes were trained on disappearing into only your eye sight.

he blinked for a few moments, trying to gather his thoughts on what exactly just occurred within a few minutes time.

a blush spread across your cheeks as you watched in horror his stuned expression. this was it, he was going to say something heart wrenching and left you crippled in your bed for days after at his denial.

instead, a smirk spread across his face as he turned to you.

“so, you wanna marry me huh?”

you rolled your eyes, although very embarrassed that the words flew so recklessly in the air. as if it was some big secret that you wanted your long term relationship to turn into a marriage.

“no, i wanna marry your hunky arms.”

he laughed, a genuine rawr of laughter as he crossed his bulky arms over his large chest.

you would be lying if you say that you weren’t looking at the way they bulged out of his hoodie.

“oh, princess. always so obsessed with my arms, aren’t you?” he teased, but his voice was airy and sweet, as if he adored you.

“sure.” you mumbled as you tried not to boost his massive ego too much in one hour.

you both were silent after, you contemplating whether you not you should delete the wedding board or not, while he stared at the floor smiling faint as he thought about how lovely that vision was.

you thought for sure that his silence meant something awful, that he wasn’t as flattered as he seemed to be or that was all he felt of it, flattery. he couldn’t have taken it as serious as you did, you were positive of that. no man did, not even your loving hajime.

the silence was killing you, the uncertainty of what his real reaction was eat you up with each passing moment until you finally couldn’t shut up anymore.

“i know it’s weird, and seems obsessive that i already sort of planned out our wedding. i mean, you haven’t even proposed and we never really spoke about marriage, i don’t why i put as much thought into it as i have been. i’m sorry you found out about it, i’ll delete-“

“i’m gonna marry you.” he disrupted your nervous ramble, although his attention seemed to be on anything but you.

you blinked for a moment, soaking in what exactly he just said.

“i will.” he said, “i’m going to marry you, y/n. and it’s going to look just like that, maybe even better.”

you couldn’t believe it, couldn’t fathom that this was the result of your teasing evening.

“and i’ll propose soon enough, don’t worry your pretty head about that.” he nodded, eyes still trained on the carpet. “but, we will get married eventually. this i promise you, my princess.”

tears welled in your wideded eyes, both shocked and utterly love struck at his confession.

“i-iwa-“ you whispered, emotions advent in your voice before he cut you off once more.

“don’t delete it. keep it. we’re gonna need it in the future. it’s not obsessive or weird, i promise. it’s so fucking adorable and i don’t think i’ve ever been anymore in love with you then i am now. stumbling across that will be the highlight of my whole life until it happens, and even then not even the birth of our possible children would top that.” he was looking at you now, starring kindly at you as tears started to fall down your emotion-ridden face.

he was quick to lean over and place his hands on both sided of your cheeks and wipe the tears away, smiling at you.

“don’t cry, baby.” he cooed. “i love you, and this is everything i want too. you’ll marry my biceps soon, and you’ll never have to worry about going without them.” he teased, sealing it with a wink.

you laughed breathlessly through tears.

“i love you so much, hajime.”

“i love you too, princess, now kiss me.”

#iwaizumi 🌷#iwaizumi fluff #iwaizumi #iwaizumi x reader #iwaizumi x reader fluff #iwaizumi x chubby reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x chubby reader #haikyuu fluff

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sturn777 · 26 days

Note

hiii, can you do that reader is a influencer and LOVES 10 things i hate about you, so she's bestfriends w the triplets and matt is inlove w her and he invites her to see the movie (maybe in his house or in a cinema, idk) and in some moment they confess to each other :)

thanks<3

10 ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ

matt sturniolo x reader

no use of y/n

@st7rnioioss @its-jennarose @timmyscomputer @kriissy4gov @liz-stxrn @sunrisemill @mattssluttywaist @riasturns @mx0qin @junnniiieee07 @alorsxsturn @nonameisthegameandilovejake

Today had been long after filming with the triplets for a good few hours - for both your and their channel. First you had done baking then you had done Omegle like many of your fans had requested for your channel.

You had met the triplets through a social media post, you posting about how funny they were after one of your fans recommended them to you and Matt just so happened to scroll past and reply.

In all honesty, Matt wouldn’t usually comment on tiktoks or address anything - but he took a glance at you and thought you were the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Even in your state of pyjamas and messy hair, lying in bed whilst you recording a tiktok giggling to yourself. Utterly perfect.

