#i think the baby line is just to throw off people

[wastelandbabyblue]

I’ve seen someone say it’s could be about zayn and they like kinda made it a break up song? Kinda like love you goodbye and honestly I could see that!

I don't think so, but each to their own

#it doesn't make sense to mejfjf why keep one line and make everything else stunty #he said he has a platonic song on the album too like could just drop zayn references there #i think the baby line is just to throw off people #i mean I don't think this song is personal at all lol i think it was meant to be a nod towards D and the baby line is there to make people #go ????

[sincerelyneo]

will you be reposting the jeno fic you had on your old blog? it was my fave 🥺

here it is <3

fireproof | l.jn

“‘cause no body saves me baby the way you do”

💿now playing: fireproof by one direction

❯ summary: Your brother Jaemin loves throwing parties when your parents aren’t home — but you hate it. In an attempt to escape the loud music and sweaty bodies you try and head out. But there’s no way your brother’s best friend, Jeno, is letting you wander around the streets so late.

❯ pairings: jeno x fem!reader

❯ genre: smut, brother’s best friend, college!au

❯ words: 8.4k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, smut, masturbation, minor mentions of drug use, drinking, marking, slight protective brother jaemin, begging, spanking, mentions of marking, unprotected sex (don't do this!), oral sex (m/f receiving), fingering, reader uses she/her pronouns, jeno fucks his best friend’s little sister.

a/n: i changed the title hehehe

This party fucking sucks.

You’re not even drunk. The vodka is watered down, you're sure of it. Your friends ditched you about half an hour ago — disappearing with some of the guys they had been speaking to and seeing. 

"Come to the party with us, they said." You mimic to yourself into your plastic cup. "It'll be fun, they said." 

You scoff taking another swig but pull your face at the awful taste that lingers in your mouth. There are better things you could be doing on a Saturday night, you think. You’re almost positive you saw a new show released on Netflix today. Or better yet, you could be reading some sort of erotic novel that would spice up your Saturday night more than this shit.

But the thing is, this party is at your own fucking house.

Your brother is throwing it. 

Every time your parents go away for one weekend he can’t help but jump at the opportunity to trash the place. You don't see why he can't just have a few of the boys around, have some beers and then call it a night. But no, that isn't exactly Jaemin’s style. 

Of course, he has to invite a bunch of random weirdos that seem to be snorting cocaine off of every surface in this house, and smoking whatever kind of weed they could find. And sure, you’re not impartial to a good night but this... this is not your idea of a good night.

At all.

Sighing, you push through the masses of people, seeing the sweaty bodies that are dry humping one another or eating each other's faces off so much you feel like you’re going to throw up at the sight. 

Stopping in your tracks, you reach into the back pocket of your denim jeans to pull out your phone, seeing that it is half-past midnight. If you know Jaemin — and you did — this was only the beginning of the night. The party is definitely far from over.

Fuck sake.

You put your phone back in your pocket and continue to manoeuvre around the bodies in the hallway. Your stomach growls and you think about how you're drinking on an empty stomach. The only thing open at this time is a Mcdonald's but you don't necessarily want to be that person that sits in McDonald's by themselves on a Saturday night. 

Still, you head for your front door and try your luck at an escape. As you reach your hand out to grab the door handle you smash headfirst into a body. Well to be more specific a chest. A hard chest.

"Ow, fuck!" You lift your hand up, rubbing your forehead.

"Sorry little Na, didn't see you there." You immediately recognise that voice. The deep slowness in which he talks. It’s the only voice that has a straight hotline to your core. 

Yeah, you couldn't ever forget that voice.

You stop rubbing your head and slowly look up, following the lines of his muscled chest that you can see through the tight white t-shirt he's wearing with a pair of denim jeans and converse. Yes you had already checked him out tonight, but you’re only human. And when your eyes meet that sharp jawline, hollowed-out cheekbones and those damming brown eyes, you involuntarily clench your thighs together.

You shun yourself because you know you can’t have him. And that’s the reason why you hate him. 

He's your brother’s best friend.

Lee fucking Jeno.

The worst man on this planet. for many reasons like for one he’s insanely hot. Like too hot. Who on this planet even needs to be that hot? But to make it worse he knows he's hot. Girls are always flying off his arm fueling his ego. He's also selfish and arrogant. 

But the reason you hate him the most, the reason you despise him so much, and avoid him at all costs is because of the burning need — it's past being a want it's a fucking need — to just devour him. Every part of you screams out whenever he is in the same room. 

And you hate it.

You have zero control over your words and actions with him — and he knows it with how much you’ve embarrassed yourself in front of him over the years. Your cheeks tend to grow red without your permission, and oh does he love to point that out.

Ever since your brother brought him home in his first year of high school, they have been inseparable — and you’ve been madly in love.

Well, you’re not in love with the boy. You just, you know, want to rip his clothes off. And let him fuck the living daylights out of you.

"Aw, there they are." He distracts you from your thoughts. 

His eyes are burning straight through you. As if he can tell what you’re thinking, how you’re feeling. And right now, you have very infuriating dampness in your panties that wasn't there 30 seconds ago. 

"Those rosy cheeks, are they for me, little Na?" You swat his hand away as it attempts to reach up to caress your cheek or some stupid shit like that.

"Stop that Jeno!” You snap at him, getting angry is your default with him.

It the perfect remedy to keep him away from you, so you don't do something stupid like fuck your brother’s best friend

“Please just get out my way.” 

"Such a pleasant girl, aren't you?" He winks. 

He fucking winks, and your pussy screams in delight. If you were any other girl, you’d be swooning right now. You’d be on your knees begging for it. 

Well, you won't be on your  knees for him.

Ever.

Especially not tonight.

"Just get out of my way, Jeno,” you push him rather hard. 

You knew it wouldn't make him budge if he didn't want it too but he dramatically moved out of your way of the door. You yank it open and dart through onto the front lawn. Halfway down the driveway, a sharp tug on your arm spins you around and you’re  faced with Jeno... again.

"Fuck sake, what do you want?" You shake your arm out of his grip but he doesn't let go. 

You give up, huffing and dropping your shoulders. The two of you are just staring at each other, so much so that you didn't even realise how close you really were. Your chests are almost touching, there is a hair width between you. And due to your height, if you looked forwards you’d be looking at the bottom of his neck, right where you see him gulp before meeting your eyes again. They seem to burn into yours, suddenly growing intense. 

He is the first to look away but he doesn't just look away, no. You watch as his eyes flash down to your lips. Your breath hitches, he sees that and when he looks back to your eyes again, he flashes you a knowing smirk.

Motherfucker. 

"Come back inside." He says as he throws his head to the side, signalling to your house.

"No," you all but stomp your foot.

"You're such a fucking brat, you know that right?" He growls, closing that gap so that your chests touch. There’s an electricity running through you, begging for him. 

"I'm not a fucking brat, I just don't want to be here at this shitty party!” 

You don't break his eye contact, chests still touching. He can sure as hell feel each heavy breath you take and probably every beat of your heart that seems to have sped up since he moved closer.

"Just go inside, go to your room, anything. Just don't fucking leave, your brother would have my balls if I let you go out alone this late at night.” 

You roll your eyes at the mention of your brother. You love him, you really do, but hearing the word brother leaves Jeno’s lips reminds you exactly why he’s even here.

It’s not for you — it’s for Jaemin’s sake. 

"I don't see why either of you care, you've got plenty of booze and girls to keep you occupied to not even notice me gone,” you stand your ground, trying to tug your arm once again but he still won't let go.

However, he has loosened his grip so it isn't so harsh, but it's still locked around your wrist. In fact, you’re sure you feel him drawing little circles on the inner skin with his thumb and that thought alone has you squirming no matter how much you try to ignore it. 

"I think I'd always notice when you're not there," Jeno says under his breath, his face lowering to yours. 

If you didn't know better then you’d think he was about to kiss you. But that can't happen. Can it? 

Everything but your core is saying no. Your whole body is screaming to open up your mouth and say please. But you ignore it — you always do— and try to keep a brave face. But as he gets so close, too close, your eyes automatically flutter shut.

You expect his lips to graze yours but they don't, instead, you feel his cheek against you , only faintly, as his lips skim your ear lobe.

"I think I'd always notice when you're not there because there won't be some childish little brat moaning about not getting her own way." 

Your eyes shoot open as he pulls back, laughing at your flushing cheeks. Your eyes narrow as you finally tug your arm hard enough this time that he has no choice but to release you. 

"I do not moan about not getting my own way and I am not childish nor a brat,” you sneer at him. 

"Sure,-" he huffs, laughing, crossing his arms over his chest. "Whatever you say." 

"Why can’t you just go inside and leave me alone,” you cross your own arms over your chest. 

"No can do." He stands there like some sort of bouncer, you look to your right and see the path only a few steps away. He watches you and says a low, demanding, "Don't." 

But you do it. 

You spin on your heel and run for it. But you only make it two steps before two large arms are wrapped around your waist from behind and you’re being sprung back into a hard chest. Jeno’s one arm sits tightly around your waist, his fingers digging into your hip and you squirm against him. To stop your wriggling, his other hand flies up to grab a hold of your throat, tilting your head back to the rest of his shoulder. 

His eyes flash to his hand around your neck and he takes a deep breath that causes his eyes to flutter shut. Then you feel something growing behind you causing your own eyes to grow wide. He leans forward, lips skimming yours barely. 

“I said don't." It sounded more like a growl than anything and a small whimper escaped your lips. "Are you going to walk inside or am I going to have to carry you?" He whispers still close to your mouth. If you lifted your head slightly, you’d be kissing.

"I'm not going back inside." You sternly reply, he just laughs and his hold loosens on you. 

But he doesn’t free you. Instead he throws you clean over his shoulder in a fireman's lift. 

“Put. Me. Down. Jeno." You scream, hitting his back, but he doesn't listen. Carrying on heading back inside your house. 

Your cheeks are bright red and you stop your attack on Jeno’s back and decide to clench his shirt in your fists and hide your face in it.

"What's going on here?" You hear Jaemin’s voice and your head flies up.

"Your sister tried to escape," Jeno says laughing, bending down to lower you to the ground. 

When he stood back up, you were so close your bodies touched again, your breasts rubbed against his firm chest and your nipples stiffened. His eyes glanced down to them and they darken, then he looks to you again and grabs your shoulders, spinning you around to face your brother. You automatically lifted your arms up and over your breasts to cover the obvious arousal.

"Come on Y/N, you know you can't be walking around aimlessly at night." Jaemin chastises you.

"I'm not a child Jaem," you roll your eyes with a shake of your head.

"So what? Grown ass people still get kidnapped!” 

You groan, I'm going to my room." 

You push past him and head towards the stairs. You turn around seeing Jeno’s smug face knowing he’s got his own way about you coming back inside.

But you won’t give him the satisfaction. You’ll  just sneak out the window and have your perfect escape. He won't know. 

Not like he’ll come to check — right?

You spin on your heel as you hear the sound of footsteps following behind you. Jeno’s there, eyes locked on your ass until he sees you looking back down at him and then cocks his head to the side and smiles innocently. 

“What are you doing?” You spit. 

"Just making sure you actually do go to your room." He flashes his infamous eye smile that has plagued your dreams since you first met him. "And that your windows are locked. Don't want you running away now do we?" he winks at you.

He’s so irritating!

With a huff, you turn around and storm your way up the last couple of stairs, making sure your stomps are extra loud. You can just hear Jeno snickering behind you and that only rattles you even more. When you reach the landing you turn immediately and head to the last door of the hallway and pull it open, stepping inside of your bedroom. You go to slam the door shut but a sneaker covered foot stops in between preventing it.

You immediately roll your eyes and groan. 

"Leave me alone Jeno." You groan, leaning up against the door with your back, pushing it.

"Let me check your windows then I'll leave."

"What kind of request is that?” You sigh, running a hand through your hair. 

"Just let me."

"No."

The two of you enter a stare off — one you both know he’s going to win. And he does, because you don’t even let two whole minutes pass before you’re huffing out a “Fine.” 

He makes his way over to your window, making sure it's locked, then he chuckles, drawing your curtains too. The only thing lightening the room was your bedside lamp that you had an awful habit of leaving on. That, and it was the perfect deterrent to make it look like someone was in there, keeping strangers from having sex on your bed.

“All done?” You ask, breathy. 

He smirks, his eyes flashing to your lips again and you swear to god if he does that one more time you’re either going to kick him in the balls or jump on him and kiss him. 

You force yourself to take a step back and take a deep breath which makes him laugh.

"Well goodnight little Na, don't go sneaking out because I will know about it." He walks off to the door and before he exits you say,

"And how would you possibly know that?"

He looks over his shoulder, his eyes flash up and down your body, "I just will,” he winks then closes the door behind him.

You huff out and stomp your foot like a child. God you needed to grow a backbone and stop letting that idiot mess with you. 

Storming into your bathroom you slam the door shut. You strip off your clothes and turn on the shower. Whilst waiting for it to get up to temperature, you sigh. 

"Let me just lock your windows for ya." You pull a face copying him. "Want me to check that for ya?"

Once you’re done in the shower you climb out of it and dry yourself with a towel. 

"He's so fucking annoying ugh," you say to yourself as you pull the bathroom door open and saunter into your bedroom naked. 

You don't even check to see if anyone was in there, too busy ranting about him. And when you feel the cold draft of your bedroom it makes you realise you had just walked into your unlocked bedroom naked. Immediately, you covered your body remembering the party going on downstairs; but on first glance, it appeared no one was in there. Still you quickly grab your oversized grey t-shirt from the end of your bed, throwing it on over your head, but skipping your underwear. 

Your room was fairly simple with white furniture, a wooden floor, soft pink bedding, a few cuddly toys. The bed lies against the far wall, opposite the door and you leave your lamp on to have a little bit of light to help you sleep. 

Trying to fall asleep you flip over so your back faces the light. You try a few different sleep scenarios but everything keeps going back to Jeno.

And the way his hand gripped around your neck. 

You flip over again, keeping your eyes shut, yet, Jeno just waltzes into your mind continuously. Like he won't leave you alone. You feel so much anger coursing through your blood, yet you have this strange pulling into your core. 

You need to give attention to it — so you do. And as soon as you slip your hand under the covers, the fantasies start rolling in. Jeno’s arms around you, grabbing at your waist, your hips, your ass, your breasts.

Your breath hitches.

His tongue in your mouth, along your skin, tracing your neck and stomach, then between your folds lapping at you. Your eyes shoot open as you clench your thighs together and immediately feel the wetness.

It was just too much to ignore. This wasn’t going away. You already knew that. 

You just needed some relief and then you’ll be free for the night. Jeno never needs to know and it’s not like you haven’t done this exact same thing before over him. 

Your right hand finds your centre first, sliding between the folds and instantly feeling the slick wetness there. Slowly and sensually, you begin moving your fingers in a circular motion. Eyes closing instantly, flashes of Jeno now being played before you.

In your mind, it was no longer your hand but his. Rubbing your clit, sending shivers down your spine and causing a small panting moan to escape you. 

Your left hand begins clutching at the sheets and as you feel your nipples peak and rub against the soft material of your shirt, you have no choice but to swiftly move your hand up and under to take hold of your own breasts and squeeze. You moan again as you begin to work your fingers faster over your clit.

Now in your head, Jeno stood before you shirtless. Seeing the ripples in the muscles of his abs, he flexes his arms, making you grow weaker. But you always felt like this whenever you saw him shirtless at the pool, or the beach. 

And you couldn't deny how fucking sexy he was — you wouldn’t?”

"What’re you thinking about?" 

You pause instantly, back arched, orgasm growing close and eyes squeezed shut. You can't decipher whether that voice was in your head or in real life so you just grow still and relax, trying to pretend it didn’t happen. 

Your breathing which was already heavy, grows even more so, this time with panic and worry. You don't want to open your eyes, scared of what you might see because you recognised that voice.

At least, you’re really fucking hoping Jeno’s voice is all in your head, because you’re seconds away from orgasm.

"I asked you a question." 

Your eyes fly open. He’s definitely not in your head. 

Ripping your hand away from your clit, you pull the other away from your nipple and force yourself into a seated position with your hands splayed behind to hold you up. You scream on instinct, he doesn't so much as flinch as he stands at the end of your bed. 

His eyes are dark, head low and looking up at you through his lashes. He has that smirk on his face, and his hands are fidgeting, rolling his fingers against his palm. Your eyes roam his body as your scream continues and you wish you hadn't, only because your scream turned into a moan as you spied his hard erection pushing against his jeans.

You gasp and look back at his face. 

"What're you doing Jeno?" You whisper-shout, even though the party downstairs would make it difficult for anyone to hear you anyway. 

Still, you didn’t want any party goers walking in on a flustered you in bed with Jeno and his very large, very prominent erection, standing at the base. 

Fuck. It's so big. You can tell from how it's breaking at the seams of his jeans to be let free. Your mouth waters at the sheer thought of his dick — wondering what it looks like, how it feels in your hands, in your mouth — how it tastes. 

Fuck no. Absolutely not. 

You shake your head, trying to rid the thoughts and ignore the fact your core is pulsing right now, begging for one last touch so you can explode into orgasm. You really fucking needed it.

"I asked you what you were thinking about?" He says lowly, and it causes your breathing to still.

“H-how long have you been standing there?" You whimper. 

He shrugs, “That doesn't matter, what does matter is-" he moves his head up, looking you dead in the eyes as he cracks his neck and then his fists in each hand. "-What you were thinking about whilst touching yourself? Was it me?" 

He smirks again and you stood up, throwing the duvet off of your legs. 

"Not a chance," He says sternly. You look at him again, face paling. 

"What do you mean, no?" you ask, cocking your head.

"I mean don't you fucking move-" His tongue came out to lap at his bottom lip as his eyes moved down your body, down your legs. 

You instantly went to grab the duvet again but he grabbed it first, ripping it from the bed and throwing it across the room. You get down on all fours, crawling to try and get it before him. 

"Jeno!" You exclaim, reaching your hand out for it but it was too far away. You look up at him on all fours, and from this angle... God. You gulp. 

"Give me my cover."

You try to wash away every fantasy of being in this position before him but you can't ignore the way you need his hard cock, seeping at the tip and begging for you to lick it, to suck it. 

Stop. No. Not now.

His hand comes to the side of your face, pushing a piece of your hair behind your ear and you shiver at the touch. 

"Lie. Back. On. The. Bed." He commands.

Your eyes flutter shut for a moment and then slowly, you move to follow his command until you are back down on the bed. You keep your legs closed and hands on your stomach. 

You weren’t sure why you’re listening to him — obeying him . But something in you, some instinct is just screaming at you to let this play out, see what he wants.

"Touch yourself." He says and you blanch, your eyes growing wide and you sit up again, but one stern look from him has you lying back down again. "Touch yourself and tell me what you think of, how you feel, tell me everything Y/N."

Your name. He never bothers to call you that. Usually emphasising how you’re his best friend’s little sister with the nickname he’d given you. But honestly, you’re thankful for the nickname because hearing your actual name from his lips, all nasally and sensual, sends you spiralling. 

It makes you putty in his hands. And as for your hands? Well, they slowly spread your legs wide revealing your soaking wet cunt to him. You keep your eyes pierced on him, watching how his breath hitches, eyes glued to you. The way he automatically grabs his cock through his jeans and squeezes is like a reflex. Closing his eyes only briefly before they're back on you, on your core. 

You feel yourself growing red, the heat of embarrassment consuming you whole as you slide your hand down your stomach. As soon as your fingers make contact with your clit, your hips are bucking off of the bed and your back starts to curve. Building up your arousal doesn't take long. You were already half there, teetering on the edge. 

Except this time your eyes lock onto Jeno’s for real whilst your fingers are moving, soft moans leaving your lips. You spy his own hand on his cock, he hasn't pulled it free but he moves his hand back and forth over his shaft. You can see the way his arms tense as he moves and watches you.

You throw your head back with another moan. Seeing him stood there isn't enough, you need something more. You need him climbing on top of you, replacing your fingers with his. His hot breath against your neck as he rubs you harder and faster. 

"What are you thinking about?"

"You." You say breathily.

"What about me?"

Your eyes shoot open to stare at him, he looks tense and flustered. Just as bad as you. His hand stops moving on his cock and you make a mental note that he might've been close. Too close. And this might be over too soon.

"Your fingers on my clit, rubbing me," you throw your head back as the fantasy flashes again. 

"Yes, and what else?" He growls. 

"Your mouth." You breathe again.

"My mouth, huh?" He bites and your fantasy continues. 

"Yes. Everywhere." You cry out, orgasm seconds away. "Your mouth on me, about to- God, Jeno I'm gonna cum,” your back arches, hips bucking, fingers moving so fast and rough. 

"Look at me." Your eyes fly open at the command. "I want you to cum whilst looking at me."

And you do. The sheer dominance radiating off of him is the final straw that has you crashing down. 

Your orgasm rips through you as your hips lift so far off the bed. You moved your fingers through your orgasm, riding it out but finally, your hips fell back to the bed and you let out a heavy breath.

Before you could even open your eyes again, you felt two large arms wrap under your thighs gripping your hips, and suddenly you’re yanked to the end of the bed. Your eyes snap open, and your head lifts up as you spy Jeno on his knees at the end of the bed, his mouth centimetres from your dripping pussy.

"J-Jeno,” you mumble, just the sight of him has you moaning. 

You’re not sure if getting yourself off in front of him was the moment you both decided to cross the line; but now him manoeuvring between your legs, you knew you definitely had. Regardless, you know now you aren't ever going back to the dynamic you had before. 

"I’m gonna make those fantasies come to life baby.” 

He doesn't miss a beat. His tongue comes out and swipes a long lick up and through your folds. All common sense leaves your head as you fall back against the bed. 

"God, you taste so good. I fucking knew you would." 

He’s thought about this? You know you have. 

He repeats the motion again, this time focusing on your clit, making sure to run a smooth stripe along it, circling it only slightly, enough to have you wriggling. One of his hands splays over your stomach, holding your hips down. 

"I want you to cum on my tongue. I want to taste every drop of you,” you gulp, looking down at him between your thighs. You don't miss the dark pupils in his eyes and that daring look, the one telling you to follow his instructions. 

"Jeno, oh my god,” you cry out, your head flying back as his mouth attacks your clit. He sucks it in, flicking his tongue all over in a frenzied motion. 

You know he knows all the right ways to make a girl squirm. And you are fucking squirming. All over the fucking bed, you’d be breaking free from him if he didn't have his large veined hand holding your stomach down. Your stomach is now on show. Your t-shirt has risen up to just below your breasts and you see the way his eyes watch the movement as you move about, tits bouncing around.

And as if he can hear your thoughts he says,

"Take your top off." 

You do it without question, lifting the hem and throwing it over your head. Now you’re laying there completely naked. His hand that was on your stomach comes up and takes hold of one breast, instantly taking your nipple between his fingers and you hear him, no you feel him, moan into your pussy. 

The vibrations cause you to cry out, hands knuckling the bed sheets. 

"You're so fucking hot Y/N, God." He murmurs before attacking you again, his mouth working wonders.

And that tongue. You’re so close. You can feel it. 

Then you feel as he slides two fingers into you. Jeno curls his fingers inside of you, hitting some sort of sensitive spot, and as soon as his fingers massage that area inside you and his mouth returns to your clit, you explode.

You don't even know if the music downstairs would cover your screams as you fell into ecstasy. His hand on your breast doesn’t  move, but the one that had been hooked on your hip moves to splay against your stomach holding you down as he laps at you, riding you through your second orgasm until you couldn’t take it anymore. He pulls his fingers out, then his mouth away from you at just the right time.

You lay there spent. Completely. 

Eyes fluttering open. Jeno stood between your legs looking down at you. His cock looked painful in his jeans. You had once felt exhausted and ready to fall asleep but as soon as you saw his erection you shot up in your seat. You immediately fumble with his jeans until his hand comes to your jaw, pulling your head up to look into his eyes. He stares for a moment before blinking, taking a deep breath.

"You don't have to- I didn't do that for you to-"

"I want to. I want this." You nod eagerly,"I want you.” 

You lick your lips and it's as if something snaps in him, that moment of care vanishes and he lets go of your chin.

"Well then, suck my cock,” he says, standing there and you do as you’re told.

You unfasten his jeans, pull them down and then his underwear. His large erect cock springs free instantly and without a second thought you take hold of him in your hand. Your hands look tiny against his dick. 

You move your hand slowly up and down his cock, and notice how his thighs tense, then his stomach and you follow your eyes up until you meet his face. His head is hung low, eyes dark and hands clenched by his sides. Keeping your eyes on his, you lean forward and spy the precum, flicking your tongue out and taking it in to swallow down with a moan that makes him grunt. 

You moved so that your face was closer to his balls, then you stroked your tongue all along his length, and felt the way he flexed beneath your muscle. There’s a cocky smirk covering your face when you move back to the top and suck his tip into your mouth.

"Do you like sucking my cock?" He asks, his hand threading into your hair to start pulling on the roots to yank your head backwards. 

"Do you like it when I suck your cock, Jeno?" You flip the question with a smile the power in your hands. You continue working him and he flexes his hand in your hair.

"That's how you wanna play?" He grins at you.

