#i will love her forever because once she was my best friend and i just cant forget 9 years like that
Chapter Six: Prophetic Girl
The Pariahs That Saved The World
Word Count: 3.1k
Warnings: canon-events (demobats), some fluffy bits in this one, vecna's curse, not proof-read
[A/N: Oh my goodness, the procrastinator has returned- Whew, thank you all for your patience! I finally found some time to finish the next chapter; I really didn't want to rush anything so just know this one was created with every ounce of love <3)
Prophetic Girl
You don’t know why you dived into the water with the others.
You weren’t a particularly strong swimmer, nor did you have a heroic nature urging you to help save a friend.
The look Robin gave you as her best friend was dragged under the water was probably the culprit, ripping open your heart with her absolute terror.
That was the scariest part of it all. The emotional discipline you had forced upon yourself over the past year could be shattered in seconds from just one look, reigniting a feeling you thought was lost forever. And god dammit, you would do anything to make sure that feeling never got away from you again.
“Steve!” Robin screams as you pull yourself out of the gate, wiping the water from your face.
The Upside Down. It wasn’t like you expected it to be. You know they had described it as a reflection of Hawkins, a darker universe than the one you resided in, yet part of you always assumed there’d be something strangely beautiful about this place. But you were here now, rushing to the others to help them fight off the local bats, looking around with nothing but disgust on your face.
Perhaps you couldn’t find the beauty in everything after all.
You barely reached the others before Eddie was shouting behind you. Duck? In the last second, you mange to crouch to the ground and avoid something with claws flying over your head, screeching into the dark sky. You blink. Was that a…
“Bats!” Eddie exasperates, grabbing an oar from the ground and charging full speed at the one swinging back for a second time.
It was a chaotic blur of stress and adrenaline, somehow batting away small razor sharp teeth and wrestling against their surprisingly slimy bodies. You had managed to pull one from Nancy’s back and drive your boot down on its head before Robin pulled you away from an attack, Eddie’s oar quick to slam it to the ground.
Steve was bitten pretty badly, the first thing you observed as he spat out the head of a bat, panting. You thought Eddie was about to explode from excitement, looking at you with wide eyes and suppressing a smile. How he managed to find joy even in hell, you would never know.
“You okay?” Robin’s hand shook as she places both hands on her best friend’s shoulders, worried eyes searching his. He lets out a breathy laugh and nods, her body practically depleting in relief.
“You’re sure?” Nancy prompts, and he examines himself closer, still nodding. “Took about a pound of flesh but, uh, other than that… never better.”
You let out a sigh and wipe your brow, watching as Robin crouches beside you to shine a light on a bat corpse.
“Uh, do you guys think these bats have, like, rabies?” Robin questions, looking up at you with a frown.
“What?” Steve gapes, and you suck in your lips.
“It’s just that rabies are, like, my number one greatest fear.” She explains, standing back up, “And I think we should get you to a doctor really soon because once symptoms set in, it’s too late. You’re already dead.”
Both Steve and Nancy look at her in exasperation, their features clearly telling that they didn’t appreciate Robin’s spiralling input. You start to smirk.
“Or you’ll become a vampire.” You offer with a grin and he mockingly nods his head.
“We need to get you patched up.” Nancy states, looking dishevelled from the fight, looking around, “Maybe we can-”
The trail of thoughts were lost as you all watch another group of bats fly down to where the gate rested, tearing at it. You squint your eyes, focusing. What were they doing?
“Uh, guys?” Eddie interrupts, and you turn to see him staring at the sky, your eyes widening. “I think we need to get out of here.”
“Nah, there’s not that many, we can take ‘em.” Steve breathes out, wincing when you lightly tap him. But it draws everyone else’s focus up to the sight that had you and Eddie stood in fear.
As your eyes fixate on the litter of shapes between the warm clashes of red and blue, you quickly start to nod, grabbing Eddie by the shirt and pulling him into a run as you all silently agree to a fast escape.
“The trees!” You yell, pointing to your left and you all head for the treeline, ducking for cover just as the bats attempt to swoop down, blocked by the thick expanse of wood.
You all manage to huddle under the flipped version of Skull Rock, panting as the bats fly past with no prey in their sight.
“That… was more cardio than I paid for.” Robin gasps and you collapse against a rock, catching your breath.
Nancy was quick to start patching Steve up despite his polite objections. You even raised an impressed eyebrow when she rips off the hem of her shirt to substitute bandages with fabric, sharing a look of awe with Eddie.
Out the corner of your eye, you see Robin trying to calm Steve down in a way that would have you smiling. But Steve didn’t look to be in the smiling nature.
Calmly, you place a hand on her shoulder and gently guide her away, the girl giving you a smile.
Instead of berating her best friend with a million facts and questions that would probably stress him out, she took a seat on the ground opposite you, her smile noticeably less bright when Eddie plops directly beside you, groaning.
“So… anyone got a blunt?”
“Jesus Christ.” You groan with a smirk, eyeing him with amusement. “You seriously think now is a good time to be getting high?”
“I personally think this is the best time to get high.” He says with confidence, stretching out his legs.
“You’re an idiot.” You say, adoration in your voice that made Robin’s skin crawl.
“Ouch.” He mockingly holds his hand to his heart, “I wasn’t treated this way when you needed a smoke after you rear-ended Mrs Click’s car-”
“Shut up!” You hiss with laughter, gently shoving him away from you and he chuckles, shoving back.
As she watched the two of you tease one another with an ease that made her queasy, Robin’s brows furrowed. You were both much closer than she had hoped for.
“Why did you guys break up?”
The quiet laughter broke into silence, inquisitive eyes suddenly set on hers. She feels her ears burn, quickly swooping her hair forward to conceal them.
“Thank you for asking.” Eddie claps his hands like it was an interview and you roll your eyes, immediately easing the tension. “Well, you see, we were like, what? 15? 15. It was cute, very short, and we realised we were better friends. Right?”
“That’s about it.” You shrug, smiling. Your eyes land on hers with a lightness to them that made her heart swoon.
“So why did you even get together in the first place?” She frowns, face dropping when his eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, god, that sounded meaner than it did in my head.”
“We hadn’t really tried the friend part yet.” You chuckle, and Eddie hums.
“Too blinded by our mutual hatred for King Steve and his merry band of idiots.”
“So you could say Steve brought us closer together.” You quip and Robin suppresses a laugh.
“One of you say my name?” Steve suddenly asks and you all fall into laughter, ignoring the boy’s curious frown.
After a while, Eddie shakes his head and jumps up to stalk over to a fallen tree trunk, inspecting it.
“He’s pretty cool.” Robin sighs, watching him step up onto the wood and survey the land like an explorer.
“Yeah.” You look over your shoulder with a smile, something like sadness flickering across your face for just a fleeting moment. If Robin didn’t find herself completely captivated with every movement you made, she would have missed it completely. Was it… regret? Did you regret the break up? Did you want him back-
“So, uh…” Eddie’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts as you all turn to where he stood at the tip of the tree trunk. “This place is like Hawkins, but with monsters and nasty shit?”
“Pretty much.” Nancy responds, grunting a little as she attempts to shift some of Steve’s weight onto her. “Wait, watch out for the vines. It’s all a hive mind.”
“It’s all a what?”
“All the creepy crawlies around here, dude. They’re like, one or something.” Steve tries to explain, wincing as he brushes his hand over the bandages.
“I repeat, it’s all a what?” Eddie frowns and you stand up, grimacing.
“Uh, step on a vine, you step on literally everything else at the same time and then, well, evil wizard comes to snap our bones.” You shrug, his mouth parted in shock as he nods slowly in recognition.
“Shit.” He simply says, starting his descent.
“But everything from our world is still here, right? Except people, obviously?” Robin appears beside you, her arm brushing against yours.
“As far as I understand it, yeah.” Nancy nods and you can practically hear the cogs turning in Robin’s mind, humming with excitement.
“So, theoretically, we could go to the police station and steal guns and grenades and whatever we need to blow up those bat things that are guarding the gate.” She suggests and you vigorously nod along to her idea, loving where her mind was at.
“I highly doubt the Hawkins PD has grenades, Robin. But guns, yeah, sure.” Steve rolls his eyes and you hum.
“I don’t know, I definitely think Hopper would stash grenades somewhere.” You say and Nancy tilts her head in acknowledgement, silently agreeing.
“Well, we don’t have to go all the way downtown for guns.” Nancy says and you raise your eyebrow. “I have guns. In my bedroom.”
“You,” Eddie jumps down with surprise, brows furrowed. “Nancy Wheeler, have guns, plural, in your bedroom?”