After that you sent him a message through instagram to which he responded as soon as he saw the notification - again, not a normal occurrence. But he really couldn’t help himself.

When you and the triplets first collabed of course the ship comments came - and no surprise it was between you and Matt.

Now, your fans knew how much of a romantic you were since you were always sharing your love for the movie ‘10 Things I Hate about You’ all the time - so they immediately started comparing you to Cameron and Bianca. Claiming you’d be the sweetest couple in the world.

You had seen these comments and it wasn’t like you were acting on them, they just encouraged your crush. You already found Matt beyond attractive, sweet, caring, funny- you get it. But no way you would ever act on it.

Matt can remember the first time he had watched the rom-com. The two of you were sat on FaceTime and were talking about films - a common topic for the both of you.

“Have you ever watched 10 things I hate about you?” you asked him, sitting up in bed to get comfortable. The brunette racked his brain before shaking his head, to which your jaw dropped. “Matthew! What are you doing? Get off this phone call right now and watch it- do not talk to me until you have!” you exclaimed passionately, hanging up the phone to which Matt chuckled.

The boy sent a message: calling you rude for hanging up. He opened up Disney+ on his TV and began to watch the show

Ever since it had been the both of yours go to movie whenever you hang out. Playing cards? Chuck it on in the background! Cooking? Where’s the tv remote? Cant sleep? You guessed it!

The two of you lay down on his bed, the television in front of you playing your movie. Currently Kat was up in class reciting her poem - which you had memorised.

Matt watched you and smiled as you whispered the words under your breath as you had been doing the whole movie, he absolutely adored it.

He didn’t know where your obsession for the movie started but he could agree it was a good film. The two of you would send edits and tiktoks to each other about it constantly. Matt would use it as a way of silently confessing, and he knew that’s what he wanted to do.

“I don’t hate you, you know?” he hummed. Your head moved up to face him with your eyebrows furrowed, you laughed.

“Well obviously not.” you rolled your eyes playfully, rolling onto your stomach to face the boy fully, unintentionally getting closer to his face.

He swallowed lightly, “I actually really like you.” he tightly his head, his nose gently brushing yours. A smile crept its way onto your face uncontrollably, a pink blush joining along. You hummed, thinking he was playing with you.

“I really like the way you talk to me, I really like your hair.” he started listing, grabbing a piece of your hair and twirling it between his fingers as he held eye contact with you. “I like the way you can’t drive so I have to drive you everywhere, I like it when I catch you staring and you play it off, I like your airforces that you refuse to replace even though their beaten to the bone, I like the way we read each others minds, I like it when you prove me wrong even though I want to be right, I like the way your bad at lying and smile every-time, I like it when your make me smile, I like it when your around me, I like it when I get a random call from you and the conversation flows naturally, but mostly I like that fact that I like you.”

You stared at him speechless, a blush now gracing his face at the words coming out his mouth. When he finished he smiled at you sheepishly. He went to open his mouth again, to take away his words, but you got there first.

Leaning forward you placed a hand on his jaw and kissed him lovingly. He kissed back gently, smiling into it happily. Slowly you pulled away and giggled into his neck, him chuckling with you. “I hate you so much stupid!”

“No you don’t.” He teased.

“I really don’t.”

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hypnoneghoul · 1 month

Text

@xxwhiskeyxx

Pull Me Down Again

WC: 2,7K

Relationship: Swiss & Mountain

Tags: Soft anal sex, first time, love confessions, fluffy smut

“I’d love to help, but your first time has to be special, so if you don’t want to have it with me, I underst–”

“NO! No, please, I’d never want it to be anyone else, I want you. Please, Mountain."

Notes: Swissalps' first time is not a topic I fool around about. I couldn't do it half-assed, so here's nearly 3k words of them being stupid and cute and in love and fucking about it

Read under the cut or on AO3.

Swiss had always been a lot. He had crawled out of the summoning circle uninvited—with a toothy grin and fiery eyes—but he had fitted right in and everyone had loved him right away. He’d loved them all, too, but his eyes had been fixed on one specific ghoul from the very beginning.

Mountain. The moment he’d seen the giant standing over him in the humid and moldy ritual chamber, stoic, but obviously ready to pounce if the new ghoul would decide to attack any of his packmates or Papa. Swiss hadn’t, of course, but when he thought back to that moment, he knew that even if he did have such plans, Mountain’s look alone would stop him.