You pretend to think for a moment, "I’m not playing anything." You move your head closer down his length, licking  another long stripe hearing how he curses under his breath and thrusts his hips towards you. "I just want to suck your cock." 

With that, you take him into your mouth, sliding down until you reach your limit. You can't take him whole, he’s way too big for that, but you take what you can. He coughs and splutters a bunch of inaudible words, but you just pull back up and repeat the motion, continuing to take him back into your throat. 

His hand stays threaded in your hair, keeping a rough hold so that you can't pull away — not that you wanted to.  

You love every second. Even as you feel him tensing, his hips moving as he thrusts into your mouth. You look up through your lashes to see his head thrown back as he moans out and hisses every so often when you drag your teeth along his cock. You can tell he likes it as the precum coats your tongue. That and the way he doesn't tell you to stop. 

"Do. That. Again."

And you do, watching his head fall forwards."Such a pretty sight, my cock filling your mouth. What do you think your brother would think about this?" he smirks and your face falls pale.

You almost stop sucking his dick but he doesn't let you, slamming his hips forwards so his cock hits the back of your throat.

Your brother.

Not a thought you want to think about right now but it is something you needed to consider. This was his best friend. You’d finally gotten the man so forbidden, always out of bounds. The whole time you didn’t know that he wanted you as much as you wanted him. 

You moan uncontrollably, and it must send vibrations along his cock as you feel it twitch in your mouth, his thrusts become sloppy and his grip on your hand grows tighter. 

"Fuck, Y/N, I'm gonna cum." He grits out. "Are you gonna let me cum in that pretty mouth of yours?" 

You look up at him. You can't speak so you try to nod. 

"God, you’ve always been the death of me," He thrusts several more times as you slide your tongue all over his length and tip. 

You do it a final time as you take him to the back of your throat, gliding your teeth along him which must've been his undoing as you felt the hot steaming cum splatter against the back of your throat. 

You pulled him out your mouth slowly. Even as he is softening he is still thick and large. You kitten lick the tip as he hisses, causing him to loosen his grip in your hair and you sit back, making sure to obviously gulp so he knows you swallowed every last drop of him. Leaning forwards, his hand comes to your chin and he moves his mouth so close to your you think he might kiss you but instead he says,

"Good girl." 

You hate the way those two words made you clench your thighs together. You thought the two orgasms were enough but no, you’re ready for more. You need more. 

He’s quick to remove his shirt, and as he lifts his arms his abs flex. You are point-blank gawking at him standing before you, making him smirk. 

That snaps you out of it. Remembering you are sitting here, soaking wet and naked before him. You crawl back on the bed and then realise you have no duvet so you have to pull your knees to your chest and cross your arms over your knees to cover yourself. 

He watches you, laughs and then shakes his head. He then moves, shoving off his jeans and underwear the rest of the way off until they both land on the floor.

"Wh-What are you doing?" You ask stuttering, thinking he should actually be getting dressed to leave.

"What do you think I'm doing?" he asks. 

Can't he ever just give you a simple answer? 

Then you notice how his cock has sprung to life again and his hand moves to touch it. Moving up and down the length as he cracks his neck.

"You're h-hard again?" You stutter, eyes glued to the impressive size of him. 

"I'm always hard for you baby." He winks and for once, it didn't make you want to punch him. 

"Jeno, we can't." You shake your head.

 You’re already way past the line. Sex would destroy the whole scale. Still, the idea of him, his cock inside of you, whispering filthy things in your ear... it isn't something you can ignore. 

"You want it." He says point blankly. 

You gulp and remain silent. He moves onto the bed, kneeling and then crawls towards you until he is over you. His hair has fallen over his eyes — so fucking hot. "I know you want it, why try to deny it?" He cocks his head to the side, smugly.

"I-I'm not." You fidget. 

“Yes, you are." He ducks his head low, burying it in your neck. You feel his warm breath and your heartbeat rackets so loud. "You don't want to want me to fuck you,” His teeth graze your neck, sending you into a panting mess as he sucks and bites. 

He then pulls away and laps at the mark you know is there, the one he put there as a reminder tomorrow when you come to your senses that you did this.

"So I’ll ask again. What do you want?" He looks down at you, plump pink lips swollen and wet from his constant licking and biting them. 

You’re going to let your brothers best friend fuck you. And you’re going to love every second of it.

Not wasting another moment longer to think, you grab hold of his neck and lift your head whilst pulling him to you to smash your lips together. There’s heat, fire, and explosions of electricity. 

Your hands claw at his neck, his back, his sides. Anything to pull him closer. His crotch, his hard cock, grinds against your soaking hole and you groan out whilst continuing to kiss him. Both so desperate for each other. His hands skim down your body, kneading your breasts, your hips. He grabs hold of anywhere and everywhere. 

His lips detach from yours, giving you a moment to see how swollen they are before they're attacking your neck. He peppers kisses along your jaw, not sweet kisses but hard and sloppy kisses. Sucking and biting the skin causing your back to arch into his chest, pushing your breasts against him, making him moan. He thrusts his hips forwards, his cock sliding between your folds, hitting against your clit making you quiver.

"Fuck, we really shouldn't be doing this." He continues kissing you down your neck, reaching your collar bones that he also decides to leave marks on. 

"Jeno please," you cry out. Both of his hands move to your hips to hold you still. 

"Please what baby?" He smirks before moving lower to take one of your nipples into his mouth.

"Fuck Jeno,” you cry out as he flicks his tongue over the bud, biting it harshly so you cry out again then soothing it with a soft warm suck.

"Please what baby?" He repeats. 

"Fuck me. Now!”

"And what about your brother?" he brings him up again and you roll your eyes. 

"Stop bringing him up," You moan as he takes your other nipple into his mouth, repeating the process.

"He'll kill us if he finds out." he grins.

"Then he can't find out," You pant out of breath as Jeno moves.

His face is so close to yours that your lips are only just touching, his chest is pushed against you and his cock sits lodged between your folds. You try to shift to gain some friction against your clit but his grip holds you still. His eyes flicker across your face then he says,

"I won't tell if you won't?" His lips caress yours in the faintest of movements. You flick your tongue out to wet your lips, but in the process he bites onto your muscle making you wince then moan, "What do you think, huh?” 

There’s no room for discussion — your body won’t let you. 

"I won't tell if you won't."

He doesn't miss a beat once he gets your approval. His lips are on yours as his hips thrust forwards. His cock thrusting inside of you, tearing you open as you pull your mouth away to cry out.

"Holy fuck."

He stills once inside you, making sure to push as far as possible until his pelvis meets your skin. Your legs wrap around his waist instantly.

"You feel so fucking good." He breaks from your kiss to breathe. "I always knew you would but this-" he looks down to where you are connected and he thrusts further, trying to get deeper but he can't possibly. "-this is better than anything I could've imagined." 

"Move, please." You grunt trying to lift your hips to encourage some movement. His eyes fly open, dark and daring. 

"Beg me." He smirks and does a tiny thrust, a teasing thrust.

"Fuck off,” you pant, trying to do it yourself but he uses his hips to pin you to the bed.

"Beg." He smiles and cocks his head to one side. "Me."

You hated his arrogance. But fuck, you want him so bad. So badly that you will beg.

"Please fuck me, Jeno." He pulls out of you and you suck in a deep breath.

"Again." He grins now. 

You can't bear to look at him but looking down means watching as he holds just the tip inside of me.

"Please. Fuck. Me." You pant, half moaning, begging for him. 

He thrusts so hard into you, you wince and moan out in pleasure. He hit so deep inside that you’re sure you’ll bruise.

"Anything for you, Y/N,” he whispers in your ear before sucking and biting on the lobe. 

Then he's pulling out and thrusting into you. Again. And again. And again. Harder and harder each time. Faster and faster. You lose your breath, becoming a big ball of pants and moans — just like  Jeno.

God, the sounds he makes. You’ve never heard someone so vocal before, but fuck it's hot. The small grunts he makes when he fucks you, the groans when you clench around his cock and feel yourself building. He moves his hands under your ass to lift it, plummeting into you from a new angle, going so much deeper.

"Your pussy is so tight. Fuck,” He says between thrusts, and gritted teeth. 

He seems to have found a weak spot right under your ear that has you clenching like mad around his cock. And he loves it. 

"How have you just been there in front of me this whole time? How have I stayed away from you?" He seems to be asking himself because he doesn’t press you for a reply. 

He removes his lips from your neck and sits back on his heels, his cock still inside of you, slowing his thrusts and he lifts your legs up, moving them over his shoulders. His head moves from side to side, placing a soft kiss on each ankle and for one second. You’re dumbfounded as he looks at you, a daring smirk written across his face. 

He wraps his arms around your thighs, locking your legs in a straight position against his chest on either side of his head, and then he begins pounding into you again. However this time, he moves one of his hands to your centre, his thumb moving closer to your clit. You feel how it grazes your nerves. He strums it once. Twice. Three times then you're wriggling around like a mess, back arching off as your orgasm tears through your body and you explode into euphoria. Again.

He rides you through it, fucking you as you clench and squeeze around him. A string of curse words come out of him, you feel him so close but he doesn't cum. He stops stroking your clit as you batted his hand away, you didn't realise you had been clenching the sheets with white knuckles until you relax your hands and feel a cramp in your palm.

Jeno slows his thrusts until he stills inside of you, his chest is moving up and down with each of his heavy breaths. You move your legs off of his shoulders, enjoying the movements as your legs feel strained too.

But as soon as your feet hit the bed, he grabs you and flips you so you land on your stomach. He pulls your hips up and slides into you again.

"Fuck!" You scream as he slams into you unapologetically. One hand holding your hip, the other trails along your back as he begins fucking you from behind. He leans over you, still ploughing, and comes closer to your ear.

"I always wanted to fuck you like this, you are always strutting around showing off, your ass? Do you like teasing me?" 

You don't even know what you like right now. Mind too focused on needed Jeno to fuck you any way he pleased. 

He grins, then shoves your head back down into the mattress, straightening his back and fucks you harder than you think you’ve ever have been before. You couldn't keep up with the movements, head a complete daze from all of the orgasms that he had given you.

You come to a conscious mind when a hard slap lands on your ass, it makes your pussy throb so he does it again, and again, rubbing over the area and soothing it before doing it again. Each time it makes you clench around him. 

"Jeno," you cry out between thrusts.

"Yeah, baby?" His voice sounded so much deeper, which told you he was close. That and the way his thrusts grew random and unstable.

"Want you to cum in me," You moan, clenching the sheets again. 

"I'm not wearing a condom," He grits through his teeth. 

"I'm on the pill,” you manage to say between heavy breaths. You needed him to cum in you now. 

He shakes his head, "Last thing I need is to get my best friend's little sister pregnant." And that was that because he thrust a few more times, then pulls out, and instantly, all over your ass and back you felt a hot liquid splatter about. 

As soon as his grip left your hip you fell straight down onto the mattress, and your body was thankful for it. Everything hurt. He'd destroyed you. Fucked you, well and truly. And you couldn't stop the smile on your face.

"I'll go get a cloth." He said through some heavy breaths then climbed off of the bed and went to your bathroom. He emerged a moment later, used the warm cloth to clean up his mess although you notice him take a minute to look at it.

"Admiring your work?" You asked him through a laugh, he looked at you and shook his head chuckling. 

"Trust me, if I could take a picture I would,” he wipes it away. Then he returned to the bathroom to throw the cloth in the hamper but as soon as he stood in the doorway of you heard three loud knocks on your bedroom door. 

"Y/N? You in there? Have you seen Jeno?" 

You shot up in bed, suddenly not tired or spent. Jeno’s eyes grew wide too.

You lifted your finger to your lips and gestured to Jeno to stay in the bathroom. He didn't hesitate as he shuts the door. 

Jaemin would fucking kill him and you, without a doubt. Only moments ago you had his best friend’s cum covering your ass. 

"One second," you shout,  jumping out of bed and grabbing your T-shirt. Then you rush over to the door, paint on your best sleeping face and yawn whilst opening it. 

"Oh, you were asleep?" Jaemin stood on the other side, hands braced on either side of the door frame.

You fake another yawn. He looks behind you and you turn too, fearful Jeno was standing there but then you spied your duvet cover on the other side of the room. Jamein frowned and looked back to you. 

"I was hot." You shrug. 

"Shit sorry," He quickly says. "I just can't find Jeno anywhere.” 

"He’s your friend not mine.”

"I don’t understand why you two hate each other," He rolls his eyes and you can't help but scoff at the irony. 

Hate wasn’t exactly the word you’d use for the guy that was just 8 inches deep inside of you. 

"Well, he's probably off getting high or fucking some girl.” 

“Better not be in our parent’s bed again,” he huffs, and your eyes go wide. “Fuck, he better not be doing it in my bed either,” he says to himself. 

And with that, he storms away heading for his room. Chuckling, you shut the door and Jeno emerges from the bathroom, a towel now wrapped around his waist and he stands there facing you. 

"That was close."

"Too close." You sigh. 

He dresses himself as you climb back in bed, getting your duvet back on and covering yourself with it. He walks over to the door and pulls it open, peeking outside to check the coast is clear, then once he does he turns to look over his shoulder at you.

"Our secret?" He says.

"Our secret." You nod and he steps out, not looking back and shuts the door.

You lie back on your bed, head falling into your pillows and laugh. 

But then you shake your head processing it all, moving your hand to cover your mouth, looking at the ceiling. 

You just fucked your brother’s best friend.

#jeno smut #jeno x reader #nct smut #nct x reader #nct dream smut #nct dream x reader #jeno scenarios #nct scenarios #kpop smut #nct hard hours

[pathologicalreid]

in sickness and in health | S.R.

Minutes before your wedding is supposed to start, Spencer gets cold feet, and you have to find out why.

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff (a smidge angsty) content warnings: alzheimers, weddings, children, babies, sad!spencer, reader wears a dress and makeup, cursing word count: 1.8k a/n: so this became sadder than I had initially intended. also i decided to try something new and write in a different POV and i don't know if i like it. this is my entry for @imagining-in-the-margins' new beginnings challenge, because nothing says new beginning quite like getting married! thank you for having this challenge!

If it were up to you and Spencer, your wedding would’ve taken place at a courthouse with no fuss, just rings and a certificate. Especially after he shot down your idea of a 24-hour wedding chapel in Las Vegas.

In your defense, you pitched it to him as an intimate wedding in his hometown, but he didn’t take the bait.

But when the team found out that the two of you were planning what they deemed unsuitable, they all volunteered to help throw together a ceremony and reception. Everyone was under the duress of Penelope at the time, but they all volunteered.

She could be very formidable when she wanted to.

Your now maid of honor’s eyes were shimmering as she carefully adjusted some of the last few strands of hair upon your head, you had managed to talk her out of a tiara, but to Penelope Garcia, a veil was non-negotiable. “You look gorgeous,” she says, “the perfect bride.”

Laughing uncomfortably, you turn to look at yourself in the full-length mirror and take a deep breath, “Thank you, Pen.”

“I know I may have slightly nudged you in the direction of a bigger wedding-“

“More like punted,” you interrupt, an affectionate smile on your face.

Rolling her eyes, she leaned over to grab her buzzing phone on the velvet chair in your ready room. “Whatever, I just think that after everything you and Spencer have made it out of, you deserve a celebration that reflected that,” she speaks passionately, as she always does when discussing people in love.

Turning around to look back at the mirror, the tulle of your veil cascading over your shoulders as you grew giddy. Your dress was a whimsical, white chiffon that fell to the floor and moved with you as you walked. Small straps of fabric were delicately draped over your arms for an off-the-shoulder effect, you had never felt more glamorous. Although, if there was a day for glamor, your wedding day would certainly qualify.

You snap your head around to see Penelope furiously typing on her phone, “Uh oh,” she whispers, looking at the screen.

Humming, you step off of the pedestal and over to her, careful not to trip on your dress, “What’s wrong?” You murmur, trying to see what was distressing her. Dread built in your stomach; the team couldn’t be getting called away? Two of its members were about to get married. This is why you should’ve just gone to the courthouse; you never should’ve let Garcia talk you into this.

Jolting you out of your panic induced stupor, she answers, “Something’s up with Reid.”

Your heart clenches, “Reid? My Reid?” You whisper, “Is he okay?”

The two of you jump when someone bangs on the door, and she moves to open it, just a crack at first – to see who it is – and then all the way open to reveal Luke on the other side. Naturally, the members of the BAU made up your wedding party, and Luke as the best man was the easy choice.

He was mostly dressed, save for the bowtie that remained undone around his neck, “I need to steal Y/N.” His shoulders were rising and falling quickly like he had run across the building.

“She’s getting ready for the wedding. Her wedding,” Penelope answers, gesturing back to you. “Besides, it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding.”

Really, you were mostly ready, you just needed to put your shoes on and line up. “There won’t be a wedding if we can’t get the groom out there,” Luke replies.

You warily approach the doorway, peeking around the door, “What’s wrong?”

“He just needs you,” Luke explains, gesturing toward you with his hands.

Nodding determinedly, you step out the door and run over to the other side of the building to where the groom’s ready room is, pulling the fabric of your dress up so that you don’t trip. Along the way, you pass a few guests, but you don’t stop.

It wasn’t news to most of them that you were a grounding force for Spencer, the two of you had been put through, as Luke put it, the wringer together and still managed to come out the other side. You skid to a halt in front of the door and knock quickly, “Spence, it’s me.”

“It’s bad luck to see the bride before the ceremony,” he murmurs through the door, echoing the earlier sentiments of Penelope. You know he doesn’t believe in it, which only adds to your concern.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, fidgeting with the doorknob just to discover it’s locked. “If you don’t unlock the door, I’m going to go find Derek and have him kick it down for me,” you threaten, wondering if the reminder of all of the people here would coax him out.

There was no response from the other side of the door.

Sighing, you turn to look at Luke, “Can you give us a minute?” He nods, letting you know he’ll talk to Garcia before walking down the long hallway.

Once he’s gone, you hear the tell-tale click of the door unlocking, “Garcia will kill you if you walk in here.”

“Penny isn’t here, baby. It’s just you and me, okay?” You speak lowly, “What’s wrong, my love?” Dropping your hand on the doorknob, you startle slightly when it turns and the door swings open.

You yelp when Spencer pulls you in, closing the door behind you before he wraps his arms tightly around your waist. Immediately, you feel his body relax against yours, “Isn’t this supposed to be bad luck?” He murmurs.

Humming, you return his hug gratefully, “We’ve had enough bad luck, don’t you think? It’ll be okay.” His arms loosen around you, and you pull away slightly so you can look up at him, placing your hands tenderly on his chest, thumbing the satin fabric of his lapels. “And besides, I’m not fully dressed yet. I’m fairly certain that means it doesn’t count.”

“You look beautiful,” he whispers, holding you out at arm’s length. “You’re perfect, and I’m…” His voice trails off as he takes a step back from you, sighing as he takes a seat in one of the white chairs in the ready room.

Tilting your head to the side, you felt the fabric of your veil flow to the side, “You’re what, Spence?” You ask, slowly approaching the chair he was sitting in.

He furrows his brows in apprehension, “I think I might be scared of you,” he answers candidly.

You couldn’t help the giggle that spurted from your lips, “Am I really that scary?” You inquire softly, seeking more answers from him. You saw him better now, the darkness of his tux offset by the purple bowtie and handkerchief, joined with the light florals of his boutonnière. Spencer’s hair was a mess, a tell-tale sign that he had been running his hands through it.

Clearing his throat, Spencer looks up at you with a look in his eye that you can’t quite place, “I passed by your room earlier, and I heard you laughing.” He took a deep, tentative breath, “I thought you sounded so happy, and now I’m not sure I can keep you happy.”

Sighing, you duck your head slightly, “Spencer,” you say seriously, “are we still getting married today?”

“What?” He says in disbelief. “Of course we are, that’s not- I’m sorry,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “We’re still getting married; I’ve quite literally never wanted anything more in my entire life. I’m just worried,” he speaks quietly.

Gingerly, you step closer to the chair before he reaches out for you, placing a hand on your waist and gently guiding you down until you are sitting on his lap. “You make me so happy, Spencer Reid. I know that somewhere in that gorgeous brain of yours you know that, but I also know that you are your own worst critic.”

You’re sitting sideways on his lap with your legs latticed on top of each other. Gingerly, he places a hand on your thigh and another on the small of your back, “You deserve everything you want in the world.”

“And I want you. Doesn’t that count for something?” You ask him, emotion beginning to rise in your throat – you cannot cry, then the wedding would really be delayed. “Spencer, I’m so ecstatic that at the end of today, I get to be your wife. That’s such a privilege to me. You and I, we get to be so fucking happy today. We deserve that.” You tell him gently, “We get to be married and go on our honeymoon and come home and we can tell all of your stories to your mom, and we’ll have a baby or two and we’ll be so fucking happy.” You swallow your emotion, looking up at the light in the hope that it will clear your tears. “For the rest of our lives, we’ll be so happy.”

Then it came, “I don’t want to forget you.” His voice is almost imperceptible, but you hear him still.

The ache in his voice feels like a stab to your heart, you were well aware that his mother had Alzheimer’s. She wasn’t having a good day today, but the two of you had gone to visit her in the morning. Ever since she was diagnosed, it’s been like Spencer has a storm cloud hovering over him – he can’t be tested for the gene markers, not for a few more years. Taking a deep breath, you reach over and smooth his hair back, “If you get Alzheimer’s, I will sit down with you every day and remind you. I’m going to walk down that aisle today and tell you that I’m going to love you in sickness and in health and I’m going to mean it.”

“I’m scared,” he murmurs, leaning into your touch.

Using your free hand, you reach up and tenderly wipe a tear from his cheek, “We can take it.”

He nods in agreement with you, “Together, as a team,” he concurs, a slight amount of confidence returning to his voice.

Resting your head on his shoulder, the two of you take your moment. The last moment before you officially unite as one, and you let that moment take as long as you need. “I should go,” you whisper, looking over at the clock, the ceremony was supposed to have started by now.

Spencer leans down and kisses you, “I’ll see you out there?” He asks expectantly.

Nodding assuredly, you reach up and wipe a smudge of lipstick from his mouth, “I’ll be there.”

During the ceremony, you impressively were able to keep yourself together, until you promised him you would love him in sickness and in health.

please remember to like, reblog, and/or comment if you enjoyed!

#criminal minds #spencer reid #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #written by margot #wedding!spencer #criminal minds fluff #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #mentioningmargins #spencer reid x fem!reader

[majorblinks]

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

[tojipie]

prison bf series linked here !

hii ! not rly phone sex, but sex nonetheless. i’m rly loving this series <33 prison toji unboxing fic coming someday in the distant future.

content: nsfw + phone sex

──────────────────────

the sudden vibrations of your phone’s ringer rips you from the boundary between sleep and awareness. you groggily reach for the device from it’s place under your pillow, clicking the off button twice to end the call.

the number rings again, then a third time before you finally pick up, ready to tear into the poor soul on the other line. it’s a facetime call from an area code you don’t recognize, probably just a misdial if you’re lucky.

you hesitantly accept and tilt the camera towards the ceiling, shielding your face from the stranger.

“hello..?” you mumble sleepily, trying to get a good look at your phone without revealing too much of yourself. the person’s screen is grainy from the lack of light, probably calling you on an older model.

the stranger’s camera pans down, revealing familiar tufts of straight raven hair. toji stares up at you from his bunk, shirtless with the sheets bunched up to his chest.

“you too good to pick up the phone now?” he asks, clearly teasing. the inmate’s voice is quiet, coming out in choppy rivets as his dated microphone picks up what it can.

“toji!?” you whisper scream, sitting up to turn your beside lamp on. the additional light helps illuminate your figure better, you notice his eyes perk up at the clearer sight of you.

“mmmh, happy to see you babydoll.” he grins, leaning closer to get a good look at you. your eyes are puffy with the promise of rest, giving you that extra bought of softness he loves so much.

“oh shit, were you sleeping? m’ sorry.”

he doesn’t sound sorry at all.

“nono i’m awake.” you reassure the older man, taking in the sight of him laid out on the narrow cot. your boyfriend had aged since the beginning of his sentence, though you figure that’s not out of the ordinary for someone serving time. “how’d you even get a phone?”

“s’ a secret.” he muses, clearly finding the situation amusing. “i get to talk to my baby though, isn’t that nice?” he states plainly, shifting to prop his head up with his hand.

“it is, actually.” you mumble apologetically, feeling bad at your initial lack of a greeting. “m’ happy you called me.”

you pause, choosing your next words carefully “don’t you have bunkmates?” you wonder, searching the background for any signs of other men in the dark cell. the promise of being ratted out by a cell mate was one that wouldn’t end well for either of you.

“nah, lawyers said i’m too dangerous to be staying in D-block with everyone.” he states boredly, shifting again to lie on his back with a grunt.

“wh— are you serious?” you whine, already mulling over the countless conversations you’ve had with him regarding his nasty fighting habit.

“pfttt, no?” the inmate chuckles, throwing his head back with a hearty laugh. “last guy in the cell got out on wednesday, ‘s just me in here till’ my sentence is up.”

he stills, looking you up and down quickly.

"fuck." he grumbles, you look real pretty right now."

you sigh in relief, ignoring the compliment to continue grilling him. “so you’ve been getting along with people?” you ask, skill skeptical.