“Full of surprises, isn’t she?” Robin grins.
Eddie doesn’t look convinced.
“Be a sceptic, but I watched her shoot at a demogorgon that was emerging from the ceiling.” You snort, crossing your arms. “And I gotta tell ya, Nancy owning guns is the least surprising thing in that sentence.”
“A Russian Makarov and a revolver.” Nancy confirms.
“Yeah, you almost shot me with that one.” Steve comments, getting closer.
Nancy starts to smile, turning her head to him. “You almost deserved it.”
They share a look and you twist your face. “Gag me with a spoon.”
“I got it.” Eddie says, slipping off his denim vest and launching it at Steve, the boy barely catching it before it hit his face. “For your modesty, dude.”
You almost laughed at his face until the ground violently shook beneath you, throwing you off balance and sending you crashing into Robin. She tried her best to catch you, but she was already falling to the ground, your body laying on top of her and you both squeezed your eyes shut until the earthquake stopped.
“What… the hell… was that?” You pant, turning your head to see Robin’s wide eyes staring back at you. For a second, you couldn’t peel your eyes away, closer than you ever would have imagined.
The moment was short-lived, a chorus of snarls and screeches echoing through the woods like an omen.
“Yeah, so guns seem like a pretty good idea to me.” Eddie gasps.
“Yeah me too.”
“Me three.”
You and Robin both reply as you peel away from eachother, avoiding eye contact like neither of you had any kind of self-restraint.
It was impossible not to notice a particular pair of eyes on you as your own stayed glued to the ground, unfamiliar with the Upside Down and its tricks. For anyone to be watched would be somewhat discomforting, but not in this particular instance. Because, for as long as you can remember now, anytime she’s looked away, your eyes have been returning the favour.
“Did you wanna say something?”
You finally break the silent streak occurring between you and Robin, her sheepish smile brightening her face once she realises she’s been caught.
“I, uh…” She fumbles around for an excuse, letting out a low whistle. “Was just making sure you’re okay. That’s all. Nothing weird.”
“Why do you keep asking me that?” You laugh, catching her eyes and she almost melts. “Do I not look okay?”
“You look amazing.” Robin shakes her head, blinking when she realises what she just said. “Uh, I didn’t mean that. Not that you don’t look amazing, you do, even after all of that. Not in a weird- what I meant to say was I don’t think you aren’t okay, I was just…”
She lets out a groan and you laugh again.
“I’ve just dragged you into this and I can’t help thinking it will be my fault if you aren’t okay.”
“Robin.” You carefully step over a vine, clearing your throat. “Before you showed up at my door, I was already deciding that I was going to help.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” You bite your lip, shrugging. “The, uh, the first time Nancy asked me to help, I wasn’t thinking straight. I just wasn’t in the mood to try and save a town that I hated. It was… complicated.”
“What changed your mind?”
“My gran.” You smile, albeit sadly. “I suddenly realised that I’ve lost too many people here. Even if… even if I don’t belong here, the people living in this town don’t deserve to die. I can’t just leave when people I care about are in danger.”
“So my whole speech was just for nothing?”
“Not for nothing.” You shake your head, suddenly sending her a smirk. “It was very entertaining.”
“Shut up.” Robin giggles, nudging your arm playfully.
As she does, her joy momentarily distracts her from her own very important mission: do not trip.
It almost cost her, glancing down at the last second to come to a screeching halt, the toes of her boots a fraction away from brushing the side of a vine. Her sudden stop itself threw her off balance, and she felt herself falling back.
Until your hands reached out and caught hers, pulling her closer to you before she fell victim to gravity completely.
“Thanks.” She says breathlessly, and you can only nod, looking down to where your fingers interlocked hers.
Clearing your throat, you take your hands back and offer a smile, ignoring the sickly sweet feeling of your heartbeat drumming a little faster than it had been before your hands found someone’s to hold.
“Gotta be careful.” You whisper, returning your eyes to the path and moving towards Nancy’s silhouette up ahead. Robin stood there for a moment longer, biting her lip.
She was just torturing herself now. Either she said something, prayed for some kind of miracle, or she moved on. There was no point living in this romance limbo when there were more important things to worry about.
Her feet were tired by the time you reach the Wheeler house, shifting in her shoes as Steve takes the flashlight from her and clicks it on, the door creaking beneath his push.
The interior reflected its exterior, dark and covered head to toe with vines that made her grimace at the sight.
“Might be time to get a maid, Wheeler.” Robin jokes, almost jumping when she hears you shut the door.
“Sorry.” You mouth, walking into the space. “Wow. Love the décor.”
“Come on,” Nancy tilts her head to the staircase, “I don’t want to stay here longer than we have to.���
She starts bounding up the steps, and Robin gives you a shrug before she and Eddie start to follow up, your own footsteps behind Steve’s. Except, for some reason, he stops.
“Hello?” You crane your neck around to where he’s shining the flashlight at nothing. “Earth to Steve?”
“Shhh.” He whispers, holding a finger to his lips. You frown. “I hear something.”
“Oh god.” Your shoulders slump. “You’re not hallucinating, are you? Because I can’t be the one to tell Robin the rabies got you.”
“Just… shut up.” He says, slipping past you and moving to the corner. “It’s him.”
Any sarcastic quips you had rattling around your brain were pushed away, fear flooding your body. “Vecna?”
“What? No, no.” He shakes his head, holding his finger in the air. “Henderson.”
“Hend-” You stop, tilting your head. “You can hear Dustin?”
“Just…” He sighs and waltz over to you, placing a hand on your back and moving you to where he was previously stood.
“Oh, hey, Y/n, come over here.” You mumble as you shrug his hand off of you. “What am I-”
“Just listen.” He says and you sigh, shutting your mouth and entertaining the idea.
For a moment, nothing.
And then the voice whispers around you, muffled, and most definitely Dustin’s.
“Holy shit.” You breathe out and Steve nods furiously. “Holy shit.”
“Dustin!” He starts to shout and you join him, the both of you shouting around the space. “Dustin!”
Once they hear your yelling, the other three are running down the stairs, Robin’s heart beating fast, assuming that the minute she left you had been attacked and there would be no way to-
“What the…” Eddie mutters and she widens her eyes in disbelief.
“Dustin! Hello?!”
The two of you are yelling at the walls and ceilings, making her blink.
“Maybe he really does have rabies.” She comments and Eddie frowns.
“Is it contagious?” He asks and she tilts her head, still fixated on the shouting frenzy.
“Only if he bit her.”
“Hello?” Dustin?!”
“Guys, what are you doing?” Nancy interrupts your next cry for the young boy and you turn to them, breathing heavy.
“We heard Dustin.” You breathlessly explain and Steve nods behind you, still shouting.
“He's here. Henderson. That little shit, he's here. He's like... He's in the walls or something. Just listen.” Steve grins at them before walking away, continuing his call. “Dustin!”
“Uh…” You stare as he spins around in a circle. “He might look crazy, but I promise he’s right. Listen.”
You watch the realisation fall over their faces, making you smile.
They fan out, calling out his name and following in Steve’s lead, trying to communicate with the boy on the other side.
As you go to join them, you catch something out of the corner of your eye, reflecting on the glass of the window. You can still hear Dustin’s voice droning in and out, like a radio that hadn’t been sent to the right frequency. But it didn’t sound the same as before. Something was different.
Your refection was blurry, making you squint. Goosebumps started to trail across your skin, making you shiver. It wasn’t your reflection.
Robin was the only to see how you blinked into a state of paralysis, immediately calling out for help as she rushes over to you.
It seemed like Vecna had something else to say.
Chapter Seven, coming soon...
taglist: @kryztalglear . @learninglinesintherainn . @officerrrfriendly . @a-simpfortessa-lesbriean . @spacedoutdaydreamer . @endurexxsurvive . @em16cor . @gray-cheese . @chaosofmanyfandoms . @kitdjarin1 . @some-day--some-how . @cultish-corner . @marirxse .
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Anywhere u go - part ten
Author’s note: and the school fic comes to an end. This is the last piece of writing that I will be posting on this blog so I just want to say thank you to everyone who read this series and supported my writing, it truly meant a lot to me. I hope you guys enjoy this last bit ❤️🩹 love you
Also I found this picture on Pinterest - if you know the owner please let me know so I can credit them!
wc: 1155 - English is not my first language! Feedback is alway appreciated
Part one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine
If you would have told anyone this entire story, people probably wouldn’t have believed you. You feel your heart beating fast in your chest as you wait for Ross to appear near the backstage door.