He had been truly scary in that moment, but Swiss had immediately felt something else about him, too. Something the multi ghoul would recognize as the feeling of safe and home, if he had ever known them in the Pit.

When Swiss had gotten up—he had stayed down until the two ghoulettes who’s summoning he hijacked had left with the pack, not wanting to risk looking like a threat in any way—he’d swayed and stumbled on his feet, and had fallen right into the giant’s arms. He’d tensed, afraid, but Mountain’s touch was gentle. Something Swiss had never experienced before.

The earth ghoul’s face had finally softened and he’d smiled down at the slightly dumbfounded ghoul as he’d scooped him up. Swiss wasn’t especially big, nearly a runt in his old pack in the Pit—though most of the ghoul’s he had just seen were even smaller—but he wasn’t small either, and Mountain had picked him up like he weighed nothing.

“Welcome Topside,” Mountain had rumbled and Swiss felt something warm bloom in his chest.

Months later, Swiss was completely and utterly in love. So enchanted by the earth ghoul that he lost any and all composure every time he and Mountain would be in the same room. He was just perfect, so smart and beautiful and strong and gentle and–

“Hey, Swiss, you there?” a voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Mountain’s voice.

“Yeah, uhm, h– hi,” he squeaked, cheeks burning. The earth ghoul chuckled at his fluster as he flopped down onto the couch next to Swiss. So close their thighs ended up touching and the multi ghoul’s gut twisted.

(Mountain knew exactly how stupid Swiss was about him and truth be told he was no better. The only thing he was better at was acting and not being so obvious. There was an unspoken rule amongst the ghoul’s to not offer any new summons to join the pack’s sexual and romantic dynamics until they properly settled Topside. Usually three-four months was safe, and for Swiss it had been five. Mountain was irrevocably in love with him and he didn’t want to wait anymore.)

“Any plans for the evening, darling?” the earth ghoul asked and watched Swiss’ blush get impossibly deeper in real time.

He swallowed thickly, “D– darling?”

“Not good? I just felt like it fits.”

“No, it’s– it’s nice,” Swiss mumbled and Mountain grinned.

“Well, then?”

“Then… what?”

The earth ghoul laughed, “I asked you if you had any plans for the evening.”

“OH, oh, yeah, right, you did.” Swiss’ ears drooped and he hung his head, suddenly very interested in a certain loose thread on his jeans. “No plans.”

“In that case, would you like to spend it with me?” Mountain put a hand on the other’s thigh and the multi ghoul jumped, heat flooding him.

“Y– yeah, yes, sure,” Swiss sputtered, looking up at him to send him a little smile.

Mountain squeezed his thigh before letting go and getting up. “See you later, then. It’s a date.”

The next few hours were a torture. Swiss was anxious—terrified, really—but excited. He had no idea what Mountain would want to do with him, but he knew he’d fuck it up somehow. He didn’t know what a date really meant, so he looked it up on that tiny touchy device he was given, and the results terrified him even more. Dates were for people in love and a lot of times ended up in sex. Was that Mountain’s way of saying he did like him and maybe–

Now, Swiss knew what sex was, but he never had a chance to… participate in the act. There’s no breeding or mating opportunities for multi ghoul runts down in the Pit. He knew the feeling—roughly—he did know how to get off, relieve some pressure and pent up energy, but actual sex? With Mountain?

He came to a conclusion he’d simply die.

The earth ghoul hadn’t given him a specific time or place for when and where they should meet, so Swiss prepared himself mentally pretty early, and waited for a sign he should move. It came in a form of a text message and the multi ghoul nearly jumped out of his skin when his silly device buzzed in his pocket. Mountain told him to meet him by his room in five. Clear request, Swiss could do that.

Those five minutes were probably the longest in Swiss’ entire life, but finally he made it to the earth ghoul’s room. Mountain opened the door and his knees buckled. “Been waiting for you, darling.”

“Hi,” Swiss mumbled and dropped his eyes to the floor, the sight of Mountain in a shirt too much for him to handle. He let him in and prompted him to sit on the edge of his bed.

Swiss thought Mountain started talking, but he was too busy staring at him and taking him whole in to pay attention to what was falling from his perfect, full lips, looking so soft.

“...wiss, hey, Swiss, are you okay?” the earth ghoul waved an elegant, long fingered hand right in front of his face to snap him back to reality. Mountain’s brows were furrowed with honest worry. Swiss must’ve really spaced out.

Suddenly he couldn’t bear to wait any longer.