“you know—hah- how i am.” he tells you, clearing his throat before continuing. the screen begins to wobble a little, blurring his figure for a moment. “when have i —fuck- ever been out of line, huh? ”

“i think you were pretty out of line when you went to fucking jail.” you tease, pausing to analyze his hurried breaths on the other line.

“toji? do you feel ok?” you ask, wishing you were there to check up on him.

“yeah—mmgh- why? his camera starts to pan up shakily, phone slipping from his hand. the last of his facade shatters as a pleased groan rings out in the tiny cell.

“fuck.” he whines, “fuck— oh my god. you’re gonna make me fucking cum.”

“show me.” you command, finally piecing everything together.

the older man flips the camera and brings it right up to his hard cock, stroking it from the base up with vigor.

his tip is an angry pink, weeping milky precum down his shaft to glaze his knuckles. the sounds coming from your phone are absolutely filthy, a hot mix of pants, groans and expletives .

“oh my god.” you giggle, propping your phone up to watch better. “is that all for me?” the dips and hills of his abs jolt as he laughs.

“all for you.” he pants, bucking his hips up every time his fist meets his tip.

“is this why you called me?” you tease, watching his cock bob back and forth in his hand. the older man stops to thumb his slit, massaging milky pre into the tip before starting up again. “you just wanted to get off? didn’t wanna talk to me or nothing?”

“no—hah. i mean—.” he groans, clearly too out of it to answer. “fuck. fuck i’m close.”

you squeeze your legs together to quell the ache between your thighs, content to just watch him enjoy himself.

sharing a room with 4 other people means little to no time alone, that much you knew from your visits. it wasn’t rare for him to pitch a tent during your supervised phone calls, squeezing his cock behind a glass barrier while you gushed about your day.

a hearty groan knocks your train of thought loose as ropes of cum stream down his knuckles and onto the sheets. you watch in awe as he milks his dick, slapping it onto his stomach for the added simulation.

you wait until his breaths even out to speak, watching him grab a towel from off camera to clean himself up.

“feel better?” you ask, so badly wishing you were there to kiss him in the midst of his afterglow.

“so much better.” he sighs, shifting to lay on his side again.

“they definitely heard you. i mean those rooms don’t have doors right?”

“of course they fucking have doors.” he grumbles, clearly embarrassed at the thought of getting caught dick-in-hand.

“did you..” he trails off, rubbing his eyes with a soft yawn.

“too tired.” you state plainly, shifting the focus from your pleasure to his.

“i don’t deserve you.” he mumbles, dark eyes barely open.

“course you do baby.” you whisper. “you wanna head to bed? i’m coming up on thursday to visit.”

“you are?” the excitement in his voice is adorable.

“mhm, might even bring you a charger for that piece of shit burner you swiped.”

the jab earns you a booming laugh, lulling you back to the precipice of sleep.

────────────────────────

tag list ! <3 🏷️

@honeybee54321 @m150-50up @kuryoomi @t4naiis @serendippindots @sillyalo @levixbby @powerrwa

#prison bf!toji #prison bf! toji #fushiguro toji #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen toji #toji drabbles #toji fluff #toji fushiguro #toji hcs #toji headcanons #toji x reader #dilf toji #toji scenarios #toji x y/n #toji x fem!reader #zenin toji #toji imagine #toji zenin #jjk headcanons #jjk hcs #toji x reader smut #toji smut #toji x fem reader smut

[ghostieyanyan]

I like to stir up some drama for the Yandere twst boys 😈 I always would like to think that what if a few of the boys fell for MC but they turned them down because they already have a lover back in their world. Or their old lover is dead and MC would never love again since they’re still grieving. I would like to see the boys reactions, especially the more jealous and dangerous ones like Floyd, Jamil, Malleus or even Ace

oohhh yess the drama~ we gotta love some good dangerous jealous boys. i bet theyll get mad and they might do something... awful.

~Mc with lover at home/dead~

Yan!Floyd x mc

Yan!Jamil x mc

Yan!Malleus x mc

Yan!Ace x mc

Warnings: drowning, kidnapping, threats, game of cat and mouse?, stalking, blood, broken mirror

~~~~~

Floyd

Floyd doesnt like a lot of things... he doesnt like it when things dont go his way.. especially if that thing makes him work his butt off. a thing like... you.

From the day you caught his eye, it was when you stood up to azul to protect baby seal, crabby, and little mackerel. For one, a magicless human demanding something of azul was laughable, hilarious even. Plus how persistence you were, which was also a great charm he liked, when your little group, plus sea urchin, had get that photo azul requested. even when you knew you didnt have a chance to pass 2 mermen eels, you still got the photo and tricked azul and destroying all his contacts?! you were tough and he loved it.

after that, he tried to get to know you better any chance he got!!

theres a basket ball game and he wants you to come? he will annoy crabby and sea snake, with his poor performance, saying "if shrimpy isnt going, whats the point..?" he does it so much that the entire team goes to the ramshackle dorm, begging you to come to the game. floyd played great and won the match.

if there was a group assignment in class? Floyd will throw a fit and threaten anyone that even looks at you to be their partner. to the point, where the teachers just have to comply to his demands.

if you and your group of first years come to the Louge, he'll shove everyone off to lay on your lap. isnt he a cute eel?

After a while of this, floyd finally decided to ask you out (from Azul and Jade's suggestion because they were getting tired of complains about floyd's behavior).

He asked if you could come with him, outside of NRC. He wanted to show you something. He brought you to the beach shore. the sun was setting and it shine beautifully on the surface of the water. you thanked him for the pretty view, it almost made up for everything he's been putting you through recently.

when you turned to Floyd, he got on one knee and asked... he had a ring! it was a pretty pearl ring that he got himself. he had to go through a lot of clams to find the "perfect one for shimpy"

you were, of course, startled. but you explained to him that you had someone at home and you bet they missed you a lot. you tried to laugh the awkwardness away but before you could apologized again. floyd stood up and pulled out a potion vile? he quickly gulped it down and grabbed you, shoving you into the ocean with him!

when you opened your eyes, you were underwater and he was in his mermen form. he pulls you into a hug, a tight one. you thought it was sweet at first until..- you needed air! you tried to struggle against him and tapping him repeatedly, in a way to say "i to go up for air!" but he just wouldnt move.

"no."

"...?!?!"

"you arent going to that home. your new home... is with me, shrimpy~ we'll make a new home here~"

you tried to struggle more but it was pointless, you were losing air and it hurts. your lungs burned and his grip on you, his claws were digging into your flesh! you tried to dig your fingers into his sides but it was pointless.

you let out a finally gasp before falling limp into Floyd's arms.

~

~

without text

~~~~~

Jamil

Jamil doesnt really get attached to people a lot. everyone always wanted the "great an amazing Kalim," leaving him on the side lines. it hurt a lot at first but now he's just came to expect it...

Even in NRC, kalim still gets the spot light and jamil gets kicked to the side lines.

Kalim wanted to throw a party in the middle of the school week and jamil was in the kitchen. he was studying for an exam coming up and he needs to be "close" if anything were to happen. Meanwhile, kalim was in the main lounge partying with everyone... we know hes not gonna pass...

while Jamil was trying to study... you step in. you both stared at each other for a second... then you asked if you could get a cup of water? Jamil sighs and stood up to get you a glass..

"why are you here..? shouldn't you be.. partying too..?"

"im just refreshing on the material for the exam.."

Jamil hands you the cup and walks back to his spot on the kitchen table. you meekly followed him. on the table there were textbooks, notebooks, and different types of pens and pencils. you looked at his noted and you noticed how neat they were! some words were under-lined and bolded, some had highlights to help catch the eye. jamil noticed your stare and looks up at you.

"is there anything else i could help you with..?"

"o-oh! sorry, i just... your notes look really nice.."

you awkwardly sipped your cup. Jamil rolled his eyes and got back to his notes.

"ya.. its for kalim, whenever hes done partying, hell look at my notes right before the exam and fails the exam anyways.."

he dropped his pen on the table and rubbed his face, sighing heavily.

"haha! that's what ace, deuce, and grim do! out of the 4 of us, i write the notes! deuce tries to, ace doesn't bother, and grim.. sleeps. and with our study sesh, its not like it helps much. as an 'other worlder' i have better grades then they do combined! haha"

jamil stares at you as you laughed and he cracks a smile. its been a while since someone's situation was similar to his.

"hey... do you need any help with the up coming exam..?"

he's voice stammered while saying that... why? you looked at him and smiled. you both spend the rest of the night studying together. this was only the beginning.

now whenever you're alone, jamil will come by to give a helping hand. grim ate all your food? here, he accidentally made extras. do you need help with homework? meet him in the court yard, he'll help. the more he helped, the more his feelings for you grew, he only wished the feelings were mutual.

but the dreaded day came.. you had to return home. he chose that night to finally confess his feelings for you, hoping you'll throw away this vision on returning home and just come home with him.

when you told him that you had a past-lover that died and that you'll never love anyone again. he just snapped.

...!

with blood mix with mirror shards in his hand, he used snake whisper on you and brought you... home. good thing he did this after you said good bye to everyone.

~

~

without text

~~~~~

Malleus

to say malleus had an eye for the perfect is an understatement. from the day he met them, to the silly nickname they gave him, he had fallen hard.

he had to ask lilia for advice on how to charm the perfect. if flowers were too much for after knowing them for a week..? is his gifts in the night too much?

he just had to leave the gifts in your room because you were either not home or sleeping and he didn't want to disturb you. you liked so peaceful when you slept...

he wanted so badly to make you his then and there but he wanted the moment to be special for both of you. for him, he'll get someone who loves him and charish him. as much as he does you. For you, getting a loving dragon fae husband and becoming a queen of the briar valley. youre guarantee a great life with him! you wouldnt have to be hungry or buying the cheapies things that sam could offer. you will eat and sleep and care for like you are royalty because you will be royalty and be viewed with the highs respect, like malleus.

lilia had warned him to not rush this process. humans can be delikit creatures and some can get startled easiely. Sadly malleus didnt heed his warning and malleus choose to confess to you!

He choose a beautiful forest openning. he had a picnic set up with your favorites and he planned it so that you and malleus would watch the sunset and be out there to watch the stars. it would have been perfect... if it wasn't for you different views.

"oh! im really sorry, hornton.. um.. im actually taken! theyre back in my world but i bet theyre problay worried sicked about now. hehe.."

malleus was still... very still. in that moment, he didnt see red like he thought he would... everything just got dark for him. he wanted so badly to just disappeared and leave you there to be lost in the forest.. but he loved you too much for that. even when you ripped out his heart. the nerve you have to act like this to The malleus draconia...

he walked you home that night.. and told lilia what happened.

"oh dear... im sorry malleus. i didnt know someone has already stolen their heart."

lilia was flying over malleus's head, patting it. the head pats werent helping. the only head pats that will sooth him would be from his child of man, apologizing for their silly joke and saying its just a silly human tradition for courting...

"but... if perfect were to be persweaed into staying in twisted wonderland~ their world would... be nothing but a dream, right~?"

Malleus later asked you to stop by his dorm. he wanted to talk about that night. which you were happy for, you got worried when he didnt come to your dorm at his usial time..

when you got there, it was early quiet... no one in sight. you knew your way around so it wasnt a problem but every fiber in your body was screaming for you to go.

When you got to malleus room. he was at his desk writing something.

"Child of man... i have put some thought on what you said on our outing and ive decided to forgive you."

he stood up and walked over you. it never scared you before but him being so close and how its dark in his room, plus his glowing green eyes, didnt calm your nervse.

"ive decided to show you how prefect we are together... youll love the life i can give you in briar valley~"

in your panick, you pushed him away and made a ran for it to the doors. the last thing you heard made your blood run cold.

"Lilia, silver, Sebek.... after them."

"khee hee~ /Yes, sir. /Yes sir!"

~

~

without text

~~~~~

Ace

Ace is a lot of things! Mean, sneaky, and a liar! He likes to tease you a lot. sometimes it fine cause "youre with your friends and hes just teasing everyone" but sometimes hes comments to you feel too... personal..

"haha! perfect, bet no one is looking for you back home! i mean why would they? youre problay useless there as like here."

you grew quiet as your other friends come to your defence from ace's comment.

"well.. jokes on you ace. i do have someone waiting for me back at home! they are sweet and i know for a fact that they are worried sick about me right now! so HA!"

your other friends started to ask questions about your world and this mysterious person that stole your heart. which you were happy to answer their question.

sadly, you didnt notice a sad looking red head as he thought about you returning to this person...

during his afternoon club activities, ace was so out of it, he had to be benched for most the the games...

"aww~ did shrimpy leave crabby high and dry~? hehe~"

"stop teasing him floyd. but really ace.. whats going on? your game play sucks today."

"jamil.. i-"

"hehe~ its because crabby found out that when shrimpy leaves, theyre not gonna think about him at all any more. youll be washed up on the shore, stuck on your back, and shrimpy wont be there to help."

with every word floyd said, he got closer to ace. really digging deep that ace is losing you. in ace's fustrastion, he pushed the two guys away, grabbed his stuff, and headed out..

~

time had past and crowley (finally) gave you the mirror to return home! you were going around each and every dorm to give them gifts and saying your good byes.. but when you were in Heartlabyul, ace wasnt there..? Deuce explained that he problay when out but he'll make sure he'll stop by your dorm to say his good byes..

he didnt come by... and you had to leave without saying good bye to him..

~

it took a long while to get used to everything back in your world and explaining twisted wonderland to your parnter could have gone better. (they were on the fence to bring you to a pysc wraned..). your partner left to get you some of your favorite food that you missed since coming back.

you walked to the mirror that you came from and stared at your reflection.. will your first years be okay without you..? will grim be okay..? you closed your eyes to think on all your adventures, you heard a very familiar sound...

you looked at the mirror and you watched as the mirror ribbles... and then... ace appears.

"hehe~ its been a while, hasnt it? sorry i didnt get to see you when you visited. it just took me a while to make sure your new home.. is ready."

before you could step back, his hands reached for you, grabbing your shirt and pulling you into the mirror.

"i got a nice place for both of us. its a bit far from campus, but for you its worth it~ also~ you problay shouldnt run... or ill make sure you wont have anyone to return to here.."