Once your beautiful fiancé shows up with a big smile, it’s like your heart calms down for a bit. Ross embraces you in a warm hug as you smile back at him.
“How are you feeling?” - you ask him.
“A bit nervous, but excited to play. And very happy that you’re here” - he smiles a bit more before kissing you softly.
“Good luck out there babe, I know you’ll be amazing. I can’t wait to see you and scream at the top of my lungs how proud I am of my fiancé” - you smile wide at the tall man in front of you, now blushing like a little kid.
“I love you” - he confesses as you give him a reassuring kiss.
You go to the side of the stage, next to the other wives and the boys’ families.
You spot Molly immediately, it’s hard not to when her pregnant belly is so noticeable. Her hand rests on her bump and the engagement diamond shines right next to her wedding ring. She looks proudly at George, with her eyes shining a beautiful shade of love for her husband.
You miss her, it’s something you can’t deny. She was your best friend and will forever hold a special place in your heart, even after all the bad things that happened between you two.
You stare at her for maybe a little too long and she notices. She walks to you and gives you a soft smile.
“How is the little one?” - you ask her gently.
“Growing up really fast! It’s a girl, by the way” - she tells you.
“A girl? Lara?” - you question and Molly’s face lights up in response. Of course she would name her daughter Lara. When you two were kids, she learned about that name in some book she read. “It means home and protection! How beautiful”, she would explain to you. “There’s no way I’m not naming a future daughter of mine, Lara” - you remember.
“Yes, Lara” - she confirms and you two fall into an uncomfortable moment of silence.
“Listen, I want to say I’m sorry. I acted like a real bitch” - Molly says to you. You look into her eyes and try to see some truth in them.
“It’s okay, that’s long forgotten already” - you simply reply.
“Yeah. And truth be told… if I didn’t left your side, I wouldn’t have found my soulmate. I wouldn’t be married and expecting a baby with George” - Molly says proudly.
Ouch. That leaves a bittersweet feeling inside of you. It stings a little, knowing that she doesn’t regret leaving your side. She clearly doesn’t miss you in the same way that you have been missing her.
The lights start to dim and music starts playing. All of you turn your attention to the stage, waiting for the boys to show up.
And there they are. Singing and playing their hearts out.
You, and everyone around you are screaming the lyrics like true fangirls, hyping up your boys. You even held a paper where you wrote “only here for Ross!”, which made your fiancé laugh out loud when he noticed it.
You were tremendously proud of him. Who would’ve said that the boys you first saw playing at Matty’s garage, would now be playing to a sold out Madison Square Garden. It’s like your heart doesn’t fit in your chest anymore and Ross is its physical representation. He would hold all the love, pride and care that you ever felt for someone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this next song is very special because Ross and George wrote it together” - Matty explains to the audience.
“Long story short, they were in love with the same girl, Ross got the girl, George got his heart broken, and they used what they’ve been through in that experience, to write this next song” - the lead singer continues to say on the microphone.
“And that girl is right here tonight, give it up for Y/N, soon to be Mrs. MacDonald” - Matty cheers and the crowd goes crazy at his words.
The curly boy runs to where you stand and holds your hand for you to join the band on stage.
The music starts playing and you look at Matty smiling while he starts singing. On your left, you see Ross winking at you with a huge adoration in his features as he looks so tenderly at you.
Matty indicates you to follow him through the song, as he playfully dances with you.
You start to feel a little nervous as your turn is getting closer, but Matty gives you a soothing and reassuring hug.
You take a deep breath and start singing your verses. The crowd sings along with you and you feel alive, like you have the world in the palm of your hand. At the same time, you feel so tiny, compared to the thousands of people that are watching you and making you feel like you’ve just been engulfed in a warm hug.
And I'll miss you on a train, I'll miss you in the morning
I never know what to think about
I think about you
You sing your final words and look at George with an apologetic look in your eyes. George hasn’t been speaking much to you since everything went down, but now he gives you a warm smile back, which makes your heart flutter a little bit.
In the end of the song, Ross hugs you strongly, speaking in your ear and telling you how proud he is of you, and how lucky he feels to have you as his life partner.
You’re the lucky one, though. No matter how bad things would get, Ross never left your side. And everything that you’ve been through, helped you building your character and taught you important life lessons.
You’re sorry that you won’t be the aunt of Molly’s daughter, like you two always talked about. You won’t see the little girl grow, you won’t help her making surprises to her mom. No matter how hard we may dream, some things are made only for us to watch and admire from afar, like the stars.
Molly won’t be the godmother that you’ve always dreamed for you baby, either. But in the end, it’s okay. You’re grateful for all the moments and experiences you both shared, and you must move on from the past, into the future.
You now have other things to worry about, like finding a way of breaking the news to your fiancé on how you can’t marry him just yet - your dress won’t be fitting you in a few months from now.
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ALSO I was overthinking and end up cooking so here, have a tier list of Thesa's level of romancability for the xiv man
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i love best friends. i’d love to have one someday
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these past few days i have been uncharacteristically. emotionally open. w my friend and it has me thinking about how truly for all of my life i just did not expect anything from anyone
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I will forever be pissed that they gave kiryu an actual love story (the first and only time they actually gave him a proper love story instead of just confessing his love very quickly before the girl succumbs to her injuries) and then retconned his love interest out of the other games like WHY WPUDL YOU DO THAT.
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that guy ⊹ steve harrington
summary: After he's been to yet another failed date with yet another random pretty girl, Steve Harrington, your best friend, stops by at the diner your family owns for a late-night chat, same as he'd done a thousand times before. Steve is totally unaware of how much he's hurting you with his endless parade of dates, because after all — the two of you are only friends and nothing more, right? It's not like you have any secret feelings for him�� | 2.6k words
── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──
The moment Steve steps through the glass doors of the diner, you wonder, for about the millionth time that month alone, what is it that you've done so wrong to deserve this kind of punishment.
It's Friday night, and on Friday nights, Steve Harrington goes on dates. It's just like clockwork, really: he meets a pretty girl, thinks she's the one, takes her out on a date, realizes quickly enough that she isn't quite what he was looking for, then comes here after having dropped her back home to sulk with you, in the diner that your family runs, still clad in the outfit he'd chosen especially for his failed date.
To be honest, he never looks sad, per se — more like disappointed. Frustrated, maybe.
You watch as he weaves around tables occupied by laughing friends, past booths filled with couples sharing desserts, then slides into a seat in front of you at the bar. Steve sits down with an exhausted sigh, ruffling up his hair before shooting you a tired smile.
"Hi."
You don't look up from where you're polishing the counter. "Bad date again?"
"Not even close. She talked about horses non-stop."
A quiet laugh slips past your lips despite yourself, and finally, you tear your gaze off the dark wooden surface of the counter to look up at him; he's got this pleased little smile on his face, the corners of his eyes crinkled ever so slightly in the way they always do whenever he succeeds at making you laugh, even if just a little.
How are you supposed to keep acting like nothing's wrong when he looks at you like that?
You clear your throat awkwardly and make yourself busy stacking clean glasses next to the coffee machine.
"So...not the one, I take it?"
Steve leans forward against the counter and props his head up with his hand, sighing deeply.
"I'm starting to think she won't ever show up," he says quietly, running his other hand through his hair. You chance another glance at him and note how genuinely worried he looks. It breaks your heart almost as much as it annoys you. "What is it that's wrong with me, huh? I just don't get it."
"Nothing is wrong with you."
"You don't need to be nice to me. We've been friends since forever, remember?"
The word 'friends' makes you wince a little bit inside, but you hide the reaction behind a neutral frown. "Do you think there's something wrong with me? Because I haven't found the one yet either, you know."
Steve's expression softens as he looks at you, and once again you feel that horrible twinge in your stomach that you wish would just stop already.
"It's different. I mean—you're not actively trying to find someone." He reaches out to pull one of the half-melted mints out from the glass bowl on the counter and pops it into his mouth with a shrug. "I go out looking for her and she just doesn't come. If she even exists, that is."
"She does."
"Well, thanks for the vote of confidence, but I wouldn't hold my breath. God, why am I such an idiot, y'know?" Steve slumps over the counter with a groan, burying his face into his crossed arms. "My love life is a trainwreck."
"At least you have one."
He glances up at you curiously and lifts an eyebrow. "What does that mean?"
"Nothing. Forget it. Do you want some pie?"
You're not about to tell him what you've only admitted to yourself mere months ago — that you're actually hopelessly, madly, stupidly in love with him, and that you have been ever since the two of you were just dumb kids racing around your parents' diner.