“You are so fucking gorgeous and smart and kind and I can’t not think about you all the time and you turn me into putty of a flustered mess and I think I’m in love with– no, I know I’m in love and you and it’s so bad it hurts and–”

Mountain stopped him with a finger placed over his lips, grinning with a glint in his eyes that couldn’t have been described with any different word than mischievous. Swiss stared at him with wide eyes, face burning after that bout of bravery.

“I think I’m in love with you, too, darling,” the earth ghoul purred, taking his finger off of Swiss’ lips and cupping his face with his hand instead.

“Thank fuck,” Swiss breathed out with a chuckle as relief washed over him. Mountain scooted closer, their legs now touching.

“May I?” he asked and Swiss remembered that.

“I– I’ve never…” he mumbled, “don’t want you to be disappointed.”

“I could never be disappointed with you. I’ll teach you everything, if you’ll let me.”

“Please, Mountain. Please do.” The earth ghoul smiled and leaned in, cupping the back of Swiss’ head with his free hand and pressing their lips together. Swiss let out a sweet little nose when they met, melting into the kiss and Mountain’s arms. Feeling nothing but contentement from the multi ghoul, he deepened the kiss, slowly exploring him.

Neither of them knew if they made out like that—all lovely and gently—for ten minutes or an hour. At some point Swiss ended up laid out on the plush bed with Mountain hovering over him as he peppered the multi ghoul’s face with kisses, making him giggle like a teenage girl. Nothing was rushed, they enjoyed just feeling each other and kissing until they were breathless, only to move to kissing the other somewhere else. It was perfect.

Until Swiss got anxious. He tensed when he felt something low in his gut stirring, afraid that it was still not what Mountain would want from him, that he’d mess up their good time by popping a boner. The earth ghoul felt his sudden hesitation. He pulled away. “Everything okay, darling?”

“Yeah, I just– I don’t want my body to ruin it,” he mumbled, embarrassed.

“What do you mean– oh.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, you’re really hot and I’ve been literally dreaming about this and I’m a dumbass who can’t control–”

“It’s okay.” Mountain stopped his rambling again, this time with a kiss. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, we can proceed however you want. We can pause so you can take care of it on your own… or I can help you.”

Swiss stammered, “W– would you? But I’ve never…”

“I would, I’d love to,” the earth ghoul assured, “but your first time has to be special, so if you don’t want to have it with me, I underst–”

“NO! No, please, I’d never want it to be anyone else, I want you. Please, Mountain, I want it to be you,” Swiss pleaded, clinging to Mountain’s shoulder with an iron grip. Once he realized he was doing it he let go, not wanting to hurt him.

“Okay,” he huffed with a smile, “okay, darling, we can do that. I’m honored, but are you absolutely sure?”

Swiss nodded frantically, “Yes, yes, yes.”

Mountain leaned down to kiss him once more before pulling away to unbutton his shirt. The multi ghoul’s mouth fell open as more and more skin was revealed and Mountain smirked. He wasn’t vain, but he wouldn’t lie and say Swiss’ reactions didn’t fuel some weird fire inside him.

“Like what you see, don’t you, darling?”

“Uh-uh.”

The earth ghoul chuckled at his sophisticated response and threw the shirt completely off. “Your turn.”

Swiss snapped out of his trance—but didn’t take his eyes off of Mountain—and with shaky fingers tried to take care of his own shirt. He was too shaky, though, and failed miserably on the buttons. After a few moments of watching his struggle intently, the earth ghoul batted his hands away and opened his shirt for him. Meanwhile, Swiss looked as if drool would start trailing down his chin any moment.

Soon enough—but not as soon as it could’ve been—they were both naked and now Swiss actually was drooling at the sight of the earth ghoul’s beautiful cock. He was also anxious, intimidated by its size.

As he was staring at his dick, Mountain was warming up lube between his fingers. He was kneeling between Swiss’ legs, calves on Mountain’s thighs, nicely spread and waiting. He may have been a blushing virgin, but at that point he was so focused on the earth ghoul he couldn’t care less about being exposed. For the first time ever like this.

“Ready?” he asked. Swiss nodded frantically, but Mountain only tutted. “Words, darling.”

“Yes, yes, fuck, please,” he begged as he bent his legs and opened them further.

The other smiled, leaned down to kiss Swiss’ knee and brought his hand to his hole. With his eyes locked on the multi ghoul’s own to watch out for any signs of discomfort, Mountain pressed a finger in.