~

~

without text

~~~~~

#twst fanart #twst #twst headcanons #twst wonderland #art #digital art #disney twst #yandere twst #disney twisted wonderland #twst x reader #twst art #twst floyd #twst floyd x reader #yandere floyd x reader #yandere floyd leech #floyd leech x reader #floyd leech #twst jamil viper x reader #twst jamil x reader #twst jamil viper #twst jamil #twisted wonderland jamil #jamil viper #jamil x reader #jamil twst #yandere malleus x reader #yandere malleus draconia #twisted wonderland malleus #malleus x reader #malleus draconia

[greatooglymooglyyy]

It's Never Over (C. S.)

contains: 2nd person pov, angst, somewhat toxic relationship, verbal argument, relationship issues, kissing, smut (softdom!chris), overstimulation, angry/make up sex, unprotected sex, 3.4k words

a/n: hi friends. this is apart of the triple threat event sooo don't forget to go see my babies @luv4kozume and @rootbeerworshiper for two more fics for your smutty needs. j will be posting in one hour and sienna is an hour after that.

masterlist

Maybe we’re too young.

The thought bounces around your head uncontrollably as you watch Chris move silently through the kitchen from your perch on the counter. You haven’t been home long- maybe 10 minutes- but after the day you’ve had, the silence feels like a jab.

“So,” you start, raising your eyebrow as he pulls out a drink and leans against the counter across from you. “How do you think the pictures will turn out?”

He gives you a tired look, seemingly trying to gauge whether your question is a trap. “I actually really fucked with it. It’s a new look for us.”

You two had spent the entire day on the set of a photo and promo shoot for Fresh Love’s new line of products. He was right about it being a new look and he’d gone all out for the launch; the shoot had been completely 90s-themed to match the vibe of the products and he’d recruited some influencers to model. 

Not that you were keeping track or anything, but the original idea had been yours and you’d put countless hours in helping him execute it. That isn’t to say you minded at all... at least not until today.

“I’m glad it’s exactly how you envisioned it.” You say, testing the waters unsure if you wanted to raise the issue again.

But Chris takes the bait and groans. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t even say anything, Chris. But I just don’t understand why my input stops being taken seriously as soon as other people are around.”

“Did you ever stop and consider that maybe my photoshoot wasn’t the place for you to start a random ass argument?” 

“I wasn’t trying to start one. And my bad, I didn’t realize you stopped being my boyfriend when you walked on a set.” Your eyes narrow as you stare him down, irritation at the situation resurfacing.

He sighs heavily, running a hand over his face. “I don’t but it’d be cool if my girlfriend supported me on days like this instead of adding more stress.”

Your eyes grow wide and you look around dramatically. “I’m sorry? Is that not all I do? Planning with you. Pitching ideas. Running around finding any little thing I can do to help? You wouldn’t even have the new product ideas without me.”

He throws his hands up in surrender, pushing off the counter and stepping closer. “And I’m grateful, baby. You know I am. I’m not saying you’re not important to me. I’m saying it can’t always be about you.”

“Can it sometimes be about me?” You question, feeling like you’re losing your mind. “I would never have an entire photoshoot full of influencers and not even ask you to join. Do you know how embarrassing that was?”

“Oh my-” He laughs out harshly, turning away for a second and then turning back. “I knew that’s what this was about. The team wanted people with over a million, not me-”

“And who owns Fresh Love, Chris? Don’t act like you have no control.”

“I own it, but it’s not just me who runs it. How stupid would I be if I hired a marketing team and didn't fucking listen to them?” His voice raises slightly and he shakes his head, attempting to regain composure.

“Probably as stupid as I looked pulling up to the set and looking for hair and makeup. You should have told me.” With that you slide off of the counter, intending to let the argument die there and go to bed but he follows behind you. 

“How are you mad at me because you assumed you were modeling? I never said that. I invited you to the set like I do every time because You. Are. My. Girlfriend.” He claps to emphasize his points and you spin to glare at him.

 

“I’m not just your girlfriend, Chris. I work hard on my content just like you.” You say defensively. The decision to even begin posting was his idea so you can’t believe how unsupported you feel.

“And I'm so proud of you. You know I am.” He says with sincerity, bringing a hand to his chest. “But you aren’t..." His sentence trails off and he gives you an uncomfortable look.

“What?” You challenge, knowing exactly where this is going. “Say it. Tell me how little I matter since I haven’t hit the right numbers yet.”

He rolls his eyes and looks up at the ceiling. “It’s business. And they asked for people with reach. What did you want me to do?”

“Fight for me, Chris. That’s what I expected you to do.” You turn and head over to your dresser, snatching out your favorite oversized t-shirt and changing quickly.

Chris leans against the door frame with his arms crossed, watching you intensely until you finally face him with a scowl. “Stop following me.”

“I just can’t believe this is how you want to end this night. Why can’t you celebrate this win with me?” He asks, annoyance coating his tone. 

“Go celebrate with Brooke. You two looked comfy today.” You suggest as you pass him to head into the bathroom.

Behind you, he barks out a laugh of disbelief before whispering something under his breath. You don’t even bother asking him to speak up, grabbing your makeup remover instead.

“So what’s that supposed to mean, huh? You're gonna start throwing accusations at me now?” He sounds absolutely over the conversation but won’t walk away to cool off. It’s a flaw you have in common.

“Just saying Addison has twice the followers as her but somehow you put her centerstage. I mean, I thought this was a numbers game.” You say, refusing to look over at him as you lather your face wash.

If you’re being completely honest, it’s not like you actually believe Chris would ever cheat on you. One thing Chris has always been is loyal to a fault. But right now you're itching for a reaction. No matter how you have to get it. 

“You have to be fucking kidding.” He says, reacting exactly like you expected him to. “When the fuck would I be cheating on you?” 

“How am I supposed to know? People make time for what’s important to them.” You say, letting your voice take on a nonchalant tone as you pat your face dry.

“That’s so fucking stupid and you know it. Look, I’m sorry you’re not where you want to be in your career but don’t take it out on me.” He grinds out, his voice thick with distaste.

You spin to face him, your eyebrows high. There it is. At least he finally said it. “Wow, Chris. Tell me how you really feel.”

“Y/N.” He says, rubbing his eyes roughly. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Do you think I could buy a shoutout, Mr. Six Mill? Only if you have time, of course.” You drawl, pressing your hands together into a begging gesture.

“Tell me what you want to hear, baby. Tell me what I need to say to end this conversation.” He says, stepping toward you but you take a step back instead, leaning against the sink. 

“How about an apology? How about recognizing that I worked hard on this launch too and deserved to be a part of it? Anything except this condescending bullshit.”

He drops to his knees dramatically, looking up at you with a faux pleading look on his face. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. Please forgive me.”

You shake your head and curl your lip up in disgust. “Yeah. ‘Cause everything’s a joke, right?”

Chris blows out a huff of irritation and stands up, reaching out to wrap his arms around you and spinning you around to face the mirror. He presses himself into your back and meets your eye in the reflection as he runs his hands up and down your body. “Aren’t you tired of arguing yet?”

Your gaze drops to his hands, watching as he slowly and methodically slides up your oversized t-shirt and rubs teasingly at your inner thighs.

"You know I love you." He whispers, his grip tightening as he trails higher, grazing your heat before dipping his hands back down.

“Do you?” You question childishly, heat flooding your body as his hands travel your skin. He leans in close, the cool breath of his words sending a shiver down your spine. “Let me prove how much.”

Part of you wants to snatch away from him and refuse to reward his arrogance. But there is something so erotic about the way his eyes stay locked on yours as he moves in closer to where you need him most. Without your permission your body melts into his, the muscle memory from every other time he’s made you feel this way activating naturally. 

You turn your head to look at him full-on instead of the reflection, the slight flush on his face from the arguing turning you on even more. “Nah. Prove how much you need me.”

If Chris is at all surprised by your demand, he doesn’t show it. He just walks you closer to the sink and spins you around by the waist to face him. His blue eyes are so coated with lust and frustration they seem almost brown under the harsh bathroom lighting.

He lifts you onto the counter, pausing only for the barest of seconds before crashing his lips against yours. The sudden movement pushes the back of your head into the mirror but you barely feel it over the heat and pressure of his kiss. 

His hand travels under your shirt, his fingertips grazing your nipple with a frustratingly delicate touch that has you groaning into his mouth. You pull away, drawing a shudder out of him when you lightly nip his bottom lip as you do. 

“Stop wasting my time.” You demand, your hands fiddling with the bottom of his shirt in a hint for him to take it off. 

He does with a roll of his eyes before he comes back, placing a firm hand on the back of your neck and bringing you closer. “You can drop the attitude now. You know you want this just as much as I do.”

Pain flashes through you again briefly as you consider the possibility that this is the only thing you two will ever agree on wanting but you push it down and lean in to run a tongue over his collarbone. “Shut up and prove it like you said you would.”

A smirk grows across his face before he nods and kneels down slowly, pushing open your legs and roughly snatching off your thin underwear. Pushing your legs open wider, he buries his face in your inner thighs and peppers lingering kisses on them as he trails closer to your heat.  

When he finally reaches it, it’s clear he’s not done taking his time as he runs his tongue through your folds purposefully avoiding where you want him most. You push at his shoulders in annoyance and he chuckles darkly, only making your wetness grow despite yourself.

The first kiss he places on your clit is slow and shallow before he leans back to find your eyes. “I always forget how fucking pretty you are.” He says as he smooths a thumb over you before diving back in with a new urgency.

There’s reverence in the way his tongue circles your clit, the movements somehow both precise and desperate. Before you even realize what you’re doing, you find yourself grinding your hips up to chase your pleasure, pathetic whimpers falling from your lips.

You don’t need to glance down to feel his eyes on you, baby blue and laser-focused as he peers up to gauge your reaction, alternating expertly between sucking and flicking his tongue. But instead of giving him the reaction he wants, you press your fist into your mouth and work to keep your face a mask. You’re determined to grant him as little praise as possible, leftover anger spurring on your pettiness. 

Smiling against your core at the challenge, he readjusts his hold on you, slinging one of your legs lazily onto his shoulder before locking his arms around your thighs to keep you still. He pulls fully away and you finally snap your eyes to his, a protest on the tip of your tongue.

“I can do this all night and still make sure you never come. Stop playing with me.” His voice is like velvet as he warns you, not even pausing for your response before he buries himself back in. He taps your leg, signaling for you to hold it before he readjusts to add his fingers, swirling them around teasingly before pumping them inside to stretch you out.

All of your pride flies out the window as he fucks into you with his fingers, finding your g spot easily and caressing it. Flinging your head from side to side and calling his name wildly, you feel a familiar pressure building inside of you. “Please, Chris.” You beg as you tangle your hands into his hair.

His pace only increases when he realizes you are close, his moans against your clit sending vibrations through your body and driving you even crazier. You tug his hair lightly as your body tightens and grind your hips against his fingers to ride out your orgasm. 

Chris pauses and removes his fingers slowly before placing one last kiss on your throbbing heat. He comes up with his breathing unsteady and a look of pure triumph on his face as he sucks his fingers into his mouth. 

Your legs are still trembling slightly as you slide off of the counter and pull his face down to yours. This kiss feels different, like coming home, and you can tell he feels the same. He kisses you back like he loves you like the taste of you is air and he’s suffocating. 

It’s been a while since you two were desperate enough to leave marks on each other’s skin but he does tonight. And you let him without a single thought to the effort of covering them up, too focused on his tongue working over the sweet spots of your neck.

You reach down fumbling with his belt impatiently as your breathing goes ragged, and free his hardened length, stroking it slowly.

His lips freeze on your throat as he thrusts into your hand before he yanks away and spins you back around, pressing his palm into your back and kicking your feet apart to give him access.

You feel his tip nudge against your entrance, slipping down further to tease your clit briefly, your only warning before he slides inside of you. A cry tears out of you as he rolls his hips into yours, bottoming out. 

You’re still soaked from your orgasm but as he stretches you out around him, you feel yourself coat him even more and he groans. “My pretty girl. Best fucking feeling in the world.” He pushes your shirt further up your back, his fingertips trailing your spine lightly as he continues to thrust into you.

Squirming with a need for him to go faster, you push your hips up to meet his, forcing him deeper and making you both curse. He takes the hint, wrapping his hand tightly around your shirt for leverage before setting a brutal rough pace.

Your vision starts to blur so you close them as you try to hold on to the counter for stability. With your eyes squeezed tightly closed, it’s almost easy to pretend the tears swelling up are from the intensity of the moment and not from everything that came before. 

Because it’s nothing if not intense, your stomach pressing into the sink as he slams inside of you roughly. His free hand grips the counter so hard his knuckles turn white and he keeps up his insane pace. His name slips from your mouth as a moan, seeming to spur him on as he increases his tempo even more.

“That’s right, baby. What’s my name?” The sound of his voice barely breaks through your fucked out trance and you lift your head to see him through the mirror. 

The sight of him almost pushes you right over the edge immediately and you watch him in a sort of fascination. The way his muscles strain with his movement, his slightly open mouth before he bites down on his bottom lip. But it’s the wink he throws you when he notices you watching that has you contracting around him for the second time tonight.

This orgasm tears through you like a wave and you lose all control as Chris fucks you through it, never missing a stroke. If you had it in you to be embarrassed right now, you would be mortified at the things you say at this moment. Making promises, calling him names you never thought you’d utter, telling him exactly who you belong to.

When you come down, Chris’ pace slows and he pulls you up to face him. He watches you tenderly before he lifts the shirt from over your head and kisses you deeply.

He leads you to your bedroom and lays you down at the center of the bed, climbing on top of you slowly.

He enters you again with a gasp and you bring your mouth up to his to swallow it, his hand traveling up to lightly circle your neck. You moan in contentment and he makes a sound of approval from the back of his throat as he begins to thrust.

His strokes are slow and as deep as he can make them, his hands roaming your body as his tongue explores your mouth. There’s emotion laced in every snap of his hip and you know him well enough to understand every message. I love you. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. 

Pleasure coils around you as his thumb finds your clit and circles it, coaxing you closer to the finish line as he drops his head near your ear. His hips stuttering tell you he’s close and you bring your mouth up to his ear to whisper. “Come for me.” 

He groans loudly in response, fighting not to lose control yet. “You first.”

“I already did!” 

“I don’t care. Give me one more.” 

At his words, he pulls himself up and angles himself deeper, finding your g spot and plowing into it mercilessly. You drag your nails down his back, yours arching up off the bed. “Chris, I can’t.” 

He shushes you softly, his lips claiming yours again as he continues to push into you. Ultimately it’s his muffled moan of “fuck” against your mouth that sends you over the edge, your face screwed up from an erotic mix of ecstasy and exhaustion.

You know you can’t take much more but Chris follows right behind you, dropping his head on your shoulder and moaning your name into it.

You lay there breathing heavily, skin to skin, for a while before you tap his back and he slides out of you. Awkwardness settles between you, so thick you’re not sure what to do with it so you stand wordlessly and head for a shower.

Your thoughts race as you scrub the remnants of him off your skin. The words you threw back and forth play on repeat in your brain as you wonder how to fix what’s between you before it’s too late.

The bathroom door opens and you watch through the streamy glass as Chris settles on the counter. The same counter he had you bent over not long ago. 

You step out of the shower and grab your robe, all the while avoiding his eye contact. This is the part you hate the most. The part that never ends. Because neither of you knows how to force it to end. 

He clears his throat, gesturing for you to come to him when you finally meet his eyes. Once you are standing between his legs, he pushes your wet hair out of your face gently as he studies your face. “You know how much you mean to me, don’t you?”

The nod you give is reluctant and slow. It’s never been a question of if Chris loves you. Just a question of whether he appreciates you. 

But he continues this time, his eyes holding a fierce sort of intensity. “I’d give this all up for us if I had to. My whole platform if it means I can wake up next to you.” 

Your breath hitches at this and you feel the tears threatening to fall so you bury your face in his shoulder, letting him pull your body into his. 

And you hope. Hope that his words are more than just words. Hope that you’re not too young to keep each other from slipping between your fingers.

A/N: thanks so much for reading my loves. don't forget to head over to my girl @luv4kozume's page in exactly one hour for her new matt smut. 🗣️

🏷️/ @sttzee @tillies33ssss @miloisdone1 @sstvrnioloo @junnniiieee07 @sturnioloslurps @mrsmiagreer @asturniolos @teapartyprincess4two @whicked-hazlatwhore @sukiipjs @fratbrochrisgf @sturniolosmind @imfromthediningtable @st4rswrld @thvvluvr @sturnssmuts @littlenerdybee @sturniolossss @iloveneilperry @eclipzw @chrissloverrrrrrr16 @sstvrnioloo @clemlament @maryx2xx @fwskullz

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[hwaslayer]

after hours (jwy) | one shot.

—summary: an invitation to wooyoung’s event leads to the unexpected— a night of revelation that deeply blurs the lines between harmless fun and the thrill of exploring something more.

—pairing: dj!wooyoung x f!reader

—genre: (18+ - minors dni) fwb to lovers | smut, fluff

—word count: 5k

—content/warnings: cussing/mature language, dj wooyo playing his first club event!, songs in wooyoung’s setlist can get pretty explicit so pls proceed with caution, throwing some ass back at the club lol, alcohol consumption and intoxication, hella chemistry between these two, friends with benefits but with lots of feelings lol, oc x woo are in denial tho hehe, lots of teasing and flirting, kisses, making out, praising, marking, pet names (baby, babygirl, love), unprotected sex, oral (f. & m. receiving), hand job, woo gets slightly rough, nipple play, missionary, doggy, sorry if i missed anything!!

—a/n: this piece came super randomly, but i was inspired by needs x tinashe / after hours x kehlani and needed to whip this baby out ASAP. enjoy!!

💿 wooyoung's setlist 💿

“Thank you.” You sweetly smile at the security guard at the door, brushing your way past the hefty line that ran down the block with your bestfriend, Yeosang. The club is already incredibly packed from wall to wall, the music’s vibrations felt at the base of your feet. For a minute, you didn’t actually think you’d make it inside in time. The security guard at the door wasn’t taking your sweet smiles, frowning as you bat your eyelashes in hopes of letting you skip the line simply because you knew the DJ. He definitely didn’t believe you, nor was he trying to give you the time of day. You didn’t let up though, and as if on cue, he received confirmation from the team inside that you and Yeosang were a part of the DJ’s crew.

Thank god.

Because that line was not it.

“It’s so fucking loud in here!” Yeosang yells as he turns back to look at you amidst the crowd chaos.

“We’re almost there!” You squeeze his hand as he platonically holds onto yours, leading you to the front of the crowd and up to the DJ booth.

“Never invite me out again if you just plan on seeing your boyfriend or whatever.” 

“Not my boyfriend.”

“Yeah, whatever. Close enough.” You laugh when you finally approach the steps up to the stage, the security guard letting you slip through with Yeosang right at your hip. Heading up to the stage, you greet your friends Mingi, San and Yunho as they dance around with a few other familiar faces and sip on their drinks. Wooyoung is the main DJ for tonight’s event, and he’s having the time of his life— doing what he loves to do, with the people he loves most around him. The crowd is feeding into his energy as he smoothly transitions into the next song, dancing and singing along before finally breaking contact from his mixer and glancing over at you.

“Woo!”

“Whattup! You made it.” He smiles, bringing you flush against him for a hug and a chaste kiss to the temple. You blush at his attempt to subtly squeeze at your side, biting on his bottom lip before shifting his headphones enough to partially cover his ear. The thing about Wooyoung is that you adore him. You adore him because he’s been one of your good friends for some time now. You adore him because he brings you happiness, because he’s a good time. You adore him because of these unspoken feelings, that unlabeled ‘friends with benefits but everyone knows you two are feeling each other so why hide’ kinda thing. You haven’t done much besides innocently flirt around, make out a few times, dance at events together, engage in a few heated conversations over the phone, full send with the thirst traps. The chemistry is well and alive; you suppose by now you and Wooyoung would’ve figured things out since it was too obvious to your friends already, but the both of you seem to brush it off, still shying away from it— afraid of ruining the dynamic that’s already there with said label. Something that started off so fun, so innocent, ended up digging a little space in your heart, making you feel things you shouldn’t for your ‘lil past-time.

But, Wooyoung would move mountains for you, just so you know. He’s dying to make this different. Different from the others, different from anything he’s ever dealt with. Because you are different, and he’ll show you every chance he gets.

“Aw, look at you supporting Woo at his event.” Yunho pinches your cheek, his own painted with a red tint from the alcohol he’s been downing.

“Of course. He was so excited about it, ever since he started planning it out and everything.”

“You guys make things so complicated for no reason.” Yunho laughs. “Despite the friends with benefits bullshit, you know we can tell you two actually have feelings for each other, right?”

“Wow, I didn’t know I came to the club to be lectured by Jeong Yunho.” You laugh, gently pinching at his arm. “We don’t like each other. That’s all we are.” He rolls his eyes.

“Continue to convince yourself if that’s easiest, Y/N. Just want you two to be happy.” You lick your lips, jolting at the sudden roar that comes from the crowd when Woo transitions into another hype, upbeat song.

“Aye, can we get some shots, please? Gotta take one with Yeo and the pretty ‘lil thing right there.” He signals by making a glass-shape with his hand, tilting it back a few times until the bartender off to the side throws him a thumbs up. He looks at you with a smirk, quickly winking before he’s grabbing the mic and hyping the crowd up some more.

The shots turn into two, three, five maybe, before the world is spinning a little more than usual; off-balance and vision slightly blurry. You’re still coherent, and you’re still able to make sense of your surroundings. But the one thing you do find yourself struggling with is how good Wooyoung looks at the table. You try to brush it off, dancing around with your friends and loudly singing along to the songs that blast through the speakers.

“Having fun?” Wooyoung sets the headphones off to the side and steps back from the table to enjoy some company for a bit.

“Yeah, you’re not so bad after all.” You playfully punch him on the bicep and he laughs.

“You look so good tonight.” He says in your ear, pulling you flush against his body again— hand resting on the small of your back. “Gonna give me a bit of your time?”

“I don’t know, should I?” 

“Tease. All those pictures and you can’t even spare me a minute.” He taps your nose and heads back to the table. It’s a few more minutes of Wooyoung hyping the crowd, San and Mingi both welcoming lapdances from a few cuties they met throughout the night while exploring out on the floor. Before you know it, you’re pulled mid-conversation with Yeo and Yunho— familiar hands resting on your waist. You feel Wooyoung push against you, guiding your hips against him for a dance. You love dancing with Woo because it’s fun, and there’s no pressure or expectation to be a certain way with him.

You live for that shit.

And tonight, you need him a little more than usual. In more ways than usual. Tippy-toeing into dangerous territory that makes you wanna act on your feelings.

You’re having to hold onto the edge of the table as Wooyoung bends you over ever so slightly, letting you work your ass against him to the music. He bites onto his bottom lip as he focuses on you, only you, matching your rhythm to the beat. You change your position, no longer leaning onto the edge of the table; back only inches away from Wooyoung. You lean to the side in order to get a better view of him from over your shoulder as you work your ass in slow, circular motions against him. The both of you let out a few laughs in between, focused on each other as if no one else was around. The grip on your hip tightens when Wooyoung’s free hand glides down your back in an effort to bend you over again. Your hands fall to your knees, picking up your pace to match the new song that comes on. 

Wooyoung matches your energy so well it’s no wonder you never want to dance with anyone else the same way you do with him.

The dancing with Wooyoung continues for a bit more before he’s tapping out, tapping your hips once the song finishes. You stand to put some distance between you two, but he keeps you close; arm wrapped around your waist when you turn to look at him.

“I swear to God, Y/N.” He leans into your ear. “You make everything so difficult for me.”

“Doubt that.” He chuckles.

“Oh, you have no idea.” 

“The DJ is being fake and forgetting his set!” San teases. You blush and push him away, allowing him to get back to his craft in the meantime.

The next two and a half hours go by with a breeze, and you find your energy diminishing as the night continues to go on. You find yourself hugging closer to the wall behind the stage, leaning your head against Yeo’s shoulder— watching as San and Mingi continue to dance around and find a few pretties to get to know. Wooyoung turns over his shoulder a few times, tugging on your hand, flirting with you in a way he knows will get you to fold so quick; buckle at the knees, shyly giggle against him from all the cute ‘lil compliments that slip from his lips.

“Tryna go soon?” Yeosang asks near your ear. “Kinda over it.” He laughs.

“Yeah, I am, too! Let me just say goodbye to everyone.” You head to Yunho first, giving him a bear hug before letting San and Mingi playfully hug you and spin you around. “Hey.” You tug on Wooyoung’s hand, causing him to shift the headphones up so he could hear you.

“You’re leaving?” He frowns a bit.

“Yeah! Time for us to head out.” You smile, but he pouts.

“Where are you going?” He looks down at you, brushing the hair away from your face. “Don’t wanna stick around to grab a bite to eat with everyone after?”

“No, I’m tired. Yeo and I are probably just gonna grab something quick on the road before he drops me off.” He pouts even more.

“Gonna make me miss you.”

“Don’t say stuff like that, Woo.” He continues to pout anyway, hand coming to squeeze your side again in an endearing way.

“Can I text you later, then?”

“If I’m up.”

“I need you to be up. Please?”

“For what, exactly?” You chuckle.

“Your company.” He puckers his lips. “Tryna give me a kiss before you head out?”

“Get out.” You laugh.

“Just fuck and get together already!” Mingi says loudly with a hearty laugh. Woo turns to flip him off before shifting his attention back to you.

“Okay, please?” He repeats. “Promise me you’ll be up?”

“Get back to the crowd. I’ll be up.” You reassure him, gently pushing him towards the table. He nibbles at this bottom lip before heading back to his set. You nod over to Yeosang and start making your way out of the club, holding onto his hand as he leads the way again. Once you get outside, the cold air feels good against your sticky, warm skin. You let out a deep breath, keeping your body close to your bestfriend to keep some kind of warmth. 

“I don’t know why you just don’t tell him.” Yeosang says as he continues to walk alongside you on the way to the car parked on the opposite end of the block.

“I have nothing to tell him.”

“Y/N, please.” Yeosang chuckles. “We know.” You roll your eyes and sigh.

“Why is everyone on my case about him tonight?”

“I don’t know, maybe because you two should just quit the act and get together already?” He snorts. “You should at least try when you guys get some alone time later.”

“Who said we will?”

“I know you, you’ll stay up for him.” Yeosang gives you a look before gently nudging you. “Until then, what do you wanna stop by for?”

“I don’t know, I’m not too hungry. Truthfully, I’d be satisfied with some good ol’ fries and an ice cream cone.” You laugh and Yeo nods while swinging his keys around his finger.

“Got it.” He unlocks the door. “Get in princess, we need to get your fries and ice cream before Woo comes over.” You scold him as you settle into the passenger’s seat, recalling some events from the night as he drives off to the nearest fast food joint for the best fries nearby. 