What makes it even worse is that you had no idea your feelings went that deep until Steve started going on these dates of his again. Before then, everything was normal — you met up every weekend and binged on candy, watched bad movies on your couch, drove around town together blasting The Clash on his BMW's speakers...it was good.
Until it wasn't.
"Wait, c'mon, you can't just leave me hanging like that," Steve presses. He shifts a little on his stool to better face you, then gestures at you with his hands. "You've clearly got something you wanna say, so, like—hit me. Lay it on me."
"Nothing. I'm just saying...at least you're trying, you know," you say carefully, measuring each word before speaking them. "And at least you're the one doing the rejecting. Could be worse."
Steve's eyebrows rise high up on his forehead and he looks at you incredulously. "Whoa, wait���are you trying to tell me you've been rejected?"
You busy yourself by filling two tall glasses with soda, then slide one to his side of the counter and keep the other for yourself. "Uh...kind of, yeah. But it's fine."
"But who the hell would even do that?" he blurts out. There's anger in his voice all of a sudden, a defensive fire in his eyes that makes you feel as if someone has punched you in the gut. "To you? You're like, the nicest person on the planet, and super pretty to boot. That's just—that's crazy!"
Your heart gives a violent little jump in your chest. He thinks you're pretty. Steve Harrington thinks you're pretty.
Pretty as a friend, you correct yourself immediately, and sigh as you sip your drink. Of course, it's nothing more than that — just meaningless words spoken in a moment of unthinking kindness.
"Seriously, who?" he presses on. "Give me a name. I'll fight him."
"You mean like you fought Jonathan Byers?" you smile behind your glass, looking at him from over its rim.
Steve looks embarrassed at the memory and drops his gaze for a second or two before meeting your eyes again with a playful little smile of his own. "Different situation, okay, but that's not the point. So? Who's the guy?"
"You...don't know him," you hedge.
"It's Hawkins. I know the stray cats here by name."
"Fine, well, even if you did know him, it doesn't matter. He didn't reject me, exactly...not really."
Steve frowns a little. "Okay, you're gonna have to start making sense now. This is hurting my head."
The funny thing is, he actually looks confused, as if he can't possibly fathom the idea of someone rejecting you. It's sweet, really — way too sweet for your liking, especially when you know fully well he doesn't see you in the way you'd want him to.
You lower your gaze to avoid his and instead focus on drawing random shapes on the counter with your index finger, where tiny droplets of condensation from your glass have pooled up on the dark wood. "I mean, I never really told him how I felt. Not directly. It just…never happened."
"Oh. Well, then how do you even know if he feels the same way?" he asks you, looking rather doubtful.
You steal another glance at him and almost regret it instantly. His eyes are trained on your face, patient and attentive like you're the only thing worth watching in the world. It makes you feel horribly small and selfish and guilty, because after all, what right do you have to want him when he so clearly wants someone else?
You feel like you could cry. You might, if you don't distract yourself with something fast enough.
"I just know. Do you want some pie? I'll go get you some pie."
Without waiting for a response, you rush off to the kitchen even though there's plenty of pies sitting on the display counter at the bar, and you make a beeline straight for the back exit.
The alley behind the diner is blissfully empty as usual, just a lonely dumpster and a handful of sad-looking shrubs and weeds peeking out from under the concrete.
No, you aren't going to cry.
This is stupid.
You press your back against the rough brick wall of the diner and breathe in deep the warm night air, then exhale slowly as you count to ten in your head.
When the door opens behind you and the diner's familiar chatter and clatter of cutlery spill into the alley, you wince, mentally cursing yourself for being so goddamn weak. You should have known better.
You don't have to look up to know that it's him.
"Are you hiding from me?" Steve's voice comes, quiet and curious and maybe just a little bit hurt, even.
"I got...suddenly nauseous," you explain weakly, still refusing to look up and meet his eyes.
There's a long stretch of silence, and you feel Steve move closer to you until he's leaning against the wall by your side. You finally look up and find him smiling, this gentle, amused little thing that makes your traitorous heart skip a beat.
"You look just fine to me."
You stare up at the sky, head against the wall. "I thought I was gonna throw up."
He's still watching you, you can tell; you're keenly aware of his eyes on you, so much so that your skin prickles at the attention. "No, you didn't."
"No, I didn't," you admit with a sigh, and turn your head to finally look at him. He's got this little half-smile on his lips, the very same one you fell for years ago, and you curse yourself silently for never learning how to let him go. Really let him go.
"Hey. Listen. You don't have to tell me, okay?" Steve says gently, pushing himself off the wall to step closer to you. He brings his hand up to your face and tucks a loose lock of hair behind your ear, letting his fingertips linger on the edge of your jaw for the briefest of moments, just long enough for you to wonder whether he knows what he's doing to you.
You don't dare to move. You're afraid of breaking whatever spell has seemingly come over him.
"I should've never asked. That was selfish."
"Forget it," you say.
He's standing close now, close enough that you have to tilt your chin up to be able to look up at him properly. There's a strange kind of tension in his eyes, something dark and unsure and tentative, and his gaze darts down to your lips just the slightest bit.
You're fairly sure you're just seeing what you want to see, your foolish heart playing tricks on you. But you panic nonetheless, feeling a sudden, irrational fear that if he moves any closer, he'll realize the truth — that you're a liar and a coward, that you've been harboring these feelings of yours for him for years.
"I should—I should go. Back inside," you mutter, pointing vaguely at the door with your thumb. "In there."
"Sure, yeah. Okay. In there," he echoes, not making a single move to leave. "Not out here."
"Yup. Exactly. In there."
"So you said."
"Yep."
The wall of the diner is digging into your spine uncomfortably, and your mouth is dry, and your knees feel weak, and your stomach is doing somersaults, and the longer he stares at you with those eyes of his the more you feel like you're burning from the inside out and—
He's not moving. All he does is look at you, really look at you, as if it's the first time he's really looked, as if he's seeing something that wasn't there before.
"Okay, so—"
You try to push past him towards the door, but Steve grabs your arm, making you stop dead in your tracks. He lets go as soon as you look up at him, lifting his hand in front of him in an apologetic gesture.
"Sorry. I'm sorry," he says. He swallows hard and rubs his palm on the front of his jeans, a nervous little habit you think he's always had. He runs his hand through his hair, mussing up the carefully gelled strands, and it's probably the first time you've ever seen him look so flustered.
He laughs nervously and gestures at the ground with his hands as he speaks. "Look, this is just—this is just crazy, okay, but I think I, uh, maybe sort of realized something."
You blink at him, not quite certain you're hearing him correctly.
"Realized what?" you ask, the words barely more than a whisper.
Steve clears his throat and nods at you, seemingly pleased that you've finally spoken. "Yeah, well, this is stupid, but you know how you're always telling me to listen to my gut?"
"You're not making a whole lot of sense right now, Steve."
"Just bear with me for a sec, okay? This is like, totally new to me." He holds his palms up, and you notice his hands are shaking a little. "I just need a minute, alright?"
He breathes in deep and exhales slowly, then shoots you an apologetic look.
"Sorry, this is just...really weird," he confesses. "Weirdly real."
"You're freaking me out," you tell him, but Steve only smiles at you.
"Maybe I should just show you. Because, I mean, what if I'm wrong? That'd be terrible, obviously."
"Steve."
"Yeah, I know, but hear me out, okay?" he says quickly, and takes another step closer. You stand your ground this time, if only because you don't trust yourself to actually move without your legs giving out. "So, look. Here's the thing. You're, like—you're one of the most important people in my life. You've been there for me when nobody else was, and I...you mean a lot to me."
"Steve—"
"Shut up, you're ruining the moment."
He takes another step forward until he's crowding you against the wall, hand coming to rest next to your head on the brick. He's close, so close that you can smell the scent of his cologne and shampoo and laundry detergent, and if you were to lean in even the slightest bit, your faces would bump.
Steve is a little out of breath, his lips parted ever so slightly. And he's still looking at you with that strange, searching expression of his.
"Is this okay?" he whispers.
"I don't—what?"
Your voice catches in your throat. There's no room for doubt in his eyes now, not even the tiniest, slightest sliver of uncertainty left.
"This," Steve murmurs.
He tilts his head to the side a little and leans in until you're sure your noses are touching, and you feel your eyes slip closed in anticipation.
"Is this okay?" he repeats in a whisper. "Please tell me I'm not crazy."
"I think I am."
His lips brush yours. It feels like an accident, doesn't last long enough to be anything but a dream. You can still taste the faint, sweet trace of sugar and mint on your tongue when he pulls away, though.
"Just to be clear," Steve whispers, his fingers brushing lightly over the skin of your neck, tracing invisible lines that make you shiver, "am I the guy from earlier? The one you like?"