“Oh,” Swiss huffed. “That’s… weird, but nice.”

“You’ve never even put anything up here?”

“N– n–oh,” he broke off into a moan when Mountain crooked his fingers and hit his prostate. “Just a– a quick handy now and t– then.”

The earth ghoul hummed in acknowledgement and continued slowly working him open, his free hand smoothing up and down Swiss’ thigh soothingly.

He was floating. He had no idea that sex was all that. He knew the concept, but only from the Pit, where everything was about survival. Sex there was quick and feral and rarely about pleasure. This? This was as close to heaven as any ghoul could ever get.

The multi ghoul zoned out a bit, drowning in love that Mountain was showering him in. He had never before felt so… important.

Mountain squeezed his thigh assuringly as he pulled his fingers out. (When did he get four in there?) “Swiss, are you with me? I need you to listen for me now, okay?”

“Uh-uh… yeah.”

“This is the part where I… put it in. Are you still down, are you sure? I can and will stop at any moment if you need me to, but there’s no going back once that line is crossed,” he explained and while normally it would sound painfully patronizing, Swiss felt nothing but kindness and caring from Mountain.

“I trust you, Mountain,” the multi ghoul said, trying to sound as coherent as possible for that one moment. “I want you and I’m sure of it. I am in love with you.”

“Okay,” he muttered and rose on his knees, moving to hover over Swiss. One hand next to his head, the other on his hip, holding protectively but not possessively. Not yet.

Mountain kissed him and guided his cock to Swiss’ ass.

“I love you,” he whispered against his lips and pushed in. The multi ghoul moaned into Mountain’s mouth as he kept going deeper and deeper, Swiss’ legs wrapped around his middle, until his hips were flush against the other’s. “Okay?”

“S– so, so okay,” Swiss breathed out. “But, uhm… I don’t think it's gonna be a long ride.”

Mountain chuckled, giving the other a moment to adjust, “Me neither, darling, but it doesn’t matter. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

“You gonna fuck me on every surface Topside in that time?”

“Probably. If you’re good I may let you fuck me, too.”

“That’s a good– fuck, incentive,” the multi ghoul giggled, making Mountain laugh at him, too. “Can we, uh, can you move now? Please?”

Mountain nodded and slowly pulled out, just to push back in with a bit more purpose, but equal amounts of gentleness. Swiss moaned, all fucked out, and the earth ghoul took it as a good sign. He picked up a slow but solid rhythm, hitting the other’s prostate with every thrust, causing waves of pleasure to wash over him.

As for Mountain himself, he was barely holding onto his sanity. Swiss was so tight, wet and warm, it was pure bliss. He’d never let himself lose composure in such a moment, but he knew for sure there would be a time he’d fuck the multi ghoul into a true mess.

“M– Mountain, I– I’m– I’m gonna–”

“That’s okay. It’s alright, darling,” he assured, speeding up just a little bit. Swiss hooked his arms around the earth ghoul’s neck and brought him down for a desperate, borderline filthy kiss. Mountain brought a hand to cup his face to return it, albeit a little gentler than Swiss did. “Are you gonna come for me, hm?”

“Yes– fuck,” he whined loudly. “Please, and– and you… in, Mountain, please.”

“Mhm,” Mountain hummed and doubled down on pushing Swiss to the brink of his orgasm. It didn’t take much—barely a few thrusts—before the multi ghoul was going rigid in his arms, clenching around his cock and spilling white between them with a pretty little noise falling from his lips. “There we go, my darling. My sweet darling.”

He was beyond words in the throes of the best orgasm of his entire life. Mountain didn’t need much more to come himself, but a bolt of anxiety shot through him at the sight of tears in Swiss' eyes. He never prayed for anything before, but at that moment he was praying that it was good tears.

“Swiss? Swiss, darling, are you okay?” he asked as soon as he saw some brain return to the multi ghoul as they were coming down.

“Yeah, no, it’s good. So good,” he said, all breathless. “It’s just… I’ve never… I wasn’t ever anyone’s anything, much less someone’s darling.”

Mountain smiled, relieved. “I love you, my heart,” he whispered into Swiss’ lips, following it with a kiss between his horns.

“Your heart, now, hm?” the multi ghoul hummed, half-asleep under him already.

“Yeah. Yeah, you are.”

#hypnone writes #the band ghost #nameless ghouls #swiss ghoul #mountain ghoul #swissalps

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