When Yeosang finally drops you off at home, you’ve completely devoured your fries and ice cream cone, and you find yourself slowly dragging yourself up to your studio. The club had just closed, so you weren’t expecting to hear from Wooyoung for awhile. You let out a satisfied sigh when you slip out of your shoes, kicking them off to the side before tossing your bag and keys onto the table. You make a beeline for the shower, more than ready to wash off the club and get into something comfortable. It’s a quick one, though; a good 10 minutes under the hot water with that coconut body scrub you love so much before stepping out and lathering up with some body cream. You toss on an oversized shirt and crash onto your bed, feeling incredibly happy to be in your own safe space.

You wonder what Wooyoung is doing.

It’s crazy because at this point, it feels like the universe is listening closely to your thoughts— especially when a ding comes through on your phone and puts a big smile on your face.

wooyo: cutiepie

wooyo: are you up 🥺 say yes

you: lol yeah i am.

wooyo: fuck yeah! you kept your promise!

you: excuse, since when did i ever break a promise with you?

wooyo: never, that’s why you’re perfect for me

you: shut up lol

wooyo: lol 😙 can i slide through and hang out for a bit?

you: mhm! what happened to eating out with the boys?

wooyo: bruh san got too fucked up so we all ended up going our separate ways

you: wooooow hahah hope he’s good though?

wooyo: he’ll be fine. did u and yeo actually get some stuff to eat?

you: yeah we did. you should grab something for yourself before heading over

wooyo: nah it’s all good. i don’t care too much for it, just need your company. be there in 15?

you: sounds good! front door’s unlocked

wooyo: hot, she can’t wait either

you: stop while you’re ahead jung wooyoung

wooyo: oop hehe woops 🤭

It wasn’t anything new to have Wooyoung come over, but he usually comes to hang out for an hour or so before he’s leaving to head back to his own place. The good thing about Wooyoung is that even though there’s this deep chemistry, this longing for each other, he never forces anything. Never pressures you.

So, he comes through. He gives you a few kisses and gives you a few laughs from his jokes. He cuddles you for a bit before he’s saying his goodbyes and struggling to get himself out of the door.

It’ll probably be the same tonight, maybe.

It feels different because you loved seeing him in his element, and you loved having fun with him. It also feels different because your friends were all up in your case about him— now, you can’t really get the idea out of your head. That maybe, you do really, really want something with Wooyoung and you’re afraid to admit it. Afraid he might not feel the same even though he’s never done anything to hurt you or show you otherwise.

Maybe, you’ll finally take that leap tonight and just go for it.

Say fuck it.

In the end, at least you could say you tried, right?

Amidst all your overthinking, you surprisingly do fall asleep in those 15-20 minutes. You’re awoken by your front door closing, along with Wooyoung’s loud ass keys dangling from his keychain and hitting his thigh with every step he takes. 

“Did you fall asleep?” He giggles when tosses his belongings onto your desk and plops onto your bed.

“I did fall asleep for a bit.” You yawn and fix your position a bit, Wooyoung laying next to you on his tummy.

“I didn’t even take that long, did I?”

“No, but I can’t be tired?! Damn.” He snorts.

“Sorry, sorry.” He kisses the tip of your nose, his arm draped over you. Hand caressing your side under your shirt. His hand is warm, but it tickles against your skin and raises a few goosebumps at how smooth his touch is. He looks at you for a split second before he leans in to peck you on the lips, smiling into the kiss just as he pulls back. “So, did you have fun?”

“I did. You played a good set tonight, Woo.”

“I did, huh?” You laugh.

“Did you have fun?”

“It was so fucking fun.” He laughs. “I just wished you stayed ‘till the end. Everyone seemed boo’d up and I was just the lonely ass DJ playing for the crowd.”

“Please. I’m sure you still had fun until then.”

“I did, but it wasn’t the same without you.” You give him a tiny, toothless smile, hand brushing through his soft black hair. 

“When’s your next one?”

“Why, huh?” He smirks. “An excuse to dance up on me again?”

“Excuse you, you pulled me for a dance!” You playfully swat him on the shoulder.

“Yeah, and? I’ll do it again at the next one.” He pulls out his phone. “I’m doing something next weekend with a few other DJs. Wanna come?”

“Sure. I don’t think Yeo would go, though. I practically dragged his ass out for this one.”

“Okay.” Wooyoung types something on his phone before tossing it aside, full attention on you again. “Promise me you’ll actually stay until the end. Gimme a chance to show you off, too.”

“Wooyoung.” You giggle. He tickles your sides, causing you to squeal and kick your feet before he lets you breathe. You find Wooyoung staring at you again, and it causes your heart to do major flips.

“You’re so pretty, Y/N. You looked so damn good tonight.”

“You did too, I guess.” You tease and he bites onto his bottom lip, leaning forward for another kiss.

“Tease. Hate it.” He presses his lips against yours, holding it for as long as he can before he pulls back. “Why don’t you wanna kiss me in front of our friends, hm?” He presses another kiss to your lips, edging closer to your body so he could comfortably throw his arm around you.

“Because we aren’t together.” You giggle.

“Shouldn’t we change that?”

“Don’t say shit like that, Wooyoung. I told you.”

“I mean it. Why can’t we be? I don’t necessarily have anything to hide.” Wooyoung kisses at the corner of your lips. “Unless you do?”

“I don’t.”

“So, tell me. Why can’t we be?” He asks again, close to a whisper, lips grazing the surface of yours. You don’t say anything, no. Instead, you feel like your actions could do the talking for tonight. Your actions could tell Wooyoung what you’ve been feeling all this time, your actions could tell Wooyoung how much you’ve been longing for him— longing for something more, longing for something deeper than the surface.

You make the first move and push into his lips, instantly deepening the kiss. Your hands tug at the ends of his hair as the two of you fit in each other’s molds so perfectly; teeth clashing against each other in a fit of desperate need, tongues fighting for dominance. Hoping the answer would be evident in the way you move so well with him.  “Fuck, baby.” Wooyoung breathily responds as you bite onto his bottom lip. He moves down to your neck and licks across the surface, gently nipping and sucking faint marks down the column. You feel Wooyoung’s hand squeeze at your hip before he pauses at the material of your panties, threatening to slip them down and toss them off. Everything suddenly feels so heated, too intense, too quick— you’re afraid there isn’t a way to come back from this anymore. “Y/N, if you tell me to stop right now, I’ll stop.” He feels your hesitancy, almost hears you thinking outloud. “Whatever you wanna do.”

“N-no. Keep going.”

“You sure? Cause if I keep going, I won’t be able to stop, you know that, right?” He gently nips at your chin while teasing the edge of your panties. “Been wanting this for so long, I won’t be able to help myself.”

“I want this too.”

“Yeah?” He smirks while finally pulling your panties down and tossing them onto the floor. “Gonna let me finally take care of you?” He kisses you once more before shifting his position to be in between your thighs, hands gripping at ‘em while he presses light kisses in your inner thighs. He smirks to himself and bites onto his bottom lip when he sees you bare underneath the shirt, causing the heat to rise to your cheeks.

“Woo.” You shyly throw an arm over your face.

“Don’t do that.” He chuckles and gently tugs on your elbow. “You’re so fucking beautiful, shit feels too fucking good to be true right now.” In a blink of an eye, Wooyoung presses a light kiss against your pussy— sending tingles straight down your spine. He indulges in how reactive you are, gently easing himself back down onto your heat to give you what you deserve. You let out a breathy moan when Wooyoung latches back on and continues his work on you; tongue working up and down, licking in between your folds. The pleasure makes your back arch in response, another moan slipping from your lips and sounding like music to Wooyoung’s ears. 

“Oh my god.” You let out with a silent moan. You whimper when Wooyoung slips in two digits, pumping into you at a quick pace while his mouth continues to lap at your clit, sucking in between to taste every single drop of you. When he pulls out, you take the opportunity to grind against his mouth; aching to feel the friction you so desperately need, want, from him. “Oh fuck, Woo.” Your moan is a little louder this time, causing him to groan against you as a way to egg you on towards the finish line. “Just like that, please. I’m gonna—” You whine, repeatedly cursing to yourself until you feel that coil within you suddenly snap and throw you off guard. Your moans bounce off the walls and Wooyoung is sure the couple upstairs can hear it loud and clear.

Oh well.

“Did so well for me, pretty girl.” He kisses your inner thigh, leading a trail up to your knee. He sits back onto his knees and removes his shirt, the tent in his sweats making you drool the more you fixate on it.

“Woo.” You look at him with a tiny pout. “Can I?” You sit up in order to reach him and palm hin gently.

“Mm, baby.” He lets out a small moan. “You don’t have to, I just—”

“Please?” You beg with those eyes and Wooyoung can’t help buckle at the knees. You’re already helping him out his sweats, and he feels the urge, the desire, to find out how your pretty lips feel wrapped around his dick. 

The image alone drives him to insanity, and he can’t wait to see you sucking him off like the good girl you are. 

He swallows the lump in his throat when he watches you pump him slowly, taking your lips to his tip. He hisses when you lick away at the pre-cum pooling at the top of the head before lowering your mouth down his length. 

And, fuck.

Wooyoung feels like he’ll lose himself right at this moment. He tilts his head back in pleasure, letting out a small, guttural moan when you work your mouth [and hands] on him. He gently tugs at your hair, pushing you a little further down his length just to test the waters. But, you take him anyway, and Wooyoung wants to fucking combust. You look so, so pretty with your lips around him, and it doesn’t help his cause when he feels his dick hit the back of your throat; pushing him to the highest of highs, purest ecstasy. 

“Fuck—fuck.” He groans. “Baby, wait. You’ll make me cum.” He lets out a breath, eyes focusing on you. He pulls you back just a bit, caressing your cheek when he sees a faint tear streak coating the surface. “I need to be in you. Now.” You bite onto your bottom lip and settle back onto your back as Wooyoung slots himself back in between your legs. He takes your shirt off at the same time, tongue licking a stripe up your cleavage before leaving wet kisses along the swell of your breasts. He quickly pops a nipple into his mouth, tongue swirling around the puffy bud before repeating the motions with the other. 

“Shit.” You hiss. “Wooyoung, please.”

“Please, what?” He teases. He has that shit-eating smirk on his face as he sits back and watches you squirm, pumping himself slowly while he waits for you to respond. “Hm, sweet girl?”

“Need you.”

“Where? Care to tell me again?”

“I swear to God if you aren’t fucking me in the next 2 minutes—” He laughs as he lowers himself back down, just enough to hover over your body and plant a feathery kiss on your lips.

“Say please.” He smiles. “Besides, do you have a condom? I swear I haven’t been messy or anything, you know this. But I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable.”

“I’m on the pill, so please.”

“You sure?” You nod, hands resting on his shoulders. He does a subtle nod before he lines himself up at your entrance and eases in— the both of you letting out gasps while adjusting to the feeling. It already feels too good with the way he fills you up and makes you feel full. For Wooyoung, it’s the way your walls wrap around him so nicely that makes him truly believe you were made just for him.

Only him.

Once he bottoms out, he sits in the position for a second before he slowly rocks against you. Wooyoung begins to pick up the pace when he feels a little more comfortable, pressing kisses on every inch of your skin that he possibly can while whispering sweet nothings against the surface. He praises you so, so well, it has you whimpering a mess underneath him— only wanting more of Wooyoung, only wanting to feel every bit of his soul intertwined with yours at this very moment.

Only him.

“God, you feel so good Y/N.” He lets out a breathy moan into your mouth. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you. Everything about you is so perfect.” He moans. “So pretty and so perfect.” He picks up his pace, hips working a little sloppier, a little harder. “Just for me.” He sits back and rests his hand on your hips, pounding into you in such a majestic way, it almost has you seeing stars right then and there. You continue to praise him, letting him know how good he’s making you feel, and how you need him just like this. 

Only him.

“Switch for me.” He removes himself quickly and directs you to your fours. He wastes no time slipping himself back into you, the new position and angle enough to make you two crave more and more of each other. Once he buries himself to the hilt, he keeps a steady pace as his hands explore every curve of your body, pressing kisses against the base of your neck;

Shoulders.

Back.

Tracing your spine.

“Feels too good.” You mewl, Wooyoung’s name slipping from your lips repeatedly like a song, a mantra. He continues to pound into your from behind— ass cheeks sore and red from the impact, from Wooyoung’s hands. 

“Wanna make you mine.” He moans in your ear as he thrusts a ‘lil harder, a ‘lil rougher than the last. “Can I, babygirl?”

“Y-Yes.” Your response is almost broken by a cry that’s released, an immediate reaction to how hard Wooyoung is fucking into you.

“Say it louder. Can’t hear you. Can I make you mine, baby?” He repeats, thrusting even harder than the last. His hand glides down your back as you fall onto your chest with your cheek deep into the pillow; ass up and pressed against him so beautifully every time he fucks into you. 

“Yes, fuck!” You let out, hand coming down to rub at your sensitive nub to push you over the edge one last time for tonight.

“Oh shit, gonna cum—” Woooyoung pants. “Where do you want me?”

“Inside.”

“So fucking hot—” He groans while sloppily working his hips until the very end. You feel him fill you up, coating your walls so deliciously it’s enough to push you to your own high. Wooyoung hisses and grunts a few times when he feels you squeeze him, feeling a bit sensitive from his own release. 

“God.” You try to regulate your breathing when you come back down from cloud nine, body falling limp against the mattress with Wooyoung plopping next to you.

“Come here, pretty.” He chuckles, swooping you onto his chest with his hand coming up to stroke your hair and massage your scalp. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

“Okay. But, first. Can you stay tonight?” You look up at him and he smiles brightly.

“Why would I leave my baby’s side?” He kisses your forehead. “Let’s go. If you’re good, I’ll let you take me in the shower.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“The real after hours after party.” Wooyoung wiggles his eyebrows as he watches you climb over and start making your way to the bathroom.

“You’re so sick for that.” You laugh, squealing as he smacks your ass and follows you into the bathroom, getting his way with you once more under the steaming hot water.

💿 taglist: @asjkdk @bintificreads @interweab @svintsandghosts

#wooyoung x reader #jung wooyoung x reader #ateez x reader #ateez scenarios #wooyoung fanfic #jung wooyoung imagines #wooyoung imagines #jung wooyoung #wooyoung #ateez #ateez imagines #ateez smut #ateez fluff #wooyoung smut #wooyoung fluff #jung wooyoung smut #jung wooyoung fluff #kpop imagines #hwaslayer: after hours

[ki-yomii]

hit the gym | jjk

➥ pairing | jeon jungkook x f!reader

➥ word count | 1.5k

➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; hair pulling, mild dirty talk, established relationship, oral (m receiving), mild body worship?, teasing, hints of exhibitionism/voyeurism

➥ summary | stopping now would ruin all the fun.

➥ notes | yes it's true, i would give jungkook the sloppiest of toppies ✌️also greysweat pants iykyk. a random short one, hope you enjoy 🩶

🩶 masterlist | inbox | AO3 🩶

“Baby.”

Jungkook’s never looked so undone; his eyes hooded and hungry, his mouth raw and red-bitten. Wants so, so badly he’s practically vibrating with it.

And yet, he’s still holding back.

The sound of his knuckles popping as his hands clench into fists beside his hips echoes through the otherwise empty gym. It’s almost kind of precious how much he’s struggling against the urge to throw you back against the wall.

To take, take, take until you’re nothing but a trembling, soaked, thoroughly fucked mess.

You hum in response, digging your nails into the nape of his neck to feel the little shiver that zips down his spine. "What's got you so worried, huh?"

The fact he still has the restraint to resist railing you right then and there - even though he clearly wants to - is so intensely hot you almost choke on your own spit. When his eyes cut to yours, you almost moan at how intensely he stares.

“I just,” he trails off, hands flexing as he catalogs the darkened wall of windows, the entryway, the open space, "I don't think this is a good idea."

Right now, you're the only two in the gym.

While that could change, it's edging closer to midnight.

After several months of joining Jungkook for his exercises, you've found most people aren't as eager to hit the machines at all hours of the day like he is.

The likelihood of getting caught is significantly low which works perfectly for you because it's a high payoff with half the associated risk.

You pretend to think, "Mm, no. I think it's a great idea." Palms dancing over his tense shoulders, you tease your fingers along the loose neck of his t-shirt. "Don't you?"

Jungkook bites off a curse, his body rolling up into your touch. He works his jaw as his teeth tug on his lip piercings. You know he's just itching to drag you into a darkened corner.

"I-I... really, baby, can't we just - y'know? Why does it have to be here?"

No amount of half-hearted protests hides how hard Jungkook is. Deciding to wear grey sweatpants today works against him, the soft cotton slung low on his hips and clinging to the thick line of his fat cock.

You raise a brow, glancing down at where he's digging into your hip, "You were saying, Kook?"

A perverse spark of pleasure lights up your spine at the way his eyes slide away from yours, his throat bobbing when he swallows and shies away.

"Sh-shut up..."

Serves the tease right.

You've had to watch him work out, disheveled and sweat-slick for hours. Hear him grunt and whine from the strain of lifting heavy weights. It's only fair he gets a taste of his own medicine.

Anyway, the thought of being so exposed (without actually getting caught) is kind of exhilarating. Gets your blood pumping and arousal pulsing through your body. A pool of liquid heat blooming low in your belly.

After watching him struggle a little longer between what he wants, and what he thinks he should do, you make his decision for him.

Only as soon as your hand slips past the elastic waistband, your breath stutters in your chest. Where you expect to feel soft cotton, there are miles of smooth skin. With wide eyes, you trace along a hipbone before sliding the tips of your fingers down to brush through a trimmed thatch of pubic hair, stopping once you feel the silken base of his cock.

Jungkook's eyes flutter shut, a full body jolt rocking him into you as his mouth drops open in a guttural moan. Tendrils of arousal coil between your thighs, your pussy throbbing when your fingers close around his bare shaft and he throbs against your warm palm.

If you’d have known he decided to go commando, you’d have been on your knees within the first ten minutes.

Chewing on your lip, you give him a few slow pumps, tightening your grip on the upstroke. The heavy weight of his shaft glides through the circle of your fist with ease.

Your thighs clench.

“What were you saying again, Kook? Cause it looks to me like you worry too much.”

He hisses through his teeth, burrowing his face into his shoulder. The tips of his ears burn bright pink, a creeping blush sinking deep into the apples of his cheeks.

Without waiting for a response, you tug his sweats down as you sink to your knees. His flushed cock springs out, curving up towards his belly with a wet smack.

“Haah - don’t!”

You laugh - a breathless, eager sound - as your hands pet his tense thighs, watching as fat drops of pre-cum ooze down the swollen head, sticky strings clinging to dusky skin.

Fuck, you can't wait to get your tongue on him; to feel the weight of him in your mouth, the tang of his skin, and the taste of his cum as he fucks into the circle of your lips.

To hear the absolutely delicious groans of masculine pleasure that shoot straight to your clit.

“How can you say that when you’re so wet and ready for me?”

“That’s cheating,” Jungkook groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. He peeks down at you through the gaps in his fingers, gulping at how pretty you look on your knees with his cock in your hand. “Fuck, you’re gonna kill me.”

You hum, eyes sparking mischief as you dip down to brush a kiss along the strap of muscle above his hipbone. The smell of his bodywash surrounds you, tickling your nose. “Yeah, but you love it, don’t you?”

The sight of him looming over you, his hair a tussled mess and a starved glint to his coffee-dark eyes, is a visceral sucker punch that has your heart stuttering and your mouth watering. Wanting to sink your teeth in.

“You know I do,” he mumbles.

Brought to the very edge of control, left teetering; you wonder how much further you have to push until he breaks.

A blooming warmth hooks into your belly, spreads down to settle between your thighs. The crotch of your shorts is soaked through, every shift of fabric dragging along your sensitive folds. A whisper of friction that drives you insane.

“Mm, now are you ready, baby?”

Taking his silence for the acquiescence it is, you dip down and run your tongue along the thick vein on the underside of his shaft. His cock bobs, a fresh bead of pre-cum welling to the surface.

Watching him from beneath your lashes with a coy smirk tugging at the corners of your mouth, you clean him up with a kittenish lick. Following the trails of salty arousal with your tongue.

Jungkook grunts - choked-off, wounded sound that punches its way out his chest.

You hum, and slide your hands up over his thighs. Stopping when palms rest against his abs, your nails dig in, drag down. The muscles clench, red welts developing in the wake of your touch.

Satisfaction warms your blood, Jungkook’s next breath is a low hiss as he stutters, rocks forward before catching himself with a murmured curse, “S-Shit…”

His fist pounds against the wall - once, twice, three times. His jaw works fast as he scrambles to regain his slipping control. You know what buttons to push and with every careful caress, every calculated hint of rough, his body sparks to life.

He’s almost there, you can see it; all his savage edges creeping in, pressing against his skin. You can’t wait. It’s always so explosive between the two of you when he gives in, allows himself to truly whet his appetite.

He tangles his hand in your hair, digging a thumb into your bottom lip to watch as your mouth stretches around him. “You have no idea what you do to me, do you?”

The grit of his voice, dark and full of hunger cuts through you. You moan around a mouthful of him, eyes fluttering shut as your veins fill with liquid fire. Your thighs rub together for relief from the ache in your pussy.

It’s so difficult to tease him because more often than not, you want nothing more than to pull off and hop on. To let him ride you hard. Put you away wet and thoroughly used. 

But you can’t, not yet.

Stopping now will spoil all the fun.

Trying to distract yourself, you suckle on the head, roll your lips, and flick your tongue over the spongy flesh. When you dip into the slit, he whines, “Ohh..my god, oh ffuuh..ck yes.”

Those broad shoulders hunch forward over your head like he took a kick to the chest, a full-bodied shiver wracking his frame. He yanks on your hair and you clench in response, the little tremors in his thighs stroking your ego as you pop him out of your mouth.

“Mm, I think I do,” you purr, rubbing your tender, spit-slick lips along the shaft. “Now let me show you what you do to me.”

#jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook x you #jungkook smut #jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fic #bts fic #bts fanfic

[feelinmatcha]

❛ 𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐎𝐊𝐀𝐘, 𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 ❜

description: your boyfriend tends to remind you that you're so easy to love. characters: alhaitham + scaramouche (wanderer) a/n: had this idea brewing in my drafts and decided to finish it off ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

"no, i'm not buying a book from a genre i don't even like."

that's okay, alhaitham will.

actually, the idea of giving you your own bookshelf would already be on his mind as soon as you've successfully moved in with him and kaveh. the only catch? kaveh insists that he builds it himself as a gift.

alhaitham subtly asks you of your favorite wood one evening in the kitchen over a heavy discussion of zaytun peaches that kaveh was supposed to buy earlier that morning. trust me, he already knows which wood you'd absolutely adore, but he took the precaution of asking once again just in case as he'd be quite perturbed that his plan didn't work out in the end like he intended. he wanted it to cater to you, not anyone else.

the topic drifted from zaytun peaches to the week's trending romance novel that you had finished reading a few days ago.

"haitham, you should put this on your to-be-read list!"

"really? what's the appeal, love?"

listen guys and girls, he wants to know why you'd recommend it to him!!!

give him every little detail on why!! you want him!!! out of all people!! to read it!!!

he really just wants to hear you talk about what you find interesting.

contrary to popular belief, he doesn't hate the romance genre. he just finds it... meaningless to read? the last time he gave it a try, there was no actual knowledge in it. just fictional love between fictional characters.

but of course, he would consider it if you were to suggest something. especially if the book has you running laps around the bedroom.

so he sets out on to the nearest bookstore when he's on his 'break' and purchases the same copy you had.

you're DISCOMBOBULATED. BAFFLED.

that night you two would be in bed, settling down for the night, and he whips it out-- his fingers spreads the pages near the ending of the book and he begins reading.

"babe... why are you reading my book?"

"no, it's my book. i bought my own so you wouldn't complain about me creasing the spine."

"but why'd you buy one?"

he side-eyes you, "you suggested the book."

"but i didn't think you'd actually... you didn't have to. i know you aren't fond of--"

"i'm fond of you, and that's enough."

"no, i don't want you starting a commotion here in public."

that's okay, scaramouche will.

he loves you with his entire heart, body, and soul.

if someone stares at you weirdly? they're already being glared down by him. if a salesperson says anything about your attire, your hair (or the absense of it), or your skin-- he's throwing himself across the stall and grabbing their shirt to bring them closer to you.

he makes them apologize.

a woman, a man, an elder, a kid-- doesn't matter. as long as they got a mouth that can yap, he's gonna shut it.

your friends would let what people say to you slide, but he won't.

it's bad enough that he feels as if he doesn't deserve you so when you start thinking of yourself as someone whose less than even the dirt and cement beneath your feet, he's angry at everyone else for letting it get this far.

"what are you talking about? they insulted you and you stood there and took it!"

you don't want to feel like a burden, like someone whose always in need of being protected.

"i'm not your friend, i'm your partner," he grits. "it's what i'm supposed to do, you idiot."

really, it's just the ideal of protecting you that's instilled within his puppet body.

poor baby does not know an ounce of romance yet he said that line so effortlessly and in a way that had you choking on your next words.

as you cling to his bicep on the dirt road, you thank him. profusely. he finds it a bit annoying.

"you need to get better friends." is all he says.

he knew what loyalty was. he practically would get on his knees for it, too. he constantly looked for that in a partner, and you had answered.

he knew loyalty was needed in friendships, as well as relationships. especially relationships.

so it unsettled him when he heard that your so-called friends brushed off the verbal assaults directed to you and had the audacity to then say: "just smile and don't let it get to you"

it wouldn't be the first he's done this and it certainly won't be the last, and that's okay.

he wants to enjoy the smiles, laughs, and jokes you end up sharing with him all in an attempt to calm him down but he's already been calm. he's always found himself significantly calm around you, whether he admits it or not.

"come on, let's go home."

© 2024 feelinmatcha

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #alhaitham x reader #alhaitham #scaramouche x reader #wanderer x reader #reader angst #reader comfort #reader soft #reader insert #genshin imagines #alhaitham x you #scaramouche x you #wanderer x you

[inuyashaluver]

saviour - alessia russo

alessia russo x reader

description: in which your girlfriend forgets everything, good thing you’re at home due to injury and being able to read her mind

warnings: swearing, nothing much i don’t think

⋆ ★ ⋆ ★ ⋆ ★ ⋆ ★ ⋆

you and your girlfriend, alessia, had the power of reading each other’s mind. it was an unspoken, mutual understanding between one another, you just knew what they needed. just through a simple glance, you both had the ability to decipher the needs of your girlfriend, something you both got teased about relentlessly.

—

one day, you and alessia had just finished training drills, about to complete a mini game to wrap up practice. you were talking to beth about an upcoming england camp that she was finally able to come back to after her acl injury. you were a little breathless while talking to the girl, in desperate need for some water but you didn’t want to leave your conversation.

suddenly, beth stops her words at seeing a certain blonde approaching from behind you, smirking and claiming viv had called out to her. you watch her departing figure confused, until you feel a familiar, warm hand gently placed on your hip.

you can’t help but let out a little smile, turning to face your beautiful girlfriend who was looking at you with affectionate eyes. “oh, hello” you smile up at her, the girl returning your grin before directing a water bottle to your mouth. “hello, my love, drink up” she holds the water bottle for you, giving it a gentle squeeze, you hold her arms in place as you drink from the bottle, giving her a light tap on her wrist when you were done.

you grin at her appreciatively, “thank you, lessi baby” you pucker up your lips at her and she happily closes the gap, giving you a short, quick kiss before pulling away to face you again. “of course, baby, gotta look after my girl” she shrugs cockily, you giggle and give her a quick kiss on the cheek. you look at her hand holding the water bottle you drank from, ‘alessia’ in big, black writing prompting butterflies to swarm in your stomach.