You don't have it in you to deny it anymore.
"Yes. It's you."
A wide grin breaks out across his face, and suddenly he's everywhere; he cups your face in his hands, pressing eager, fervent kisses along the line of your jaw, trailing hot and open-mouthed down the side of your neck.
You giggle helplessly, grabbing Steve by his collar to pull him away from you and up to your eye level. He's breathing just as heavily as you are, his hair messy and his eyes bright.
"How do you do this to me, huh?" he pants, kissing your forehead, the tip of your nose, the corner of your mouth. "You just—you just completely knock me out."
A pleasant little thrill rushes up your spine at that.
"Oh yeah?"
"Completely."
You kiss him this time.
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Hi everyone! This is Claire. I am writing to let you all know that we did it. We saved Bailey and Tiger Fluff, and we all live together in an apartment in Illinois, my home state. We really, really did it!!!
You can read our thanks, thoughts, and more under the read more :0)
(note: Oliver also goes by Bailey! She has two names.)
There are many important people on this journey that we would like to specifically thank.
First, all of our friends (especially Peregrine, Sophie, and Jackson) who were there on the day Bailey was evicted, who listened to me and helped me figure out what to do when I felt more lost than I’ve ever been. Without them we wouldn’t have been able to act so quickly and efficiently. Because of them, we were able to formulate a plan.
Speaking of Jackson, he and his partner Cherri need to be thanked once again. Jackson drove all the way from his home, Bailey’s motel, and back to get both her and Tiger to a place to stay while we figured out what to do next. They provided a warm, quiet, and safe place for both of them in a time when something like that was so far away. For the first time in a long time, I knew that Bailey was truly somewhere safe. For that, we will be forever grateful.
While we do not have their names, we would like to thank the staff of the airport and airline who helped make this journey objectively possible. They also made Tiger into a little celebrity on the flight, and everyone, including the pilot, went to greet her and congratulate her for being so brave. She really is the bravest little kitty we know.
Next are my very close friends Elle and Callan, who invited Bailey and Tiger to stay at their house not far from mine while we secured a place of our own. They, like Jackson and Cherri, gave both of them the space to simply be. I was able to visit a couple of times, and being with my favorite people made an extremely difficult time so much better. It made me think “this feeling is what we are fighting for”.
Finally, we’d like to thank you.
To all of you who read and shared our story, you helped us to feel seen and heard and not alone. Reading words of support in the comments, quote retweets, and tumblr tags truly made me feel like we could do this with everyone cheering us on.
To everyone who donated, your generosity this financially possible. As of writing, we received $19,381 from the GoFundMe. We are now able to use the rest of funds that have been tucked away in savings for rent, food, and bills. I cannot overstate how grateful we both are. What you did for us will never leave our hearts.
…
While Bailey and Fluffy were at Elle and Callan’s, we found an apartment. It was small, but perfect. We toured. We applied. And we got it.
And on December 9th, 2023, we moved in and started living together! Our goal, our dream, our driving force for so long was achieved. After three years of long distance, we finally made it.
Our home is small, and has some quirks as all homes do, but it’s ours. The love of my life, the best little cat in the word, and I are all together. We are safe, warm, happy, and loved. The future we fought so hard for us now the present. Forgive me for being long-winded. I just have so much to say about all of this! Sometimes I still can’t believe that we actually did it. But we did, we really did!!!
I’m going to keep the GoFundMe up for a little bit, but once things settle more I will close donations.
Thank you!!!!!!!!! 🧸💕
____
Hey everyone Bailey here, I cannot overstate just how grateful I am to every single one of you and how thankful I am that this journey has been able to come into fruition. It was very scary being in that motel not having a plan or knowing what I was gonna do next while everything was crumbling around me. If it wasn't for Claire and our incredibly kind and caring friends I don't know what I'd do. They helped me press on and get through this with Fluff and we finally did.
Finally we're in a place that brings nothing but peace and comfort, my anxiety has dropped and I'm doing things I've never thought possible and building up strengths I never knew I had, I feel whole in a way that I've never felt before and I'm just, happy.
I am so grateful to have Claire, for years she's been so supportive and comforting and has brought this dream we've had into reality and every day I am so thankful to have her, she is the love of my life and my best friend. The life that her, myself and Fluff now share will forever be together and we can finally begin living. 💚💜
Thank you everyone, thank you to our friends who let Fluff and I into their lives to be able to be safe while we get our bearings, thank you to everyone who said such kind and wonderfully compassionate words, cheering us on as we go, every day I was looking at the community post I made on YT and it was just filled with people being so supportive, and thank you everyone who donated and got us into where we are. We could not have done it without all of you. 🐟 ❤️ 🐟 ❤️
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falling for you | op81
oscar piastri x fem!reader
summary: you and oscar should be more than just friends, but neither of you realize it until you’re on vacation… and his girlfriend is there, too.
word count: 2,956
warnings: angsty moments
masterlist — join my tag list here!
PART TWO
shoutout to my dream journal- i got this idea from a dream i had in 2021. also disclaimer, i love lily, she’s so sweet. we’re pretending that oscar is dating someone else here ok thanks <33
© arieslost 2024. DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION.
For the first time in your life, you were regretting taking a vacation, and it was all Oscar Piastri’s fault.
Your family and the Piastris had been going on vacation together for as long as you could remember, and you’ve been best friends with Oscar for just as long. He was in the background of every defining moment of your life. He could say the same about you— best friends forever.
And then, like the idiot you are, you went and fell in love with him. You couldn’t exactly pinpoint how, or why, or when; all you knew was that you woke up on the second day of your vacation, walked into the kitchen, saw him pouring himself a bowl of cereal, and it hit you like a damn truck.
“Good morning, sweetie,” your mom says, barely noticing your slightly panicked expression as you realized that you were very much in love with your best friend.
“Morning,” you mumble back, unable to tear your eyes away from Oscar.
He notices you staring at him, your eyes as wide as saucers, and frowns. “You okay? There’s still some of this in the box, I saved it for you.”
Great. Of course he has to be so thoughtful all the time.
“Yeah, ‘m fine. Thanks, Osc.” You squeeze his arm as you pass by. He smiles at you, like he always does when you do that, and you want to die a little.
Especially when his girlfriend enters the room.
It’s the first time either of you have a significant other during your annual vacation time, and while you had aggressively lobbied against it (Oscar obviously had no clue), your parents and his parents had agreed to let her come. You were furious about it for weeks and couldn’t figure out why.
Well, now you know.
You can’t even enjoy your cereal, especially not when she kisses Oscar for everyone to see and then makes direct eye contact with you and smirks when he’s not looking. So, you decide to spend the entire day completely Oscar-less, as much as you wish you could just have him all to yourself like you always do when you’re here.
The thing is, you’ve never liked his girlfriend, obvious reasons aside. Even before Oscar started dating her, you’d never gotten along with her. It was like she had a personal vendetta against you, and always tried her hardest to be touchy with Oscar whenever she saw that you were in her line of sight. The most infuriating part is that literally no one else ever notices her behavior except you. Not even Oscar, your so-called best friend. Normally, you’d go to him to vent about something like this, because he’s always understood you in ways that no one else ever will. Now he’s the last person you can go to.
It sucks. You’re angry at your parents, his parents, and especially him for asking if he could bring her along in the first place.
You end up spending your entire morning and most of the afternoon at the beach. You don’t put on enough sunscreen because there’s no one there to make sure you use the proper amount. You hate getting sunburn, but you’d take that over seeing Oscar with his girlfriend. By the time you get back to the rental, everyone is off doing their own thing. Your parents are putting together a puzzle in the living room. Oscar’s parents have the door to their room shut, and you can hear the TV playing. You don’t have the courage to go looking for Oscar himself– once you see that he’s not in your shared room, you know that he’s either out or in his girlfriend’s room. Either way, you don’t want to know.
That was another thing that makes you wish this vacation never happened: Oscar had been allowed to bring his girlfriend, but the only condition was that the two of them had to sleep in separate rooms. That meant the two of you shared a room like always, but that didn’t mean he didn’t take every possible chance he could to go to hers, meaning you’re alone most of the time.
You might as well just pack up and walk home to save yourself the struggle of five more days.
It doesn’t seem like anyone is around to hear, so you let out a loud, frustrated groan as you flop back onto your bed. You look to your right, past Oscar’s bed, at the flowy curtains hanging in front of the doors that lead to the deck outside. One of the doors is ajar, and the slight breeze makes the curtains flap gently.
“You okay, sweetie?” Of course your mom heard you from all the way down the hall.
“Yeah,” you reply in a way that makes it very obvious that you’re not okay.
“Ah, I know that tone.” Your mom says, crossing the room to sit at the foot of your bed. “You need a boyfriend. You wouldn’t be this mopey if you had someone here with you, too.”
Like Oscar does. “You’re telling me,” you scoff bitterly. “I guess I’ll try a little harder for next year.”
“Well, are there any boys you’re interested in?” She asks, rubbing your leg comfortingly.
“I don’t know,” you mumble, turning your head away from her so she can’t get a perfect view of your face heating up as you think about your best friend.
She hums. “Yeah, I knew it.”
“Knew what?”
“It’s Oscar, isn’t it?”
You cover your face with your hands. “Ugh! Leave now, and we can pretend this conversation never happened.”
“Nice try.” Your mom pries your hands away and gives you a look. “I just don’t think it’s the best idea that you like Oscar. He doesn’t exactly have the most stable lifestyle.”
“He doesn’t need stability, he’s rich.” You shoot back. “I don’t even care about that, Mom. I’m not exactly interested in him because of his lifestyle.” You consider not saying it, but you’ll feel better getting it off your chest. “And his girlfriend is a bitch.”
“You’re right,” your mom says, and you can’t believe what you’re hearing. “I hate his girlfriend. I’ve always thought that you’re much better suited for him.”
“No kidding. Known him his whole life, everyone thought we were dating growing up, we’ve gone through just about everything together. I guess that simply doesn’t compare to the girl he’s known for five whole months.” You’re being snarky now, and you can’t find it in you to care. It should be you dating Oscar.
Everyone else seems to think so except him.
Your mom laughs, but in a way that you know that she agrees with you, as childish as you’re being. She continues to rub your leg, and the comforting motion has your eyes drooping. The stress of your newfound feelings and the warmth of the sun on your skin is more than enough to tire you out.
“Nap time?” She asks eventually, and you nod slowly.
“Mhmm.”
“I’ll come wake you up before dinner.” She kisses the top of your head, gets up, and then says something that has you wide awake. “Hey, Oscar. She’s sleeping.”
“Ah, okay. I’ll be quiet.” You hate the calming effect his voice has on you, even though now just looking at him has sent your heart racing.
One of them shuts the door, and shortly after you can feel the bed dipping under Oscar’s weight as he lays down next to you.
“Hey,” he whispers. “Missed you.”
I missed you more. Jerk.
“I know you’re awake,” he continues. “But you don’t have to talk to me.”
Good.
“I guess I deserve the silent treatment.”
Your resolve cracks a little, because he sounds genuinely upset. As much as you want to, you don’t open your eyes, but you do turn around to face him and move closer in the process. You can smell the faint traces of his cologne, and you have to fight a sigh of contentment. Damn him for always making you feel so safe. Besides, you’re a little cold now thanks to the air conditioning.
Your eyes nearly fly open in shock when he wastes no time in pulling you closer so you’re properly cuddled into his side and puts his arm around you. He lets out a breath, like he’s relieved, before he moves around a little and leans his head against yours.
The logical side of you is screaming to quit the sleeping facade and confront him right here and now about this rather intimate behavior, but the side of you that just discovered the strong feelings you harbor for your best friend tells you to just play along and enjoy whatever alone time you have with him. It’s not hard to pick which side to listen to.
The two of you stay this way for so long you start falling asleep again, and it only gets worse when he starts rubbing your back. It starts out very subtle; at first, his fingertips just move up and down along the fabric of your shirt. He stops for a moment, like he’s considering the outcomes of his actions, and then flattens his palm against your back and continues the up and down motion. You bury your head in his chest, mostly to hide the fact that you’re turning red but also because you just want to be closer to him. He hums a little when you do it, and you have to stop yourself from weighing the logistics of whether or not you could get away with kissing him right here and now.
You have to fight the urge to sleep, wanting to soak in every moment of his strange but welcome actions. Maybe this is all just an elaborate dream– either way, you’re not going to sleep through it.
The sound of him sighing again catches your attention, but you’re entirely brought back to reality when he starts moving.
You fully give up. You don’t want him to go, so you say his name quietly and look up at him.
He sits up a little to look back at you, and you reach up to smooth away the crease between his eyebrows with your thumb. “We’re on vacation. You’re supposed to be having fun.”
“So are you.” He points out.
Of course he’s picked up on it.
“It’s complicated.”
“Talk to me,” he encourages, shifting so he can keep you close. His little polite cat smile nearly has you spilling your guts to him about how much you wish you were the one he was kissing in front of everyone.
You press your lips together. “I… I can’t, Osc.”
You always hate his crestfallen expression, but you hate it more when you’re the cause of it.
“You can talk to me about anything, you know that right?”
“I know,” you reassure him. “Just… not this. Anything but this.”
He hums again, but not in the happy way that he did before when you were practically trying to crawl into his skin. This is more like a hum of concentration.
You have a moment of hope, thinking that maybe he’ll just let it go, but you know your best friend better than that. It doesn’t change your shock when he speaks again.
“Okay. I think I know what this is about.”
“I seriously doubt you do.” You can’t help but laugh a little. How could he possibly know about something that you yourself only just discovered?
He gives you a specific look then, a look that you have always despised being on the receiving end of. It’s a look that tells you he’s expecting you to explain yourself and see if he’s right. He usually is right, which only makes it worse.
“No.” You shake your head, starting to try and find a way to get up. “No, Oscar, don’t make me say it.”
He isn’t having it though: his arm stays snug around you, and he puts one of his legs between both of yours, hooking his ankle around yours so you can’t escape.
“Oscar,” you whine. “No fair, with your stupid reflexes.”
He whines your name back in the same exact tone. “Shouldn’t try to get away from me, then.”
You let out a groan of frustration. “I’m not telling you anything.”
Someone walks out into the hallway, and the sound of the footsteps coming towards your room makes the both of you freeze. The two of you are in a rather precarious position, with your limbs tangled and Oscar practically on top of you. Not that you necessarily mind, but if anyone walked in right now, eyebrows would be raised.
Oscar seems to be thinking along the same lines as you, meeting your wide-eyed stare with his own but not making any effort to move away. It clicks in your head at that exact moment, just as it did in the morning when you walked into the kitchen.
He does know.
“How?” You whisper, too wrapped up in your disbelief to even be embarrassed.
“I know you better than anyone,” he whispers back, head whipping towards the closed door when you hear a creak, like someone’s weight is shifting on the floor.
The footsteps recede. You both let out a breath, turning to face each other again. You’re close. Too close. Close enough that you could count his eyelashes if you wanted to.
You remember the last time you were this close to him— you were both 14, playing hide and seek at midnight at a friend’s birthday party. He’d accidentally chosen the same hiding place as you, a desk with a rolling chair in front of it, and you’d been forced to squish together underneath the desk in order to conceal yourselves well enough. You were mad that he chose the same spot as you because it raised the likelihood of being found, and he’d just giggled at you every time you glared at him. You remember how much you loved his giggle, and how you’d wondered what it would be like to kiss his smile.
Well. You really have been in love with him this whole time.
You want nothing more than to crawl under the bed and stay there for the rest of the vacation so you don’t have to look him in the eye. You never want to speak to him again. You want to tell him everything. You want to push him away. You want to hold him closer.
“Tell me I didn’t ruin our friendship.” Is all you can think to say, and Oscar reacts immediately, brushing your hair out of your face and hugging you tightly.
“Honey, you could never ruin this.” He presses his nose into your hair, brushes his lips against your head. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re not the one who should be sorry,” you grumble into his chest.
He doesn’t answer, instead choosing to alternate between playing with the ends of your hair and drawing shapes on your shoulder with his fingers. He’s always been affectionate with you, but this is a whole new level, and your overthinking has you worried that you’ll lose it entirely as soon as the two of you have to leave this room and face the reality of the situation. You close your eyes, trying your hardest to soak up every little detail of this moment in the event that you never get another like it.
You know Oscar thinks you’re asleep when, much to your dismay (and maybe his, too), he gets up and gently lays you back against your pillow.
“I really shouldn’t be doing this,” you hear him say, and then you feel his lips press firmly against your temple, his hand leaving the most featherlight touch on your cheek. “I’m sorry, baby.”
The soft material of a blanket covers your body, and the door opens and shuts. Your tears waste no time in soaking into the pillowcase.
You’re regretting this vacation, but it isn’t Oscar’s fault.
He’s not the one who fell in love with the one person he can’t have.