a pink tint settles on your cheeks and alessia raises her eyebrows at you, she moves her free hand from your waist to rest on the curve of your jaw, “aw, my baby is shy” alessia teases, tone laced with adoration as she maintains sweet eye contact with you. “that’s your water bottle” you stated with a bright smile, “couldn’t find yours” alessia shrugs and this time you raise your eyebrows at her, your water bottle was always next to hers, she just wanted you to drink from hers.

“right” you remark unconvinced, the girl in front of you just grabs the water bottle and squeezes some water in her mouth, sending you a wink before bumping her hip with yours and running off to put her bottle back, leaving you completely flustered.

suddenly, beth returns, throwing an arm over your shoulder, you already knew you were about to be mocked for your pink cheeks. “the girl does practically nothing and you’re a puddle on the floor” beth laughs, viv joins her teasing, appearing out of nowhere on your other side.

“no, beth, i think it’s cute” viv teases, you shake them both off and run away, trying to get away from them and their teasing, until you bump into your girlfriend, she catches you instantly. “all right?” alessia laughs at your dazed face, you just nod and wave her off, running off to your national captain, leah for comfort but you ended up getting teased even worse.

everyone knew that it was always you and alessia, people honestly unable to pinpoint when the two of you started dating because your friendship was always heavily blurred at the lines of a romantic relationship. to put it simply, you and alessia just knew each other too well.

—

when you and alessia were separated, you both had to admit that it was extremely hard. you’d always been at arsenal, being in a long distance with alessia while she was at united was torture for both of you, now that she’s a gunner, being separated was just gruesome, not willing to put distance between the two of you again.

so when you pull your hamstring in a game, alessia was heartbroken, she couldn’t spend a big chunk of her day with the love of her life for over a week and a half. alessia is known to be clumsy, something that you loved to tease her about whenever you could. not only was she physically clumsy, this girl would forget to put on her socks if you didn’t remind her. alessia had a slight dependency on you to remember what she needed for the day, so you not being there to give her the friendly reminders proved difficult for alessia.

every night when alessia would pack her kit bag, she always made sure to do it in front of you. she would trail off in thought as she pondered what to pack, but you would happily chime in and remind her of what she needed. she would just stare at the bag and you would remind her of something like, “a change of clothes for after?” alessia would make noises of understanding, giving you a little kiss after each reminder (maybe this is why you both loved it so much) “oh you’re so right” alessia sighs, leaning down to kiss your lips sweetly before walking over to the wardrobe, grabbing a change of clothes, holding them up for your approval, you cheekily nod at her.

—

due to your small hamstring injury, you were out for a week and a half, meaning that you would be out of training for a short amount of time. instead, you would come along to training for a separate session after a quick physio session, staying with laura and leah for their rehab sessions. due to your sessions being at different times, you would carpool with leah to training or you would just drive yourself, your injury thankfully on your non-driving leg.

this whole driving situation was something alessia would complain about every morning.

“don’t give me that look, alessia, go to training” you say sternly, alessia sends you a little scowl, rolling her eyes at the use of her first name. “don’t call me alessia” she crosses her arms in front of her, standing in front of the closed door. “sorry, lessi baby, you’re gonna be late, go on” you coo, your hands wrapping hers around her car keys and giving her an encouraging smile but she wouldn’t budge.

“i’ll see you soon, lessi” you peck your girlfriend’s lips quickly and try to part from her but her grip around your wrist restricts you from any movement. “kiss me” she whines, pulling you closer to her gently. you shake your head at her amusingly, kissing her quickly on her lips but she immediately places her hand on the back of your neck to keep you to her. she swipes her tongue on your bottom lip and you can’t resist her even if you tried. she slips her tongue in your mouth and kisses you deeply, you sigh into her mouth when she gently grazes her nails on the skin on your neck.

you feel her grin into you, kissing you for a little longer before pulling away with a smug grin. “see? that’s all you had to do” she pecks your lips one more time before opening the door, “bye, baby” she mumbles on your lips, throwing you a wink before closing the door behind her. you smile at the back of the door, she was really something else, you thought. you look down and that’s when you see it, her kit bag, along with the smoothie you’d made her. you let out a little laugh, looking in the driveway to see she’d already pulled away.

you quickly get dressed and grab her stuff before hobbling over to your car. you’ll be at training a lot earlier than you need to be but you can just ogle over her from the sidelines.

by the time alessia had arrived at training, she went all the way to her locker, realising that she’d forgotten her stuff at home. she lets out a frustrated groan, “russo already needs her missus, what did you forget this time?” katie teases in the corner, gaining a little slap on the shoulder from caitlin warningly.

alessia sighs, unable to mutter up the strength to argue back because she felt so stupid for forgetting her stuff. training was in 10 minutes, home was 25 minutes away, she couldn’t go back. she pops down on the bench, a pout evident on her face as she whips out her phone to call you, feeling incredibly guilty she had to call her injured girlfriend to rescue her.

when she unlocks her phone, she hears your giggle coming from the hallway, one she knew better than anyone. she whips her head up, and that’s when she sees your bright grin, slightly limping into the room, alessia’s bag and her forgotten smoothie in each hand. she sends you a sheepish smile, shaking her head in embarrassment as you teasingly wave her items in your hand.

“long time no see, stranger, here you are, my love, delivery” you tease, handing her the items with a shit eating grin. “i’m so sorry” she quickly places the items down, pulling you to sit sidewards on her lap. you kiss her cheek reassuringly, “don’t be sorry, lovey, i’ll just watch you train for a bit before physio” you grab her hand and squeeze it reassuringly.

“god, i love you” alessia breathes out, thumping her head on your shoulder with a tired expression. “i love you too, beautiful, now go get changed” you squeeze her hand again and she removes her head from your shoulder. she makes eye contact with you and her cheeks go slightly pink, she smiles before puckering up her lips for a kiss which you happily give her, leaning in to place one on her lips.

you get up from her lap, shoving the kit bag in her hand and encouraging her to get changed. she smirks when you whistle as she takes off her hoodie, replacing it with her training shirt. “cheeky” she grins, giggling at your lovesick expression as you sat next to her.

training goes well, and your own session goes well, you end up going home before alessia, as she has media duties to attend to.

you make dinner for the both of you, completed when she walked through the door. “how did you know i wanted this for dinner?” alessia gasps excitedly, wrapping her arms around your waist and attacking your cheek with kisses as she squeezes you tightly. “girlfriend intuition” you smirk, leaning your head back to make eye contact with her. “hello” you smile brightly at her, she returns the gesture, kissing the tip of your nose. “hi” she replies softly, her pupils completely dilated as she looked at you.

—

that night, she was on the verge of sleep, promising you that she would pack her kit bag in the morning, begging you to come to bed because she was absolutely exhausted and honestly in a food coma. you hesitate but agree, feeling tired yourself, you both drift to sleep easily that night, tangled up in the bedsheets together as you both drifted to sleep.

the next morning, she’d woken up a little late, quickly rushing to get ready as quick as she could. she kisses your tired form on the bed goodbye, rushing out the door without another second wasted. you wake up five minutes later to see she’d forgotten her boots, as well as her morning smoothie that you’d pre made for her. you genuinely couldn’t help but laugh, your girlfriend still as clumsy as ever.

you quickly get ready for your own training, deciding to watch her again before your own session. you grab her stuff, as well as an extra snack as they had a longer session today, knowing that she’d want something for later. when alessia arrived at her locker, she quickly changes her clothes, training was in 5 minutes, she sits down on the bench ready to change her shoes, only to realise, she’d left her boots at home, as well as her beloved smoothie her girlfriend had carefully crafted for her, just the way she liked it.

“oh for fucks sake” alessia groans, throwing her head back in frustration. katie next to her opens her mouth to say something but alessia holds her hand out to her with a scowl. “not a word” alessia grumbles and katie surprisingly doesn’t argue back. alessia leans forward and puts her head in her hands, she was going to have to just do training in her runners, something she’d definitely get in trouble for.

she’s about to get up when she feels a warm hand on her thigh, a light squeeze following the contact. she snaps her head up, seeing your pretty face smiling at her worriedly. “are you okay, lovey?” you whisper, rubbing your hand up and down her thigh in attempts to calm her, completely working as you felt your girlfriend melt into your touch. she looks at you dazed, looking as though she was on the verge of tears at seeing you.

“baby” alessia whimpers, pulling you into a tight hug and tucking her face into the crook of your neck. you coo, rubbing comforting circles on her back. “it’s okay,” you reassure, kissing the side of her head gently, you pull away, handing her the boots, her smoothie and her snack.

she could’ve broken down right there, you knew her too well. “you’re literally my saviour, thank you so much, my love” she says earnestly, you just nod and peck her lips gently, ushering her to change and get onto the pitch. it was your last day of rehab, finally getting clearance to return to regular training, alessia was so excited.

now that you were back normally, alessia hardly ever forgot anything again..well, she would pretend to forget something at home just to coax kisses out of you, and you knew that, but none of you were complaining.

⋆ ★ ⋆ ★ ⋆ ★ ⋆ ★ ⋆

you know the drill - pretend it’s you!! ily viccy bby

liked by leahwilliamsonn and 44,233 others

alessiarusso99: my baby is back, missed you so much

view all comments

yourname: my clumsy cutie, i missed you more!

↳ alessiarusso99: stop it, i’m not clumsy

↳ yourname: sorry, baby, but you are and it’s so cute

↳ alessiarusso99: i’m not!!

↳ ellatoone: alessia, be so fucking for real right now

↳ alessiarusso99: fuck off, tooney wooney

↳ yourname: it’s true, lessi baby

↳ alessiarusso99: time out

katie_mccabe11: thank fuck she’s back, you’d forget your head if she wasn’t there

↳ alessiarusso99: no comment for that

#woso #woso community #woso fanfics #woso one shot #woso x reader #woso imagine #alessia russo #alessia russo x reader

[evilminji]

You know how in Naruto, Sealing is a Finicky Art?

It's like computer coding, calligraphy, and symbolism had a super-powered/reality bending baby. You gotta think in VERY ADHD twirls and swirls too be any good at it. Which is why the Uzumaki rocked it so hard. But I digress.

Is Complexe AF.

Bends Reality and is EASY to fuck up.

Wanna bet? The BEST way to learn/use it? Is to copy already functioning examples? But Oh! How do you KNOW they are functioning? Safe? Well OBVIOUSLY, your Skilled At Seals teacher looks at it first! THEN gives it too you!

Using random seals you find in the dirt is how you get splattered across three different countryside in peices, after all. Possibly take out a nearly Town or two while your at it. No One Is THAT Dumb... RIGHT?

Enter Stage Right o/~☆ Humanity, Everybody! *polite, if strained, golf clapping*

They ABSOLUTELY Are!

Especially Ninja!

Ninja who, after fuckin MURDERING A WHOLE ASS VILLAGE OF SEALING MASTERS, decided to pick through the rubble! Because THAT is gonna work out GREAT! After all... it's not like you just KILLED the fuckers who could tell you what IS and IS NOT functional!

Was that once the "hazardous advanced class' sealing failures" bin? Or was it the "super awesome candy and rainbows" stash!? You don't know. NO ONE DOES NOW. You fuckin KILLED THE PEOPLE WHO DID.

They had their own REGIONAL Sealing Script.

You know, the one they taught to THEIR STUDENTS. Not outsiders. The students you KILLED, you absolute fuck nuggets. But hey! The threat of the Super Scary Sealing Masters is no more! Good job. You've successfully burned down the library. It can't hurt you ever again.

But NOW? You have piles upon piles of GIBBERISH.

You can only VAGUELY tell the novice seals from the master's. And even then? Do you have any idea what most of them DO? Nope. And after a certain point in training? The shaky, uncertain hand writing becomes smooth enough, that it all blends together in "Seals".

Now... what is the SMART thing to do?

Curse your hubris and the atrocities your fear allowed you to commit, obviously. But BEYOND that, Don't Touch Them. But we're Ninja. So WE are all suicidal idiots. The less smart but still Reasonably Precautionary thing to do? Study the amateur Seals. Learn Sealing from other masters.

Crack the Regional Script and slowly, painstakingly, work through each seal as we sort out what is and isn't safe. What can be salvaged. What can be used and how.

A process that will likely take years if not decades.

But of course, that's not GOOD ENOUGH for certain grabby handed, power hungry, short sighted, fuck weasels! No, no. It much EASIER to just throw human life into the blender until profit pops out! Completely IGNORING, of course, that SOME of these?

Could very well be the "Too Dangerous To Ever Use/Will Destroy Us All/Take Them All With Us" type of Seals that Kage usually LOCK UP. The kind you CAN'T destroy once you've made them, because the fall out would be WORSE. And?

Even if you are a murderous, middle management, go nowhere in your life, BASTARD of a ninja? Sometimes you can look down at the massive, intricately detailed, killer off nation's before you. Something that was WRAPPED in locks upon locks upon chains upon seals. And KNOW in your selfish, survival at all costs little heart... You DO NOT want anyone to fuck with this.

You CAN NOT let anyone fuck with this.

NO ONE can be allowed to touch it.

Not for ANYTHING.

You may fear S Class Kage and Missing Nin and what all else they may do to you. But THIS? Your eyes can't even properly FOCUS on it. It's like a tunnel that's lined with poetry, stretching all the way to the Earth's core. It's perfectly flat. It moves, a gentle rotation. But is that just your eyes, tricking you?

So much ink, it swallows the scroll, and this is when it's COMPRESSED.

How many nations?

How many NATIONS must this monstrosity span, when free?

It must have taken a Master decades, if not their entire life, to complete. Possibly a family, several generations. But... but gods it is a work of MADNESS. No wonder it was sealed. It speak, you... you THINK... of Death...

Of it's KING.

Something BEYOND the Shinigami. BEYOND Death and the Purelands.

Who the FUCK would try to summon something beyond GODS? Did they think they could control it? Chain it like the bijuu? You're so cold inside. Because you KNOW. You fucking KNOW, the ambitions and arrogance of those above you.

They'll think they can.

They won't listen.

You... you have to take this and RUN. You stand no chance. But no chance is better then oblivion. Anything is better then standing by and watching it happen.

You obviously don't make it. You never expected too. But at least... at least you won't have to watch whatever THAT is... arrive... fuck...

At least you TRIED.

And? Because leaf Ninja, specifically certain teams, have the MOST Shit luck imaginable? They arrive, having crossed paths with several other teams, on the way back home (yay! Warm food and real beds!) Just in time to see a desperate looking ninja from one of the small villages get fuckin pincushioned. Drop what is VERY clearly an Uzushio Scroll of considerable size and SEVERE SSS+ DO Not EVER Touch Grade Type Markings, and then some joining from that same village go to grab it.

Notice them.

You know... the multiple LEAF NINJA. Who TOO THIS DAY, wear the UZU swirl on their uniforms as a mourning tribute to the DEAR AND PRECIOUS ALLIES they could not save. The Uzushio Allies. Those ones. The ones that were, in fact, from Uzushio.

LIKE THE SCROLL YOU ARE HOLDING.

By the WAY! How DID you get that Scroll? Doesn't seem like something our dear friends would just HAND over, now does it? You didn't happen to LOOT THEIR FUCKIN GRAVES did you? Cause we sure would be MAD about that!

:)

Real Mad.

Dude obviously panics. Because that? That is a VERY pissed off bunch of Ninja, many in the bingo book, one of whom is Very Clearly throwing off BIJUU CHAKRA. And just said "my family's" Ha ha... Oh Shit that's an Uzumaki.

So he decides to USE THE SEAL.

What does it do?

He doesn't know! But it's probably SOMETHING big and impressive, right?

Yes. :) Yes it Does.

*Crack*

The SKY cracks. Like a pane of glass, struck by a hammer. Spiderwebbing as far as the eye can see above them, all from one central point, directly above the seal. The cracks there are concentrated. A point of impact. And through the cracks... something GREEN shines.

Brighter then the daylight around it, yet darker in color then the blue of the sky. Lazily whisping out like escaping mist. Time seems slow as their eyes all whip up wards. Even with senses beyond the normal human base, it is... inconceivable. SOMETHING winds back. They can not see it.

But they can feel it.

Like changing pressure as a storm rolls in.

*Crack!*

Green overtakes the blue. The sky a Kaleidescape of shards, held together by stubbornness alone. Reflecting a calm day that seems IMPOSSIBLE in the face of what's occurring. There should be wind. Great pressure changes in the face of so much FORCE, but the trees are eerily still.. utterly silent..

Nothing dares bring attention to itself.

Some distant part of their minds try to gather the thought that... that it could be an illusion. They... they should check. But they can FEEL it. Like a weight draped gently but without mercy upon their shoulders. It did not slam. But... but they can not move. Can barely breathe. It is beyond killing intent.

It is simply...

DEATH.

*CRASH!*

At last, the sky gives way. A fist, the size of towers punching through. It... it is almost elegant. A ring, almost in the shinigami's visage, wraps itself in a howling and snarled menace, around a great shining finger. A glove protects almost delicate looking, claw tipped fingers. The fist pulls back. Shard of sky falling, Floating, suspended in their moment of destruction, a glittering frame for the gapping wound that has overtaken everything.

Death...

Death has Green Eyes.

A crown of ice and starlight, pulled straight from the coldest north, hair that drifts like the drowned. His skin is that of a corpse. His breath a coldness that seems to suck all warmth from the world. There is no rage, no great irritation, his face merely twisted in slight annoyance. Mild displeasure.

And yet it feels like their greatest sin.

It BURNS.

They are ants. Less then ants. He... He LOOMS so TALL. The Green BURNS into their eyes, into their veins, chokes their lungs. The silence stretches. Those great eyes, the eyes of a GOD, move from them. To the man with the Seal.

He dies instantly.

Shit.

They... they need to... to...

Naruto wanders over and picks up the scroll, completely ignore the Giant Sky God Of Death and how all his friends are frozen in primordial fear. He roughly shakes the dirt off the delicate old relic, then squint at it. Figures he's holding it upside-down. Flipping it, he squints harder. Tilts his head and hums.

"Oh!"

He holds his hand up, turning to look at the terrifying Deity From Beyond Comprehension.

"It's me! I'm the Uzumaki! But, uh, I didn't actually summon you? Our stuff got stolen. Which really sucks!" He looks down again, brings the paper nearly to his nose trying to make out some thing. "Uuuuuh, huh. Got it! Can you get smaller? I don't got any BBQ or anything ON me right now, but Choji's Family makes REALLY good food! We can go out to eat? Ooh ooh! Maybe RAMEN! You like Ramen, right?!"

"Yep, Definitely one of Shouta's."

Rumbles The Actual Fucking King Of Death, shaking the trees and ground under your feet. As you probably stare at your fellow Leaf Nin like WTF.

"Sure, man. Give me a second."

And suddenly? He's leaning forward. Shrinking and twisting in ways that are painful to look at. The sky is... is not healing, so much as UNcracking. Rewinding itself to a pristine state. Until only a large, floating, armored God in black and white floats above you. Glowing.

One that... that is apparently FRIENDS with the Uzumaki Clan.

Because of course he is.

Naruto's introducing his Toads. And teammates. You almost feel bad for Hatake. But like? Better you then me, buddy. THEN? Death? Decides? For some inconceivable reason. "You know what? Im'ma just turn into a human WITH NO CHAKRA NETWORK. Reeeeeally freak out the locals."

And now Leaf is INCHARGE of entertaining A GOD until he decides to leave.

Or (presumably) Else.

And!! Because life loves to kick ninjas IN THE BALLS (for their stupid, STUPID life choices, YOU FUCKERS) it just HAD to be the One God? That can SEE DEAD PEOPLE. Because it's not like ninjas have Death Related Traumas or anything!

*internal ninja screaming*

Feed the guy some BBQ! Stat! Please Akimichi! Save us!

@hdgnj @hypewinter @the-witchhunter @ailithnight @nerdpoe @mutable-manifestation

#dpxnaruto #naruto prompt #dp prompt #dpxnaruto prompt #narutoxdp #whoops we summoned a ghost king! #but dont worry #UZU accidentally did that TONS #he just asks for food then leaves #cool guy #thats why were are all chakra beasts and also probably ghosts now! #naruto is like? #new frien? #new frien! #no hes not asking #minji's writing

[simpjaes]

hear me out.. experienced boyfie! hyung line w an inexperienced virgin!reader 🫠🫠 (you have no idea how long it took me to spell inexperienced..)

hyung line + experienced boyfriend to inexperienced/virgin reader.

warnings: virginity loss, lil bit of pain

jake:

boyfriend of exactly two weeks. he loves fast and hard, so upon realizing that his very own sweet girlfriend from college is avoiding his sexual advances because she's a virgin, he loved you even more. like marriage worthy, man wants to make you his wife.

he's the type to be obsessed with being the first and, hopefully, only man to get his dick in you. of course, he wouldn't push but he would make sure you're aware of how badly he wants to make you feel good, and how good it would feel for him in turn. saying things like "love, it's no rush but i can just imagine how tight you are-" and "i bet you get so wet." and "what if I just eat you out? maybe that would help?"

imagine you finally letting him at least engage in foreplay? maaaaaan, he would go insane. thigh fucking, dry humping, mutual masturbation, giving head, begging you to go down on him too.

by the time you'd finally let him hit, it would be because you're entirely in love with him too, and you swear you see little hearts in his eyes when he slides in for the first time. doesn't matter how experienced he is either, bro gets off like three pumps in because you really are so tight, and so wet.

jay:

"please baby? i'll go slow."

jay did not, in fact, go slow. In his defense, he did start off slow but the second he bottomed out it's like his body moved on its own and his brain went numb. Given, after a little while he'd come back to himself and apologize over and over again in your ear, through moans and little sighs. apologizing but like, also not stopping for a second.

"feels good, baby? yeah?" and he'd just answer for you like "yeah, look at you, totally gone for me."

i don't think Jay would be able to contain his horny level once he's in you, and his apologies are genuine. you'd probably whine a little bit until, well, it does feel good and you suddenly realize why people like fucking so much.

cue you wanting to get railed by Jay constantly, and who is he to say no? His libido is just as high.

free use boyfriend AND girlfriend.

sunghoon:

a perfect boyfriend, doesn't attempt to make you nervous. Because if he did, you might back out.

100% jerks off to you every. single. night. especially when you let slip that you want to lose your virginity to him on your anniversary.

he's seeing stars at the exact same moment you're seeing them, solely because the idea that you're giving yourself to him makes him feel soft and mushy. plus, like, feeling a virgin pussy squeeze and quake around his cock :( seeing your little winces? he's immediately kissing away the singular tear drop that falls and praising you for taking all of him.

he'd give you sweet lil whispers of "tell me what feels best for you, babe." and a lot of "i love yous" and "i've got yous"

by the time sex is fairly regular though? He gets a bit more rough with it, and you're definitely in love with the way he can switch from being a big soft boyfie to being an absolute mad man in bed.

Heeseung:

plays off the innocence HARDCORE.

no joke, he says shit like "So innocent, pretty girl is gonna let me fill her up?" and "you can hold on to me, i'll make you feel so good." minutes before he dives in.

and man, he would live up to all of that when it actually happens. You do, indeed, need to hold onto him with how deep he plunges himself into you. he doesn't let you adjust, praises himself and you, and is instantly throwing you into orgasms you didn't even know you could have.

it's very messy and probably not ideal for someone's first time but it sure as fuck locks you in. you've never seen heeseung act so fucking hot or so fucking into you like he is when he's rubbing your clit and bumping your cervix with the head of his cock.

maaaaaaybe sort of gives you the idea that sex is supposed to hurt before it feels good, and when he realizes that he feels guilty, apologizes, and eats you out or something. then when you tell him you kinda like the pain he's like "that's my girl"

#enhypen smut #jake smut #jay smut #heeseung smut #sunghoon smut #hardthots

[bizbat]

All Wrapped up

🕸️Spiderverse Masterlist🕸️

🐼JJK Masterlist🐼

~ Bruce Wayne x Fem!Reader

~ Explicit smut

~ Reader is alluded to be smaller than Bruce, but appearance is otherwise not described

~ Reader wears a dress and makeup

~ Partially based on these headcanons

~ You can find more of my works here

~ Wc: 3.6k

C/W: Smut, PiV penetration, Mdom, Healthy Dom/Sub dynamics (consent checks, aftercare, establishment of a safeword, etc.), Bondage, Oral (male & female receiving), Finger sucking, Fingering, Slight slapping, Spit, Face fucking, Slight humiliation, Praise and degradation, Pet names (Angel, Pretty, Baby, Girl/Good girl, Sir, Slut), Dacryphilia, Pussy job, Cervix fucking, Mating press, Slight Breeding, Creampie, Size difference

It's the holiday season, and what could be a better gift than you, all wrapped up in a pretty, red ribbon?

Bruce found himself collapsing into a plush chair, massaging his temples as he stared down into the crowd from his position on the balcony. He tugged at the neck of his fluffy, green, turtle neck, the one his wife, Y/n had begged him to wear. Apparently, they matched, as she was dressed in a gorgeous gown with a red, corseted bodice, and a flowing, green, tulle skirt.

As if sensing his dismay, Y/n climbed up the staircase leading to the balcony Bruce was hiding away on, her heels clicking against the marble floor alerting him of her presence. He didn't look up as she wrapped her arms around him from behind, the smell of her expensive perfume flooding his nose as she hugged him. He looked at her over his shoulder as she pulled away, taking in her appearance.

She looked perfect. He hair was curled and artfully pinned atop her head with ribbons, the bodice of her gown was tailored to her exactly, pushing her breasts up and together. It drew attention to her necklace that accentuated her neck, the gold bejeweled with bright red rubies that flattered her skin tone.

Y/n stroked Bruce's cheek with a gloved hand, a big, warm smile decorating her face as she kissed the tip of his nose, a smudge of lipgloss left in her wake. She giggled as he wiped it away with a cloth napkin on the table. Though, her smile dimmed a bit when she noticed the less than happy expression on her husband's face.

"I . . ." She looked down at the crowd of people over the balcony, people of all classes eating, drinking, and dancing together in the Wayne Manor ballroom. She had begged Bruce to throw a Christmas Gala, to have an open invitation so that it would be available to everyone, and not just the famous and wealthy, though now she could see that it really was begging to wear him down.

She ran her fingers through his hair, the perfectly slicked locks now wild from him running his hands through his hair multiple times. "Thank you, Bruce." She whispered, pressing her forehead to his. "I know you don't usually like these things, and you really didn't-"

"I wanted to." He cut her off as she began to ramble, a pout on her painted lips. "It's my gift." He stroked her chin with his thumb. "As long as you enjoy yourself, then I'll be happy."

Y/n nodded, though not fully convinced. Bruce hated galas, and parties, or public events of any kind, and he sacrificed valuable time so he could attend, and not just leave his wife to host it on her own. Y/n pressed her forehead to his once again, before hearing someone call her name from below. She turned to Bruce, who gave her his best reassuring smile, before quickly leaving his line of sight amongst the partygoers.

Bruce didn't see her the rest of the night, not even when the event came to an end and everyone began pouring out of the manor, gifts in hand. He had asked Alfred if he had seen her, but it seems the old man was just as clueless to her whereabouts as he was. Bruce tried not to think about all of the situations she could be in, his headache from earlier quickly worsening with every moment.

He was finally able to escape to his and Y/n's shared room once Damian and Duke were snug in bed, and the rest of his children were home for the night. He was still worried about her, though, as it was soon replaced with relief. And then, with arousal.

He found Y/n on their bed, her arms and legs constrained with a single red ribbon. In her mouth was another ribbon, preventing her from speaking as Bruce locked the door behind him, and traversed beside her on the bed, all while never taking his eyes off her. He chuckled to himself as he stroked her head, his eyes trailing her restrained figure.

"What is this, huh? Is this my gift?" Y/n nodded, her eyes wide as she stared up at Bruce's imposing figure, looming over her from the bedside. Bruce's fingers ghosted down her cheek before brushing against her lips, her lip gloss smudged and partially removed from the cloth ribbon between her teeth. He tugged the ribbon out of her mouth, replacing the fabric gag with his thumb.