Things change, but not at all in the way you expect. Oscar still throws an arm around you for every picture and hoists you onto his back without hesitation for the obligatory piggyback photo that has been a vacation tradition since forever. His girlfriend still looks at you like you’re the pebble she can’t get out of her shoe, but for every dirty look and intentional display of affection, Oscar is there to make up for it. He goes to the beach with you and makes sure that you apply enough sunscreen, he goes to the amusement park with you even though he hates most of the rides, he takes you to breakfast at the risk of his girlfriend throwing a fit when you get back. She does, but he doesn’t care. He does it every year, and he tells you that he’d be damned if he didn’t keep up with it.
Maybe he pities you. It doesn’t matter. You can live with never even having a chance with the boy you think you’ve always wanted something more with, so long as you can continue to call him your best friend.
He leaves for his next race on the last day of vacation, and his girlfriend goes with him. You support him from home. He calls you every single day.
Oscar has never been able to go more than 24 hours without hearing your voice. He’s never been able to fully express just how much he needs you, and now he has to face the obstacle of breaking up with his girlfriend before he can even try.
note: this fic was low key my personal everest and i changed the ending at the last second because i hate angst. if anyone is interested in a part two, let me know because i’d be happy to write it at some point!
requests are OPEN, and my inbox is always open for comments, criticism, and conversation! feel free to pop in!
reblogs are always appreciated <33
beautiful dividers by @/saradika !
tags: @venusacrossthestars @67-angelofthelordme-67 @emails-i-can-send @nelly187 @littlemiss-arabella @notturlover @verstappensrealwife @oliveisunstable @hauntedphotographybookstaco @maddie-bell @hood-jabi @jupiter-je-taime @uzisplanet @akiraquote @average-f1-enjoyer @xo-mya1 @beth-712 @bingewatche @alex15marie @ana2delusional @tomhollandfics @cixrosie @simpluvrs @meko-mt
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— melting point ⟢
rumor has it that icy department head of pledis insurance has something going on with her loyal secretary, wonwoo. well, she does—it's just not the kind of behind-closed-doors business one would expect for them to partake in.
★ FEATURING; secretary!wonwoo x afab!oc
★ WORD COUNT; 12.3k words
★ TAGS; coworkers to lovers, revenge fic, angst, smut
★ WARNINGS; blackmailing, manipulation, mentions of past bullying, graphic sexual content (MINORS DNI)
★ NOTES; hi... it's been forever, hasn't it? i missed tumblr a lot, and have decided to grace the tags with this fic after months of radio silence heheh ! this was a commissioned piece on twt which i tweaked to fit my tumblr audience better! cheers to 5k followers even in my absence t__t you guys are the best!
★ PS; i'm sorry i can't be bothered to dig up my taglist and tag those who filled it up T T
There’s a saying in PLEDIS Insurance that goes: enjoy your coffee early because once the Ice Queen is in, it’ll turn just as cold as she is.
Of course, the words were merely thrown around in jest. Something that bored employees come up with in the break room whenever they’re careless enough to think their little jokes won’t reach said ice queen’s ears. But still—they’re just jokes. As long as they worked enough to satisfy their salaries’ worth, Emma the Ice Queen would always turn a blind eye. She might be cold, but she isn’t completely heartless.
Most of the time.
“Good morning, ma’am,” her secretary, Wonwoo, greeted with a curt nod as she entered her office.
Emma scoffed before setting her things down on her work desk, the frown on her face only worsening when she sees the elegantly wrapped gift box in front of her. “What's this?”
Wonwoo swallowed thickly, like he was nervous. Wonwoo never gets nervous.
“We have an...unforeseen circumstance,” he prefaced before tapping away on the iPad in his arms. “Sir Leo from the Choi group wants to pursue you.”
“Unforeseen?” Emma repeated. “Wonwoo, this is completely foreseen. Isn't it our from the start is to make them fall in love, only for us to expose their dirty secrets in the end?”
He looked as if he wanted to agree. But after turning the screen of his iPad so Emma could see the article written on some shoddy newsletter, her brows furrowed together in confusion.
A Race for the Inheritance: How the Choi Group’s Next Generation of Ambitious Youngbloods Will Do Everything to Get Their Fill of Old Money.
The title itself didn’t give Emma much context of what exactly was making Wonwoo—her ever-composed secretary—lose his composure. It’s natural to see the sons and daughters of a powerful business conglomerate fight each other for their rights to the family inheritance. But after reading through what the rest of the article had to offer, the pieces of the puzzle suddenly started to fit.
“They're seeing who gets to get married first?” Emma laughed incredulously before handing the iPad back to Wonwoo. “Does Leo really think he can get me to become his lover—even more so his wife—after everything he did to me in high school?”
Wonwoo breathed in deeply. “Miss Emma, we both know the answer to that. If it were all up to you, you could easily put him to shame and reject him. But his interests somewhat align with the director’s interests as well…”
Ah. Her father’s interests.
“No,” she answered sharply. “Even if he kicks me out of my position, I’m not going to be wed to that prick.”
“Are you sure about that?” Wonwoo sighed before adjusting his glasses. “Miss Emma, we both know you love your work more than anything. And you're chronically attached to this company even if you despise the executives. Sir Leo has good leverage over you, sad to say.”
There was something irritating about hearing Wonwoo call his ex-best friend Sir, as if he was underneath some scumbag of a human being like Leo. But then again, years have passed since then. Lots of things have changed.
But Emma’s grudges hold steadfast, still.
“Hmph, whatever.” She dismissed the matter with a nonchalant wave before unwrapping the gift box in front of her. “Was this from Leo, too? Is he on a deadline or something?”
“Hmm, first one that gets married before December gets the rights to the inheritance,” Wonwoo informed her as he picked the clutter of ribbons off Emma’s desk and pocketed them in his coat for later disposal. “Do you want me to look up the progress of his siblings and cousins? We can sabotage him while it's still early.”
Emma didn’t respond right away—preoccupied with unwrapping Leo's so-called gift. But when she sees a red velvet box with an engagement ring and a folded letter inside, she begrudgingly realized that Leo wouldn’t be as easy a target as her other high school bullies.
No, this man really was rotten to the core.
By the time you’re reading this, I’m sure you already heard the news. You know what to do, right, Emma?
Or should I say, wifey? ;)
“Send this back to him. Now.”
Wonwoo nodded obediently as Emma pushed Leo's cursed gift box away from her. “Alright. Anything else I can do for you? Like…have someone plant a snake in his bedroom or something?”
Despite the sour mood that Leo undoubtedly put her in this morning, Wonwoo's little idea of a joke made the corners of her mouth turn up into a small smile. The offer was tempting, but in the end, she shook her head and booted up the PC on her desk instead.
“As much as I want his death by a snake bite to headline the news, Leo doesn’t deserve to get out of this the easy way.” Emma muttered as she started browsing through the hard-drive she’d hooked up onto the computer. “And lucky for us, I finally got the evidence to send his suspiciously prosperous career down into a spiral.”
Wonwoo raised an eyebrow before taking a peek behind her. “What's that? Money laundering records? Tax fraud?”
No. It was really something as simple as—
“Footage of a mass orgy he participated in,” Emma casually told her secretary as she clicked on the only video on the hard drive. “Might not look like a big deal compared to what we had to go through with Ezra, but Leo belongs to a family of devout Catholics. Good thing your contact from Leo's favorite bar had some use. All I did was ask around and he quickly spilled all the details with the right amount of money.”
Wonwoo chuckled as he flashed her an impressed look. “As far as I know, I’m the one who’s supposed to do the dirty work for you. Why are you directly involving yourself in matters you can leave to me?”
The lewd video continued to play on her screen—muted, of course—and one could easily make out Leo Choi's face amongst the crowd of sex-depraved freaks. Once they sent this over anonymously to each and every person who might think that scumbag deserved to inherit his family’s wealth, it would be all over for him.
“‘Cause we’re a team, Wonwoo,” she chuckled. “You’ve done your fair share of work when we took down Gavin and Ezra. But admittedly…I've got more bones to pick with Leo. I think it’s only fair for me to orchestrate his downfall with my own two hands.”
“Right…” Wonwoo agreed with a hint of fondness in his tone that completely went over Emma’s head—far too triumphant with her newfound ammunition.
“We’re a team.”
But it wasn’t always that way.
Wonwoo was actually more deeply involved in Emma’s mission to exact revenge on the people who’ve wronged her years ago than one would otherwise expect. He’d been best friends with Leo since they were kids, and when they eventually met Gavin and Ezra in their high school basketball team, the four of them were quite inseparable.
But despite being his best friend, Wonwoo knew that Leo could be quite…off-putting with his behavior sometimes.