His pants tightened as he watched her suck on his thumb without prompting. "Good girl," He cooed. "Such an obedient little slut for me." Y/n nodded around his finger, her eyes never leaving his as she circled his thumb with her tongue, hollowing her cheeks around the appendage.

Bruce pulled his thumb from her mouth, a string of spit connecting it to her tongue as she briefly chased after it. "You gonna be my good girl? Gonna use your words?" Bruce stroked Y/n's heir, the ribbons from earlier now absent. "Yes sir." She said, her eyes glossy and her cheeks and ears on fire. "Gonna be good. Gonna be your good girl."

"Then stick out your tongue for me, baby." Bruce commanded, leaning down and enveloping it in his own mouth when she immediately followed his orders. He palmed his stiffening cock through his pants. He hissed as he pulled away, unzipping his green pants and sliding them down just far enough to take his cock out.

He pumped his shaft to full firmness as he practically glared down at Y/n, watching as she bit her glossy lip in anticipation. He watched her squirm in her bindings, the red ribbon decorating her barse skin. It tied her wrists together in front of her, going down and tieing her knees and ankles as well.

Bruce groaned as he jerked himself off in front of his wife. "You gonna suck my cock pretty girl? Gonna make me feel good?" Y/n bit her lip so hard Bruce worried she might draw blood, as she rapidly nodded her head. Bruce brough his free hand down upon Y/n's cheek, just hard enough to sting. "Use your words, girl." He lightly squeezed her cheeks as he made her look at him.

"I wanna suck your cock, sir!" She wriggled around in her binding, her cunt growing slick as Bruce teased her with his cock. He smiled, brushing his thumb against his head, swiping off a bead of precum and pushing it between her lips.

He bit his own lip as Y/n tasted him. "That's it . . . that's my good fucking girl." Bruce straddled Y/n's chest, kneeling over her as he pressed his cock to her swollen lips. She opened her mouth wide for Bruce, sticking out her tongue as she waited for his permission.

Bruce rested his tip against her tongue, thrusting his hips lightly as pearls of his precum spread across her muscle, before pushing further into Y/n's mouth. He paused when she started to choke on his length, even though was only about halfway in. "Breath, baby. You can take it."

He grunted as she swallowed him deeper, breathing through her nose. "That's it . . . That's it."He held back her hair so he could see her entire face. "Just like that." He groaned, the warmth of her mouth sending a shiver run up his spine.

He continued to mumble praises as she took him deeper and deeper down her throat, his hips thrusting in front of her face. He began to increase his pace, his ears burning as the sound of his wife gagging on his cock filled the room.

Bruce held Y/n's head still as he fucked her throat, spit dripping down her chin and pooling across her chest, glossing her tits and slicking her lips. He grunted as his muscles tightened, a sign of his impending orgasm.

He pulled out of Y/n's mouth, rapidly pumping his shaft before thick, white spurts of his creamy cum landed on her face and waiting tongue. "Don't." He warned when he saw her begin retracting her cum covered tongue back into her mouth.

Y/n's face was on fire, humiliation coursing through her veins as the cum mixed with the excess saliva on her tongue and began to drip down onto her and chest. She whined, pleading for Bruce to let her swallow. "What do you want, angel?" He lightly tapped her cheek, reminding her to speak. "You said you were gonna be good. I can't do anything unless you tell me what you want."

"Wan'-" She huffed, trying to speak with her tongue sticking out. "Wanna swallow. Wanna swallow your cum, sir." It was unclear, but Bruce deciphered her words, laughing at her as she shivered, pleading with wide, tear-struck eyes. "Just stay there a little longer baby," he panted, stroking her hair. "I wanna get a good look at you like this."

She looked even better like this, her hair messy from laying against the pillows, her hardened nipples showing through the soaked, red ribbon that laid across her chest. Bruce bit his lip and groaned, his cock still painfully hard.

Y/n's thighs rubbed together in an attempt to stimulate her neglected heat. "Bruce," she whined, drool and cum seeping across her body the longer her tongue was out. "Please sir . . . please let me swallow." Bruce reached a hand down between her thighs, his fingers just barely brushing against her cunt.

"There's my good girl. Go ahead, baby, since you asked so nicely."

Y/n pulled her tongue back into her mouth, savoring the taste of the cum that hadn't slipped off her tongue and onto her tits. Bruce pressed firmly on her clit, circling it with broad, slow circles. Y/n whined again, pleading for him to increase his speed. Bruce, tired of her misbehavior, lightly slapped her clit. "Last warning. Either take what I give you, or use your fucking words."

Bruce hovered his hand over her mound, threatening to smack her again should she continue to misbehave. "I-I'm s-sorry sir, I'll be good!" Bruce thought for a moment. "Come to think of it . . . maybe you don't even deserve to cum, huh? Maybe I should just fuck your mouth and not your pretty pussy, leave you squirming, all tied up so you can't touch yourself."

"Is that what you fucking want?" Bruce stroked her lower lips, teasing her by not touching her clit. "No sir!" Y/n furiously shook her head, flexing her hips to try and get Bruce to properly touch her. "I wanna cum! I want you to fuck my pussy, sir! Please!" Bruce leaned down, his forehead pressed against her own. "Then be good."

He punctuated his sentence with a final smack to her clit, rubbing rapid circles against her pearl before she could react. Bruce watched her face, stray tears slipping down her cheeks as her mouth hung open. "How's that feel, baby? Am I making you feel good?" Y/n thrashed in her bindings, rutting her hips against Bruce's skilled hand.

"Ngh~ Feels good, sir! Feels so good!" Y/n huffed, panting as Bruce brought her closer and closer to her first orgasm of the night. Bruce smirked, his pressure and speed increasing ever so slightly, just enough to bring his wife to the brink of climax. Sensing her orgasm, Bruce leaned forwards, catching her lips with his own as his fingers finally pushed Y/n over the edge, never slowing down as he helped her ride out her orgasm.

Once he felt her juices leak Bruce ripped down the red velvet that his her soft mounds from his sight, leaving the ribbon tying her wrists together, doing the same for her legs, untying her knees but leaving her ankles as her pushed her legs apart. He pushed in two long, thick fingers, curling them against that spongy spot inside of Y/n, and watching her every slight reaction.

"Sir, please! I'll be good! I'll be good, just, please!" Y/n begged, her legs spread wide for Bruce, his palm rubbing her clit as his fingers skillfully thrust in and out of her warm, slick walls. "Please what, pretty? What do you need?" Bruce grunted as he kneeled above her, one hand between her thighs, one hand gripping the wooden headboard, the wood lightly splintering from his tight grip.

"I need your cock, sir! Please fuck me already!" Bruce chuckled, feeling her heat squeeze around his fingers. "You want my cock? You want me to fuck you like the little slut you are?" The sound of his palm slapping against Y/n's clit as he finger fucked her filled the room. The sound of Y/n's desperate huffs and moans was like music to his ears, the tears streaming down her face more beautiful than any original in his gallery.

A desperate "Yes sir!" slipping past her lips without her even having to think about it. Bruce smirked, continuing to finger her as he moved his thumb to circle her aching, neglected clit. "Almost pretty, almost. Wanna taste you first." Bruce released the headboard, holding both of her wrists in one, large hand. "Can you be patient for me, baby? Let me taste you?"

Bruce somehow further increased his pace, loud squelches echoing in the large room. "Fuck!" He groaned, feeling Y/n tighten around his fingers once again as she rapidly approached her second orgasm. "Come on, baby! Let me fucking taste you." He continued thrusting his fingers for a few more moments, quickly pulling them out when Y/n whimpered out a "yes, sir".

He let go of her wrists, ripping off his sweat soaked sweater as he moved to lay on his stomach between Y/n's legs. He flattened his tongue, licking a long, firm stripe up her soaking wet cunt. He wrapped his laps around her clit, sucking her nub before releasing with a wet 'pop'.

He lifted her thighs, shoving his tongue into her hole as deep as possible, before replacing it with his fingers. He carefully thrusted his fingers in and out as he returned to sucking her clit, curling them against her g spot as he listened to her moans and cries, the strong suction throwing her over the edge.

He didn't stop as more of her juices coated his chin and fingers, leaking down and soaking the sheets beneath her. He licked up as much of her essence as possible as she eventually came down from her high. Once he was finished, Bruce rose back up on his hands, capturing Y/n's lips with his, letting her taste her own juices on his tongue.

She moaned into his mouth, chasing after him when he inevitably pulled away from her. He shoved his pants down the rest of the way, kicking them across the room, before hovering over Y/n once again, pinning her wrists above her head as he lined his cock up with her hole.

"You want it, baby? You want me to fuck you?" Y/n pulled her lip between her teeth, her eyes magnetized to the space between the two of them. She nodded, whining when Bruce thrusted his cock against her, rather than inside her, selfishly using her slick mound to get himself off. "Look at me," Bruce gave her no time to comply, grabbing her face again as he forced her to keep her eyes on him, his cockhead catching on her clit as he thrust his hips.

"I need a yes or a no, pretty." "Yes!" Y/n's teeth released her lower lip, as she shouted, her skin swollen from the biting and kissing. "Yes, sir! Please, I want it! I want you to fuck me!"

Bruce lined himself back up with her pussy, smirking at her desperate tone as he prepared to penetrate her. "S'all you had to say, baby . . ." Without further warning he thrust his cock inside of her, stilling when he felt her tight walls begin resisting him. He threw his head back, a guttural groan escaping him as he entered his wife's tight walls.

"Shit, baby," He groaned, panting above his wife's body. He grabbed her wrists again, holding them above her head as he slowly began fucking deeper, her hole accepting him little by little, stilling again once he was fully inside her.

"Bruce . . ." Y/n whined, wiggling her hips. "Please, sir, want you to move." Bruce shallowly pumped his hips, his cock brushing against her puckered cervix. He looked down at her face, holding back a laugh when she wriggled and squirmed in his hold. "Sir, please!" She sobbed.

"All right, all right. No more teasing. You remember the word?" Y/n nodded, though, she quickly corrected herself. "Yes, sir, I remember." Bruce leaned down, pressing a chaste kiss to her sweaty hearline. "There's my good little slut. M' gonna move now, okay?" He stroked one of her wrists with his thumb. "O-okay," Y/n warbled out, her head rolling forward at the feeling of being stuffed with Bruce's cock.

Bruce pulled his hips away, till only his tip remained inside, before slamming his hips forwards, stealing Y/n's breath from her lungs. His hips pounded hers, the sound of their love a beautiful cacophony that overwhelmed both of their senses. "How's that, baby? That feel good?" Y'n didn't respond, her eyes rolled back into her head at the feeling of Bruce's bruising thrusts.

He decided to be nice, continuing his firm movements, encouraged by the little gasps and moans that subconsciously escaped his wife. He made no effort to hold back his own noises, grunting and groaning as he pushed Y/n's knees to her chest, hitting deeper than what would be thought possible.

Bruce held her legs down with one hand, resting some of his weight on her as he continued to fuck her deeply, gripping the headboard again to give himself more leverage. Y/n pressed her hands to his chest, her fingernails digging into his skin. She needed something to keep her tethered to the world as he fucked her. She sobbed whenever he hit a certain spot, and Bruce made sure to brush against it with every thrust.

"That's it, baby! Take it just like that!" He grunted, his strokes firm, yet perfectly angled to hit her sweet spot. He groaned, his hand on the headboard shooting down to rub Y/n's clit again. He felt his own orgasm creeping ever closer as she squeezed his length. "Gonna cum on my cock, huh? Gonna cum on this fucking cock?"

At this point he was talking more to himself, as Y/n was very clearly not entirely all there, drool dripping down the side of her gaping mouth, and her eyes rolled all the way back into her skull. "You're such a perfect little slut for me. Oh, take it, baby."

The wooden headboard slammed against the wall at the force of his thrusts, and if he was less consumed with his wife's tight, wet flesh, he'd be more thankful that he'd had all of the rooms in the manor soundproofed. Nevertheless, he groaned, his blood running hot as he felt Y/n dig her nails into his skin, deep enough to leave angry, red crescents.

"That's it, that's it, that's it," He chanted, his fingers slicked with Y/n's juices as he circled her clit. "That's it, baby, cum on my cock!" Y/n sobbed, juices gushing around Bruce's cock as her walls gripped him, almost refusing to let him pull out, not that he wanted to. Part of this gift was going to be the feeling of his wife's warm pussy as he came inside her.

He wasn't too far behind her, the muscles in his thighs and calves tightening as he fucked Y/n's cervix, his cock twitching inside her as hot, white cum gushed out around his shaft. He slowly fucked Y/n, his thrusts becoming shallow as he cahased his high. He let her legs drop, massaging them as the blood slowly started to return.

Once he caught his breath, he pulled the bow tying her wrists together, raising his hand to her cheek, stroking it with his thumb as he once again rested his forehead against hers. They stayed like that for a moment. "How . . ." he cleared his throat, his voice slightly hoarse.

"How do you feel? Are you hurt anywhere?" He slid his fingers into Y/n's hair, gently massaging her scalp as he spoke. In turn, she ran her hands across his chest and shoulders, massaging his traps. "No," Y/n shook her head. "I feel good. How about you, how do you feel?" Bruce dropped his head to rest in the crook between her neck and shoulder, kissing her sensitive skin.

"Mm," He ran his hand over her side, inhaling her natural scent. "Good." Y/n smiled, wrapping her arms around Bruce's shoulders and pulling him down, encouraging him to relax and drop his weight. He did just that, though, he still held himself up with his elbows, careful not to crush his wife.

He dug one arm under her, scooping her up and rolling over to his side, so she was laid across his chest. She giggled, resting her head against her husband's strong body. "Did you enjoy your gift?" She looked up at him with warm eyes and a tired smile.

"I did," Bruce smiled down at her, his expression mirroring hers. "Did you?" She leaned up, pressing a sweet, short kiss to his lips. "I loved it." She whispered, her throat a bit sore. Nothing some tea with honey and lemon couldn't fix in the morning. "Wanna take a bath?" Bruce asked, stroking Y/n's bare shoulder as she sleepily drew circles on his chest. "In a minute."

Bruce nodded, exhaustion overtaking his massive frame. He played with his wife's hair as she drifted into slumber on his chest. He basked in the glow of their love, a warm, sappy feeling swirling around inside him and squeezing his heart. He would wake her later, letting her sleep peacefully, for now.

#bizbat #batman #bruce wayne #batman smut #batman fluff #bruce wayne smut #bruce wayne fluff #dc #batfam #bruce wayne x wife!reader #how the grinch stole christmas #dc smut #smut

[miraclewoozi]

DRIVE. - l.c

DRIVE -- or, the night you realise it's actually very hard to stay mad at the guy who shows up at your house, throwing stones at your window on a Thursday night, to try and fix something that was your mistake in the first place.

pairing : chan x fem reader. content : fwb > lovers. angst, smut (MINORS DO NOT HAVE MY CONSENT TO INTERACT), fluff. more or less in that order. they’re both dumb as hell. not explicitly put in any detail but this was written with a more 70s vibe in mind so feel free to bear that in mind when thinking of the car/tech/styles etc if u like. w/c : 7.8k warnings : lots of swearing. it’s all a big fuckin misunderstanding because i am a whore for that. weed & alcohol mentioned (neither party is drunk or high at the time of this taking place). mentions of past cheating (neither mc or chan are the cheater). some pov switching because i said so. let me know if i've forgotten anything. proofread exactly once so if there's a typo, no there isn't. SMUT TAGS UTC.  notes : dino. get the fuck off my ass. i’m so serious i am not strong enough to handle the very real feelings i have for you. go away.  notes 2.0 : i listened to halsey’s drive for some inspo for this & took that as the title, so feel free to give it a listen if you want!

SMUT TAGS : dom!chan. car fuckin', making out, hair pulling, grinding/dry humping, fingering, finger sucking, dick riding, marking/scratching, unprotected sex (make good choices), overstimulation, multiple orgasms. praise. chan calls reader ‘baby’ & ‘sweetheart’. he’s a BIG talker during sex (sorry).

You’re not stupid. You heard his car pull up outside your house almost an hour ago. 

Since then, at random intervals ranging anywhere between thirty seconds and five minutes, there have been clinks of a thrown stone at your bedroom window, a piece of the gravel that lines your driveway. Each time, it makes your jaw tense, makes your fingers tighten in the bedsheets you pulled all the way up to your chin in a foul mood at 8pm. It’s been the same now for almost two weeks — you’ve been getting home from work, showering the day away, eating your dinner and retiring to your room as early as you possibly can. Your roommate tried to find out what was wrong around day three but you very promptly shut her down — she’s since learned that the best she’s getting out of you currently is a dismissive wave of your hand or some kind of a grunt. She joked one evening that it was like she’d adopted a teenager; you scowled so violently that she went to her room. 

Hardly any of your other friends have seen anything of you, either, despite the fact that several have come knocking to check if you’re all right. 

You’re very much not all right, as it happens. This is perhaps the most upset you’ve ever felt, and that’s going quite some way. The angriest, too. It’s worse than when that middle aged woman threw her entire bucket of popcorn at your head when you gave her salty instead of sweet, and you were picking kernels out of your hair for the rest of your six hour shift. It’s worse than when your nasty supervisor ‘forgot’ you were in the bathroom and ended up locking you inside the cinema overnight, because you didn’t have your own set of keys to get out and the people whose numbers you remembered weren’t answering their phones. 

It’s somehow even worse than when a summer crush from a few years ago broke things off by telling you that he already had a girlfriend back home and that you were basically just a means to pass the time and get his dick wet. God, and you thought that was the lowest you could possibly be.

Here you are, though, so far beyond all those things it would be comical, if it didn’t hurt. Chan has really done a number on you, and you’re not sure how you ended up getting so emotionally involved in your situationship with him that this is what you’ve been reduced to. For days now, you’ve been swallowing back tears of frustration (both with yourself and with Chan), rolling around in your bed night on night, unable to get to sleep because all you can think about is him.

Him, and the way he sounded genuinely horrified when his friends asked about the ‘movie girl’, and he laughed, ‘God, no – we’re just friends. That’s never gonna happen’. It was impressive, how quickly your face fell, in no way aided by the squealing giggles that rang through the house as a very, very drunk girl came running out of the living room and shut herself in the toilet, drowning out a chunk of the conversation you were listening in on. Somehow, it hurt even more when he went on to say ‘besides, there’s… someone else’. 

And when you have managed to drift off after hours of staring at the walls and the ceiling, hearing those words on a loop on your fed up brain? Of course he’s been in your fucking dreams, too.

In your defence, all you were trying to do was use the mirror in the hallway outside the kitchen he and his friends were standing in, readjusting your top to cover the hickey that he had so kindly left on your collarbone just the night before. It wasn’t as though you sought him out to listen in; it was a coincidence. And okay, fine, maybe you should have walked away when the conversation turned to the topic of Chan’s love life. Maybe you should have not crept closer and held your breath to be able to hear them all better. Maybe, even, you should have stayed around long enough to ask what he meant by it then and there instead of hopping in a taxi and going home without saying goodbye to anyone. 

Hindsight really is a beautiful thing.

Never gonna happen. Well, Chan seemed quite happy to ignore the fact that it already had happened. Several times. At least four of those being in the very car currently on the street outside your home. The car he’s used on countless occasions to drive you up to lovers’ lookouts in the dead of night, letting one of his many mixtapes play through the tinny speakers, where he’d kiss you breathless and cradle your face between his palms, as his fingers would delicately explore beneath your clothes, as his broad shoulders would slot between your thighs, as his hips rol–

And maybe you aren’t stupid, but Chan seems determined to prove that he sure as hell is. He came to pick you up from work the day after the party like nothing had happened, and couldn’t figure out why you said you would rather walk home in the rain than get in with him and stormed away without any further explanation. Then, he showed up on your doorstep on the morning of your day off with your favourite coffee and a breakfast bagel, asking if you could talk. He still didn’t realise what he’d done to upset you, so you slammed the door in his face. Finally, just earlier today, he ran after you in the mall, persistent as you’ve ever known him to be, and laid a hand on your shoulder when you didn’t turn around to just the sound of his voice calling your name. 

You pushed him off so hard he almost fell over. 

“Why can’t you just leave me alone?!” You had barked, shrugging your shoulders to try and realign your jacket. “I don’t want to talk to you. What’s not clicking?”

His face resembled that of a scolded pet when he took a step back and frowned at you. “I just wanted to–”

“I don’t care what you want, Chan,” you spat. “Give it up. I’m done.”

You could see the desperation swimming in his eyes as he scrambled for what to say and your heart felt like it was being weighed down all the way into your stomach. You supposed that was the part of you that was causing all this ache in the first place, and further that it was to blame for your current state of misery. But you steeled yourself and stood your ground nonetheless. He wasn’t going to win you over with puppy eyes and a pout. Not this time.

In his silence, you only then noticed how hard your breaths were coming, each slow and long but still dangerously unsteady. You lowered your voice, top lip curling at him as you muttered, “You’re embarrassed of me enough to lie to your friends? Fine. I don’t give a–… but shit, next time, tell a girl that to her face instead of behind her fucking back.”

It’s been seven hours, and you keep replaying the last thing he said to you as you stormed away (how his voice got quieter when he realised you weren’t turning back; how he sounded so hoarse, so sorry). 

‘I’m sorry if I hurt you - I— I never meant to.’

If. If. If. Were you not making it completely fucking obvious that he had, most definitely, hurt you? Part of your brain is even now starting to go down the route that he’s doing this on purpose, that it’s some twisted sort of damage control, that he hopes maybe if he plays dumb for long enough, you’ll forget what you were mad about or maybe start to second guess what you heard. But if that’s what he thinks, he obviously doesn’t know you very well at all. That’s never going to happen. 

Hell, for someone you were being so careful to keep in the appropriate lane in your head, Chan really has you thinking yourself in circles. You’re sick to your back teeth of him, and his stupid voice and his stupid smile and his stupid –

Clink.

Stupid. Fucking. Stones.

A groan loud enough to definitely catch the attention of your roommate sounds from deep within your chest at this interruption to your spiral and you finally, finally concede. Whatever argument he’s so clearly longing to have at 11 o’clock on a Thursday night? Fine. He can have it. If it means he backs off for good, you’ll give him his one last ruck.

You pull the window open none too gently and lean enough through it that Chan comes into view. He isn’t even looking up, you realise, too busy sifting through the driveway trying to find his next little projectile, and you hiss his name to get his attention. It startles him so much that he drops the indiscernible bundle in his right hand. He blindly scrambles to pick it up, those big, earnest eyes gazing at you as if you’re floating in midair before him.

“What the hell are you doing?!” You ask him, trying not to raise your voice too loud but at the same time, needing to generate enough volume for him to hear. He holds the bundle in both hands, now, and they catch the light of the lamp by your front door. Flowers, you register, squinting to try and make them out, your brows furrowing so much that your forehead hurts. 

Black dahlias.

You choke back a laugh. Ah, the joys of fooling around with the son of a florist. Are they all so damn dramatic? (Or does he just know that they’re your favourites?)

Whichever it is, you tell yourself that’s not going to work. You won’t let it. Through gritted teeth, you say, “go away. I’m serious. I’ll call the cops on you.”

He shakes his head, begging as he steps just a little closer so his face is more visible in the amber light too. “Please–” he hurries, biting his bottom lip. “Please, don’t– just… tell me what I did. I want to make it right. Please.”

He never begs like this. In all the time you’ve known him, you swear Chan has said ‘please’ to you fewer times than you could count on your fingers. Which is by no means a bad thing — that’s just always been the very comfortable nature of your friendship, and later, the -with-benefits tag that you ended up sticking on the end. 

“Why are you doing this?” You ask, pinching the bridge of your nose and fighting not to shiver in the cold nighttime air. Note to self: don’t do a Romeo and Juliet in the middle of the fucking winter without layering up, first. “What does it even matter?”

“What do you mean, what does it matter?” He asks, looking down at the bunch of flowers in his hands, then back at you. “I-... you know I’d never hurt you. Not on purpose. Please, just… if I did something–”

“There’s someone else,” you echo, fed up with his pretending. He’s a fair actor, you’ll give him that – he might even have been able to convince you, if you hadn’t already heard the other half of this tale he’s doing his best to spin in his favour. 

His face screws up, thinking he’s misheard. It’s his turn not to understand now. If you’re telling him you’ve met someone else, he’s got questions, because you’d promised to be open and honest with each other if that ever happened, so that you could call things off and go back to being just friends without it becoming a big deal. That was always supposed to be a calm conversation, not… whatever this is. You talked about it, right at the start. But… those are the words you’re saying, aren’t they? And why would you be mad at him if you were the one whose circumstances had changed? 

“What?” he asks, finally. “What do you mean?”

“God, no – we’re just friends. That’s never gonna happen. Besides, there’s… someone else!” You raise your voice without really meaning to, before swallowing hard and glancing back inside your room. “You said that, Chan. Don’t piss me off by coming here and pretending like you didn’t.”

Chan starts to look like he’s trying to figure out an algebraic equation in his head while only having half the required information; his eyes fall down to the gravel, his lips move without any sound coming out of them, his features tighten until there are definite lines between his eyebrows. Then, it clicks. The lightbulb moment. He slaps one hand to his face and shakes his head furiously, and you just know he’s going to wake up with an ache in his neck tomorrow because of it.

“Oh fuck,” he curses. “No, no, no, no, no – that’s not–”

“What did I just say?” You spit down at him. “Don’t piss me off–”

“Listen!” He shouts, and you gesture with your hand for him to lower his voice, interrupting his flow of thought and rendering him silent for a moment. “Fuck, please. Come down here and talk to me. That’s not what you think it is.”

You’re in every mind to slam your window shut and leave him out there in the cold. It would work if you got out your headphones to drown out the sounds of him trying to get your attention, which you have absolutely no doubt in your mind that he would do. And maybe then he’d get the hint; maybe then he would understand that you’re not just some pushover who he can just pick up and play with when it suits him. 

But he’s still holding those fucking flowers like they’re a lifeline, still looking up at you without a single lick of anger on his face. Not stress at having been discovered, which you would have expected him to be swimming in right about now. He looks… kind of beside himself, as if nothing could possibly be worse than what you’re threatening to do.

All this, for you? It just doesn’t make sense. 

“Please,” he says again, quieter, weaker. For the first time, you pick up on the hint of a shiver in his voice, and you swallow. Whether you’re gulping back your pride, or your resolve, or the last remnants of your sensibility, you don’t know. 

Does he deserve for you to hear him out? You’re not sure.

But does he deserve to be stuck out in the cold in just his stupid leather jacket and a pair of jeans? 

With regret, you think, no. He doesn’t.

All you give him is a scowl before you disappear from view entirely, pulling the window closed and drawing your curtains again. Faster than you think you ever have before, you throw on a sweatshirt over your pyjamas, grab your keys, and hurry down the stairs as silently as you possibly can. 

He’s stood in exactly the same place when you edge outside and pull the door closed behind you. Up-close, you can see the tiredness on his face: this is a man who has exhausted himself in worry, you think, and yet he still smiles a little when he sees you in full. He still holds the flowers out for you to take. He still purses his lips and blows out a stuttered cloud of air. Nervous, and not in the way you think he ought to be. So when you walk straight past him and don’t take the dahlias out of his hands, instead standing by his car and waiting for him to unlock it for you, you start to feel overwhelmingly guilty. 

Chan is many, many… many things. But he really isn’t this good of a performer, no matter what you’ve been telling yourself all week. For God’s sake, why is it so much easier to be angry at him when he’s not standing right in front you?

You slip into his passenger side as he fumbles to set the flowers down on his backseat again, and he joins you up front just a few moments later. His hands are shaking when he sets the keys into the ignition. His whole body is. When you cast a real look over at him, the tips of his fingers are pale and his lips are lacking their usual rosy, pink hue. Your own teeth are chattering despite only having been truly exposed to the cold air for a matter of seconds; you dread to think how frozen he must be.

“Are we driving?” You ask to break the silence. Since he got into the car and fiddled with the heating settings to try and warm things up a little, he hasn’t said a word. It’s awkward. It’s horrible. You already miss the comfortable way you’ve been able to sit for hours together, barely talking, just watching the lights of the city and the cars travelling through it. 

You already miss him. Which is a strange thought, seeing as he’s only about ten inches away. 

“If– if you want,” he says, stuttering through the frost in his lungs. “We can go—...”

“Drive, Chan,” you say. It’s not just because you want him to stop falling over his words – which, to be fair, you do. Chan has always been very confident, carrying himself with the air of someone who knows exactly their worth. It’s one of the things you treasure about him. So this? Is fucking weird. But a big part of it is that you know his car will heat up faster if it’s in motion, and right now, you think maybe he’s at risk of losing a finger or two if he doesn’t get some circulation back.

He steps on the gas and the car pulls away from your home. It’s the first time you’ve ever been in his car without there being some sort of music playing, whether that’s historically just been the radio or a tape he put together with the help of one of his older friends. (The tapes that always had your first initial on them. The tapes that he never failed to ask your opinions on when he dropped you home – as if he’d compiled them with only you in mind.) The silence feels jarring and you can hear every rumble of the engine, every squeal of the brakes he definitely needs to get serviced. 

But the car does warm through, and you sigh out relief as the bones in your hands move a little easier, as your fingers curl and uncurl to less resistance from your taut muscles. Chan feels it, too; his body relaxes, his breaths stop coming out in fractions, his face gets some colour back. The timing feels a little less awful when you finally say, “go on, then.”

Chan glances over at you as he drives down an unlit street. Only for a second, like he’s checking you’re still there, before his eyes train back on the road. He’s going to one of your favourite spots. It isn’t a lookout – it’s somewhere completely shut off from the rest of town, hidden by the trees near the railway tracks, somewhere you’ve never had to worry about being seen or heard. Maybe he’s anticipating a screaming match. Maybe he’s expecting something else. Maybe, even, he just cares about how much you love it there. 

“I didn’t know you heard that conversation,” he starts, sheepishly. You want to roll your eyes, reach over and thump him, ask if that makes what he said okay, but you don’t. You stay looking out the front windscreen too. Waiting. “I… all right. I was out of my ass drunk.”

You click your tongue, pressing it afterwards against the inside of your cheek, but again, you stay quiet.

“I don’t think you heard what you thought you heard, though,” he goes on to say. “‘Cause– ‘cause it wasn’t…”

But you can only be quiet for so long in the face of this mess. Especially when he’s apparently working towards a doctorate in beating around the fucking bush. “I heard you tell your friends that it was never gonna happen with ‘movie girl’.”

Chan’s face brightens, and you can’t help but wonder what on Earth is wrong with this man. Why does he find that funny? Why is his chest moving like he’s trying not to laugh?

“And you… thought you were movie girl,” he says, nodding. “Okay. Okay – shit. I’m sorry.”

You look at him properly, now, as he indicates to the right and takes the turn that leads him down the lane to your spot. “What are you talking about?”

“I get it,” he says. “You work at the–... but you’re not movie girl. Not that movie girl.”

“Stop talking in riddles before I get out of this car, Chan. It’s too late for this shit.”

He holds a hand up as if to apologise and settles back against the head cushion, suddenly looking far more comfortable than he did thirty seconds ago. He clears his throat, running his tongue over his lips, before sucking in a breath and letting himself go on.

“You’re not movie girl,” he says again, successfully clarifying nothing. “There’s this chick I used to dance with — years back, before… God, when we were in school, like, forever ago. She moved away when we were sixteen.” As he talks, he reaches your destination and sets the car into park, before he unfastens his seatbelt and turns to face you. You do the same, shifting your weight to tuck one leg up beneath you, and with your undivided attention, he goes on. “I ran into her recently. She’s back in town now, I guess. It was like, two weeks—?”

“I’m gonna be all-over grey by the time you finish telling this story,” you interrupt, raising an eyebrow. “Can you please give me the short version?”

“Not if you want it to make sense,” Chan shrugs. Begrudgingly, you let him keep talking. “She said it would be cool to hang out, maybe catch a movie or do lunch or something — and look, I didn’t know she was asking me on a date, I thought she was just being nice, y’know? Trying to be friends, but… you weren’t working that day, it was when you had that… that stomach thing going on? And I brought you the soup my mom made, remember?”

You nod; of course you remember. At the time, you wondered why on Earth this grown man’s mother was making you food — you asked yourself whether he’d told her about you, or if she thought it was for someone else. In the end you decided he must have just been bringing you leftovers. But you’d been too worn out to start asking questions; instead, after you’d eaten, you let yourself fall asleep with your head in his lap as he patted your hair and hummed his favourite songs. You hadn’t let yourself think too deeply about it since. 

“Anyway. We were sat watching the movie and she, uh,” he glances down at his lap, tips of his ears burning pink. “She put her hand, sorta, on my thigh? And then I was like, shit, I didn’t read this right, like… at all. So I moved it off and she took the hint — and after it ended I said to her, you know, I was flattered, right? But I wasn’t interested. And then I went home and got that soup and—… yeah.”

He came straight to see you. To look after you. Hell, you didn’t even fool around that night; in retrospect, it was all uncharacteristically domestic. And slowly, the pieces you’ve spent days struggling to fit together start to fall into place. It makes sense. The only question that remains is do you believe him?

Well, tell a lie. 

There is one more. 

“You said there was someone else,” you add quietly. 

You’ll die before you admit it, but this is secretly the part that was hurting you the most. 

You can’t even look him in the eye, right now; your cheeks are burning with the embarrassment of even caring. As much as you want to tell yourself that the only reason you’re pissed is just because of the dishonesty, you can only stare at yourself in the mirror and point-blank lie so many times. Someone else. You hate it. 

Just the thought of him seeing somebody else, taking them out on dates, smiling at them, laughing with them, kissing them the way he kisses you, touching —

A shiver runs the length of you and you cross your arms, thrusting your sleeve-covered hands under your armpits. 

Chan takes a deep breath in and exhales it slowly, like he’s blowing smoke out of his lungs. “There is,” he admits, nodding slowly, avoiding your eyes, too. “There is someone else.”

“When were you going to tell me?” You ask. 

Chan doesn’t respond straight away. You don’t notice, but eventually his eyes do land back at you; it’s only when he clears his throat to get your attention that you look at him long enough to realise he’s quite deliberately staring. His lips are lifted on the right in a lopsided smile, his eyes soft as he reaches across the seats towards you. You stare blankly down at his hand until he wiggles his fingers, and you think briefly that this is the most fucked up ending to a situationship you’ve ever been through. 

You drop one of your hands down and let him hold it, though, staring at his face as his thumb brushes over your knuckles and you wait for him to finally say it out loud. For him to announce that he’s fallen for somebody and that he can’t see you anymore. To put the nail in the coffin. Don’t tell me their name, you think. I don’t want to know anything about them. Please, just don’t.

“For someone so frustratingly smart, you’re really fucking dumb,” Chan says, finally, swallowing around his words and squeezing your fingers. Whatever stoic expression you had forced onto your face at the start of this conversation dissolves into irritation and you snatch your hand away from him again, letting his own fall and collide with a thunk against the handbrake. 

“Oh, sorry that I didn’t realise you were sneaking around behind my back when that’s the one thing we promised we wouldn’t do,” you snap. “God. The only stupid thing I’ve done here is get involved with you in the f—”

“You’re the someone else.”

Oh. 

Oh.

“I’m—?”

“You.”

The admission hangs heavily between you, as does your nonsense, unfinished insult. Neither of you really know what to do with yourselves except sit perfectly still and try to somehow deal with your increasingly dry throats. When Chan moves, it’s only to turn down the heating dial when his cheeks burn a bit too hot; you appreciate it, in part due to the bead of sweat currently running down your back, but you don’t say so. 

“You could have started with that,” you say weakly, wrestling with all your strength to keep even some of your cards close to your chest. It’s not working though. Your attempt to conceal your elation is a bit like throwing a single leaf on top of a bison and calling it camouflage. 

Chan commits to laughing, finally, your sentiment breaking him too. Now, you do crack that smile, albeit mostly just at the sound that comes from him. It’s bright and airy, lighting his whole face up as he drops all the way back and leans against his car door, pushing his fingers through his hair. “I was trying to build to a moment! It’s not my fault you hit every branch of the anti-romantic tree on your way down.”

“I am not anti-romantic,” you scoff in protest. 

“Yes — you are.”

“Am not!”

“Are too.”

“No, you’re just an idiot.”

“Says she who didn’t realise her fuck-buddy had feelings for about six months, Jesus.”

“Chan—” You start, your voice laced with a playful warning. 

“Here I was thinking I was making it completely obvious,” he rambles on. 

“— oh my God, just shut up and kiss me.”

“Dropping hints left and r—” … “Huh?”

He stops short a fraction of a second after you finish, stumped and silent, frozen with everything but a little buffering symbol above his forehead. Kiss me, you said. Chan, […] just shut up and kiss me. All right, you’ve asked him to do that before, but not like this. Not as if you’ll wither away should you not get a taste of his lips this instant. It takes him some time to process it, but he does move in first, eventually. The way he always does, closing the distance between you like he’s been shot out of a cannon, one hand either side of your face, crashing feverishly against your mouth. 

Every now and again, he’ll be happy to let you take charge and set the pace: mostly just if he’s feeling lazy or especially generous. Tonight isn’t one of those times, however. He holds you and kisses you possessively, like you’re his, like this is how he finally gets to lay claim on you, licking between your gasp-parted lips after he moans straight into your mouth. He’s spearmint sweet, edged with that one cherry flavoured chapstick he stockpiles as he grins up against you, rolling his body fluidly with every separation for air, every changing angle. 

He pulls your sweatshirt up over your head and throws it down into the footwell on the passenger side, straight away hurrying to kiss you hungrily again, hands cupping your neck. His tongue is in your mouth once more, there’s no way you could possibly differentiate your breaths from his: you’re one, in every way you can be with your clothes still on, but it’s not enough. 

“Want you,” you whimper as he nips at your bottom lip and pleasure rushes through you from head to toe. 

“You’ve got me,” he groans with his eyes still closed. “I’m all yours.” 

“No,” you insist, whimpering when his cute little nose drags across your cheek until he’s pressing hot kisses to your jawline. “I— fuck—”  He suckles on the sweet spot below your ear and your spine tingles, head tilting to give him better access. “Chan, I want you.”

Chan settles back from you, his usually bright, sparkling eyes now darkened with desire. All he gives you is a singular glance sideways, but you know exactly what he’s suggesting. You nod, breathing deep, biting the inside of your cheek; he turns off the headlights and it’s all systems go. 

There’s a rush to scramble into the back of the car. Chan takes the keys out the ignition and climbs through the gap in the seats; you opt for the less hazardous approach of getting out of the vehicle entirely and re-entering it instead. Not that it bothers him — no sooner is the door closed behind you, Chan’s hands are on your hips and he pulls you on top of him, your leg knocking the dahlias off the leather and onto the floor in the process. You gasp and glance down but he averts your attention with two fingers under your chin, guiding you to look back at him. 

“What? You think this is the last time I’ll bring you flowers?” He asks, capturing your lips as he leans up to you; at the same time, his hands drop low and he starts to slide open the buttons down the front of your pyjama shirt. “Baby, m’gonna get you so many more.” 

You sigh at the affectionate name, at the change in its use; until now, Chan has only called you baby while he’s buried inside you, bruising you inside and out with sharp thrusts and rough-gripping fingers. But as much as you can feel him growing hard against the inside of your thigh while you try to get comfortable, one knee planted either side of his hips, you can’t help but feel as if this time, it means something different. 

(He’s had feelings for six months: it always meant what it does, now. You know that, deep down.)

Somewhere in amongst the never-ending sloppy kisses and constantly travelling hands, you manage to strip both his jacket and T-shirt off him and you’re pressed bare-chest-to-bare-chest with Chan, feeling every little hitch of his breath in his lungs, every thump of his heartbeat, every tiny increase in the temperature of his skin. Your desperate search for friction between your legs has you rolling your hips down against his hard-on, drawing grunts and making him squeeze at your tits when you rock against him the right way. His head eventually drops to your chest and he replaces one hand with his mouth, freeing his fingers to slide down the front of your pyjama bottoms. 

It’s honestly rarer for Chan to get straight to the point than it is for him to tease you a little first, so when he flattens his palm against you and brushes his fingertips over your already aching clit, you let out a squeak of surprise. He shivers, releasing your nipple from between his teeth for a moment; once he’s collected a little more arousal to ease the friction, he continues to rub at the bud, slowly building the pressure inside you.

“No panties?” He asks, struggle clear in the roughness of his voice. 

“I was in bed,” you gasp, eyes rolling back. It’s for the best that it happens out of pleasure, really, because you’re not sure you’d be able to stop yourself rolling them in exasperation at his remark otherwise. You shuffle a little, lifting yourself up on your knees more, breath hitching when he uses the newly granted space to dip his hand lower and press a finger against your hole. “Please, Chan — this can’t be comfy— just…”

“S’fine” he argues, shaking his head, despite the fact that the angle of his wrist is actually kind of painful, right now. The truth is that he can’t bring himself to care: not when he can smell your fabric softener on the shirt still hanging off your shoulders, the shampoo in your freshly washed hair, all so pretty mixed with the damp scent of your desire. Not when you clench around him as he slides his finger in and out of your cunt. Not when he could get you to soak all the way through these pretty satin pants. 

Your arms snake around his neck as he dips a second finger inside you to join the first. The way your thighs tighten around his hips could — should — be embarrassing, the fact his sturdy lap holds you open enough for your pussy to be toyed with even more so. You almost always do this too music, too — for what might be the first time ever, you can hear every single wet sound your body makes, every hitch of your own breath, every grunt he gives even though he’s not the one being pleasured. 

You don’t even realise how you’re rocking up and down against his hand until Chan licks from the base of your neck to your jaw, smirking over your pulse point and says, “gonna ride my cock this good too, baby?”

And if it was anyone else talking to you like this, you would be embarrassed. Mortified, at being so needy you’re here doing all the work for him. At the cry you give as he splits and scissors his fingers to stretch you out. But instead? You feel another rush of arousal drool out of you as you press your nails into his shoulders and nod, bouncing harder and watching how his bicep tenses up solid with the effort of keeping his arm steady for you to use. 

“Wanna,” you gasp. “Want it so bad, Chan—”

Despite your pleas for this to move further, when his hand pulls back out of the elastic of your waistband, you feel like you could throttle him. The urge ebbs away when his soaked fingers press to your lips and he quirks an eyebrow at you, though — you end up suckling them clean, licking up every trace of your own slick. You lock eyes with him as you do, slumping on your thighs so your drenched core sits right over his tweaking length, the seam of your pants giving just enough friction to your clit for it to feel good as you grind down on him again. 

“Get those off,” he instructs, trying to sound hard and dominant. Which would work, perhaps, if his voice didn’t crack in the middle of the sentence. “Now.”

Even though you’re overcome with a need to tease him, the desire you have to be split open on his length outweighs it, so you do as you’re told and hold it in for later. It’s not easy, but you manage to manipulate yourself in his lap to work the satin down your thighs and past your knees. He helps you tug them the rest of the way past your ankles and feet, shoves them onto the floor — Chan’s hands settle back on your hips and yours skim down his stomach at the same time, fingers grazing over the little hairs that trail from his bellybutton down into his jeans. 

“Can I?” You ask, playing already with his belt buckle. 

He hums assent and you slip it all the way open, tugging as he moves his hips underneath you so you can pull it free from the loops. Between you, you manage to get his jeans unfastened, to pull both them and his boxer shorts down over his ass and to his knees; finally, fucking finally, his cock sits pretty and leaking and free between your stomach and his. It’s getting cold in the car now the heating isn’t on, but you’re already burning up in anticipation for him to ruin you; the way his abs ripple as he takes his shaft into his hand and strokes himself a couple of times to prepare tells you he’s in the same boat. 

It’s like clockwork, from here. You shift into position as easily as you settle into bed after a long day. Chan rubs his tip through your folds, feels the warmth of you and hisses through his teeth with fluttering eyes. Just like always. This never changes. He can’t ever get enough of that first feeling of his cock against your pussy: it’s like the first hit of a blunt, like the first sip of a cold beer, the first full-body stretch early in the morning. He’s sure it’s what arriving at the gates of heaven must feel like. 

You sink down onto him slowly, fluttering around his tip and stilling to give you both a moment to get used to the feeling. He’s thick inside you. Thicker than his pretty, dainty fingers have ever been able to stretch you enough for. Even as wet as you are, you still need to suck a deep breath into your lungs before you can relax your hips further and let your heat swallow him all the way to his base. 

Chan’s head is tipped back in pleasure, he’s biting his lip at the sting of your nails pressing hard into the back of his neck. He loves it, though — loves how the pain shoots in waves down his spine, how it tingles in his brain, how he knows you need to anchor yourself this way or you’ll lose control. He kneads at your ass as you sit against his thighs, listening to you whimpering at how deep he is inside you.

“So fucking tight around me still,” Chan groans, focusing all his willpower into keeping his hips down on the leather beneath him. “Shit, baby — you feel so good…” His neck softens and his head drops forward again as you start to move, rising and falling over and over. He kisses your throat and down to your collarbones while you work up to a rhythm, sliding his palms up your back, hugging you close to him. 

He isn’t even the one putting in the hard work, but within minutes of this, his soft, fluffy hair clings to his forehead. A light sheen of sweat makes him radiant under the moonlight breaking through the trees. He’s breathing heavily, the top of his toned chest painted a soft pink — you don’t think he could possibly look prettier. Not until he cups your jaw with his hands and you look upwards: you land on his smiling face, those plush, swollen lips, his devilish but sweetly glittering eyes. The sight of him, looking at you like you’re some kind of Goddess, makes your pussy tighten and your tiring hips stutter. You slip your pyjama top all the way off your arms and curl your fingers into his hair, meeting him in an open-mouthed kiss, through which you’re both just beaming. 

You’ve never kissed him this much. When it all started out, you sort of had a rule against it, but now? Neither of you can stop. As he starts to fuck up into you, taking the reins and letting your burning thighs rest, he keeps your face steady with his hands and freely allows his lips to slide against yours. It’s not refined. It can’t be. Not with how hard and fast his movements quickly become, not with the onslaught of curses and moans and babbled praise coming from the both of you. One particularly sharp thrust makes you yelp out a squeak of his name and he just swallows it down, making a point to keep aiming for— and hitting— that same spot inside you. You’re a mess. 

He could do this all night. When your orgasm bubbles inside you and he starts pinching at one of your nipples, sending you over the edge, he’s nowhere near finished. Even though your cunt massages at his length, throbbing and pulsing through your climax; even though your voice is so high by now that only dogs can hear you; even though you nearly collapse on top of him with almost all your weight in his lap, and he has to work twice as hard to keep this going, he barely slows. He definitely doesn’t stop. 

“You can gimme one more, right sweetheart?” He asks, grunting into your neck. “Always feels so fucking good when you come.” You choke up an ‘mhm’, to which he responds by slipping a hand between your bodies and down to where you’re connected. His thumb presses against your clit again — not moving, just applying enough pressure to make you stutter when you say his name. 

Your thighs are still twitching when you try to lift yourself a little, try to meet his movements as he chases his orgasm too. The “problem” with Chan is that his stamina is otherworldly. You couldn’t keep up if you wanted to. 

“Relax,” he says, tensing his jaw, doing the opposite himself. “Fuck — lie down.”

It’s pretty cramped and hard to move, but you lift yourself off him and only slightly lament at the sudden emptiness between your legs. There isn’t time to get too upset, however: moments after you get comfortable on your back, Chan shoves his jeans the rest of the way down and stands with one knee planted on the seats, lifting one of your ankles up to rest it on his shoulder. He slips back inside you easily then, gripping around your calf to keep you both steady. From the word go, his pace is relentless. You scrabble around for something to hold onto but the entire car seems to melt away; you ball your hands into fists at your sides instead, your eyes squeezed tightly shut. 

“Mm-mm. Look at me,” Chan hums, tightening his grip on your leg. “Wanna see those pretty eyes.” 

You obey, opening your lids to look up at him while he pounds into you hard enough to make the car shake. Over, and over, and over, and over. Rougher. Faster. For how long? Who even knows. All you’re truly aware of is how good it feels. How the windows grow foggy with the  steam of your laboured breaths. How his sweat mingles with your own. 

When his fingers on the other hand get reacquainted with your clit, when he bites down on his bottom lip, when his thrusts start to get messier and more erratic and the veins in his arms start to bulge out, you know he’s getting close. He doesn’t need to tell you out loud. The smirk he wears speaks for itself. 

“Where d’you want it, baby?” He asks you, pressing a kiss to the inside of your ankle. 

“In— mmh, in-…side me—” you stammer, hips jolting as you near your second orgasm to match his first. “Please, Chan — want it all…”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah—”

Well, he must’ve been holding himself back something spectacular, because a few thrusts later you watch all of his muscles contract as he tips over the edge, and you go hurtling with him. It’s all so much. All your nerve endings feel like they’re on fire and your vision starts to blur at the edges; it’s not long before you have to close your eyes to shut one of your overworked senses out, completely. Your muscles are sore. Your throat hurts. Even your lungs ache. 

God, he hasn’t gone that hard in so long, you don’t know what to do with yourself. You can barely speak — it’s going to take you a week to recover from this, minimum. 

He stills deep inside you, feeling his cock throb with the last pumps of his release. Your leg slips off his shoulder and your foot lands down with a thud onto the car’s (thankfully clean) floor; he bends forward to kiss you, still breathing heavily against your lips. You’ve come over completely boneless and reaching up to thread your fingers into his hair again feels like running a marathon at sprint pace. You’d fall asleep right here, right now, if you could, but with sweat cooling rapidly against your skin, you know that’s probably not up there as one of your finest ideas. 

“You really think getting involved with me was stupid?” Chan asks, nudging your nose with the tip of his own. He’s never been less serious than this in his entire life, which stops you feeling too bad when you lightly slap at his rock solid chest and try to push him off you.

“Yes,” you lie, attempting to reach to the ground for your pyjama shirt while he grips your chin and attacks you with tiny little pecks all over your face. “Stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”

(Chan chuckles to himself and thinks that he’s quite happy to be the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, really. He can stay that way, as long as you promise never to stop.)

thank you so much for reading. i hope you enjoyed it - likes, feedback, comments, reblogs are all so appreciated.<3

#dino smut #lee chan smut #dino x reader #seventeen smut #svt smut #svt x reader #kpop smut #j writes. #* #this description is ass we're gonna pretend it isnt. ok THANKS bye <3

[n3rdy247]

HELLOO!!

can i just get a john dory x female reader! headcanons!

john dory met while crashing the wedding and immediately started to flirt with dispite just meeting her. 🫣

THANK YOU!!

HIYAAA!! CAN YOU??? 🤔🤔🤔

girl be so fr OF COURSE YOU CAN!!!

ALL ABOAAAARD THE JOHN DORY X FEM!READER HCS!!!!! WOOOOOOOOO

Okay, so, you know the whole 'watching a cute, romantic ass wedding' plans everyone had for today? Just...watching two bergens have a nice, uninterrupted marriage?

"STOP THE WEDDING!!!"

well fuck those plans. ★ Starting off the bat, when he was literally parkouring his way down that building which just happened to be the MOMENT he noticed you from the crowd, he couldn't help but throw a wink your way right after (even though he had his goggles on, that stupid mf) which led to him face-planting to the floor because his ass was NOT paying attention to stick the landing. YIKES. ★ He also DOES notice when you are at the edge of your seat to hear what the hell is going on. Apparently, he was Branch's brother (figures since both are fine ash, MUST be in the genetics), he was in a band, and his other hot brother was in danger?

remember the wedding? yeah me neither atp

★ He can't help but steal occasional glances at you when the others talk, and when he does, his smile almost seems to widen, even if it's just for a split second. He just saw you, yet look at you go! Making him all giddy and shit inside 🤭 ★ And whenever Poppy and Branch turn their backs to discuss the whole situation, you just KNOW he would be smirking at you with a smug-ass grin, trying to strike up a conversation. Keyword? TRYING.

"Soo...come here often?" lord almighty sir THIS IS A WEDDING.

"Damn, I could really go out for some fresh air right now, because I think you took my breath away." SIR WE ARE OUTSIDE WHAT

Needless to say, this man does NOT know how to strike up a convo.

★ If you do end up getting flustered about his horrendous pick-up lines somehow, he will be so fucking proud of himself for getting a reaction out of you, and WILL keep going at it. What a charmer. (Unless you are uncomfortable with that of course, he might not know how to talk to people, but he has human (troll???) decency.) ★ I'm talking him leaning slightly closer to you with half-lidded eyes, a huge smirk plastered on his face as his voice gets lower and lower, though internally I feel like he'd be going 'LET'S FUCKING GOOOO I STILL GOT IT' since he would be a bit unsure if he was doing well in the first place. It's probably been years since he had any sort of interaction with anyone other than Rhonda so it's understandable. ★ Not to mention BROZONE. MY GOD. If you know about his band? NICE! If you don't know anything about it? NICE! Either way, this man will absolutely brag about it to you. Even if it has been AT LEAST 20 YEARS. He will absolutely talk about 'the good old days' as if it was just yesterday. Bro would probably talk about how he wrote the hits "Girl Baby Baby" and "Baby Baby Girl" on the same day. ★And who knows? Maybe at the end of the wedding when sadly he has to go to save his brother with Branch and Poppy, you'll end up getting a way to contact him after the whole thing ends. You will see him sooner than you think, that's for sure though!

(please keep in mind this is the first time I've written any serious headcanons like these and not just stuff like 'he would be a great hugger' or 'he was a 7.5-inch haver 🤯🤯🤯')

GRAAAGH I'M STILL SO SORRY IT TOOK ME SO LONG TO WRITE THIS THOUGH, I STILL HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE IT EVEN IF IT IS SHORT AS HELL

#the winking HC was actually my bestie's idea so PROPS TO HER #I LOVE YOU MAXY TAXI /P #trolls #trolls 3 #trolls band together #trolls x reader #trolls john dory #john dory trolls #john dory x reader #john dory headcanons #jomn drory /pos #explodes like an atom bomb #I'M GENUINELY SO SORRY IT TOOK THIS LONG #this was probably not worth the wait for the requester i'm so sorry