“Hey, look at that,” Sixteen year-old Leo scoffed before gesturing towards the loud girl earning amused stares in the cafeteria. “She's so fucking loud. Is she the new transfer student?”
Gavin snickered as he took a bite out of his lunch. “How'd she even get in here? Our tuition isn't a joke, and she doesn't really look like she can afford it. The kid of a maid, maybe?”
“Or she could be one of those financial scholarship kids,” Ezra pitched in with a shrug. “Though she doesn't look very bright if we're being honest.”
Wonwoo didn’t offer anything to the conversation, merely eating his food quietly as his friends talked smack about the new transfer student in their class. Emma Rodriguez was like a piece of meat thrown into a pit of vipers. Some might like her—like the classmates who were howling with laughter because of her antics—but others looked at her with disdain.
She didn’t belong to any wealthy well-known families like every other kid in their grade. The girl simply popped out of nowhere like an eyesore, according to Leo. Wonwoo didn’t really mind her presence though. She made the boring monotone of his school days a bit more bearable with her energy.
But what Wonwoo thought was just his friends’ surface-level dislike for a girl who behaved differently from the others in their grade turned out to be something else.
Something worse.
He wasn’t stupid. He knew what bullying was, and was well-aware that what his friends constantly did to Emma wasn’t something that normal high schoolers did. Leo was the most vicious about it, and Wonwoo never really got to know his reasons for doing all those horrible things.
But whenever they spotted Emma horsing around in the hallways, Leo would always be the first one to come up to her—calling her names like fraud, gold digger, and the like. Gavin and Ezra followed each and every time, and they were usually the ones who pushed her around for no real reason.
And Wonwoo? Wonwoo was the one who always stood a few feet away every time his friends decided they were in the mood to pick on the transfer student. The one who always stayed quiet and pretended nothing unsightly was happening in front of him.
The one whose gaze Emma always tried to silently catch, hoping he’d be the one to stop his friends from harassing her.
But he never did.
That cycle of three boys bullying a once bright and bubbly transfer student became commonplace. Before their third year in high school came to a close, Emma suddenly vanished off the radar. She didn’t attend their classes, nor was she there in the completion ceremonies at the end of every school year.
Most of the kids around Wonwoo didn’t really give two shits about her sudden disappearance. Word around the street was that she transferred out because of the heavy harassment she was getting, not just from his friends, but also the rest of the students from their grade. They didn’t think Emma was funny because of her silly antics and loud jokes anymore.
Everyone started to collectively think of her as a nuisance, and the fact that she had no familial connections to protect herself with only fed into the senseless yet oh-so popular trend of crushing Emma Rodriguez’s hopes and dreams into the ground.
It was almost like Wonwoo was the only person in their entire grade who felt the tiniest bit of pity for her. But he told himself long ago that someone like him had no right to feel sorry for someone he never bothered trying to help.
The years passed by in a flash. After Emma’s disappearance, Wonwoo quit the basketball team and completely cut off his friends and everyone else who actively hurt her. He didn’t really know why either—all he knew was that he couldn’t stomach the idea of keeping those connections despite what they drove Emma to do.
Of course, he knew he wasn’t completely innocent either. But it wasn’t too late to be a decent person, right?
Wonwoo simply went through the motions of graduating high school, then college, before pursuing a career in the vicious world of the corporate hierarchy. But instead of gunning for executive positions like his fellow fresh grads dared to dream, he worked his way up without using his family’s prestige to his own advantage.
In fact, Wonwoo realized he liked working closely with his bosses. That’s why he became the designated secretary to all the finance department heads who walked through the doors of PLEDIS Insurance. He was content with being a jack-of-all-trades kind of guy who’s at the beck and call of someone else—a tool who worked on the sidelines. He never really wanted to be the face of any company anyway.
But then, in his fifth year on the job, he was told that there were a couple of changes in PLEDIS’ executive board. The boss he’d been working under was set to retire and he’d be replaced with a new one—someone younger and full of promise, as the head of human resources dramatically explained to him.
It wasn’t really a deal breaker or anything. As long as Wonwoo got paid, he’d gladly work for even the most terrible of people in this industry.
But on the day his new boss was set to start, he was haunted by a ghost from the past instead.
Wonwoo hasn’t spared a single thought for Emma Rodriguez in God knows how long. Yet the moment she stepped into the office, he recognized her almost immediately. There was no trace of that girl people called gold digger and other derogatory names because of her appearance. This was a woman with her head held high—someone who oozed confidence in every stride with a gaze sharper than her winged eyeliner.
Yet Wonwoo couldn’t be mistaken. This really was Emma Rodriguez.
He wondered if she remembered him, too. The boy who kept quiet about those who bullied her in those few crucial years of her life. Wonwoo even considered apologizing for not doing anything to help her when he should have.
“Ah, Wonwoo Jeon?” Emma repeated his name with a dismissive air, almost like she was wholly uninterested in him. “The one who just watched when Gavin Kim pushed me in the muddy courtyard at school? The one who pretended not to see when Leo Choi splashed paint all over my uniform? Of course I remember you.”
God. Was this her exacting retribution?
For the next few days since she came into the office, Wonwoo helped Emma get used to the feel of things in the Finance Department. At least, that was his intention.
From the looks of it, Emma already knew the ins-and-outs of managing a company’s cash inflow and outflow, as well as the other gritty, more technical details that came with accounting for each and every cent. She managed to prepare and present several sets of data that his previous boss had trouble organizing to the current board of directors within two days’ time.
Her work ethic was admirable—she got the job done quickly and efficiently, and that made her earn the respect of her subordinates faster than Wonwoo had seen them warm up to their previous bosses. It would have been the perfect relationship between the new department head and her employees, if it weren’t for Emma’s stone cold behavior towards other people.
Not only did she look different from the Emma he knew in high school, but she acted differently too. Wonwoo couldn’t picture this Emma purposely making a fool out of herself just to make the people around her laugh. This Emma wanted the entire team to get the work handed to them done as soon as possible, and if they did, the most they’d receive in return is a mere nod in approval and nothing else.
It was for that reason that employees would start calling her the Ice Queen. Though she wasn’t some tyrant that gave people an unreasonable workload—she was actually very lenient and fair about the division of tasks—her people skills needed a little work.
That or Emma was purposely shutting everyone out with her chilly attitude.
Wonwoo had a few clues as to why she’d want to do that, but he’s a secretary, not a therapist. The only thing he could do about it was to keep his silence.
But then came a day when Emma asked him to come into her office to do something he completely expected from her but didn’t at the same time.
“Are you still in touch with Leo, Gavin, and Ezra?” she asked him, not even bothering to look up from the report she’s reading off her PC.
The question caught Wonwoo off-guard and it was obvious Emma caught on to his reaction if the tiny smirk that curved across her lips was anything to go by. Still, he took it in stride—breathing in through his nose as he thought about his answer.
He hasn’t been in touch with any of them since his high school graduation. All their attempts at reaching out to Wonwoo to invite him for a quick game of ball or a round of drinks somewhere in the city were all ignored. Not even turned down—ignored.
Leo was the most persistent about it. After all, they were best friends. But after several years of Wonwoo not even bothering to give their invites a single glance, Leo stopped reaching out altogether. Wonwoo's life became a lot more peaceful since he cut ties with them, and he never really regretted the decision to do so.
But perhaps the universe really was telling him to pay the price for his past inaction now that Emma was bringing up the past on a regular Wednesday afternoon.
“No, ma’am,” he told her honestly. “Do you want me to reach out to them? Their contact details are pretty easy to get our hands on.”
Emma sighed quietly before meeting his gaze, an unreadable look hovering across her face. “Mmm. Yeah, I’d like that. But aren't you going to ask why I want to contact them again?”
He wanted to, but Wonwoo learned that in his line of work, the last thing he should do was ask questions. It made him wonder if Emma was purposely setting him up on some sort of conversational bear trap, but seeing as he didn’t really have anything to lose by giving, he chose to relent.
“...Why?”
The silence of her office rang in his ears as Emma typed away on her keyboard. It was a mechanical one with tactile switches that matched the color of her desktop wallpaper. He didn’t take her to be someone who cared enough about aesthetics to that degree, but then again, Wonwoo never really got a chance to get to know her back then.
He was too much of a coward to do so.
Once she was done, Emma got up from her ergonomic chair (which also matched her desktop setup), leveling her gaze with Wonwoo's even if the latter was easily a head taller than she was. Something about the glint in her eyes made him swallow the lump in his throat. Not to mention that sweet yet chilly smile that graced her bright red lips.
“It’s really simple, Wonwoo,” she told him with a laugh.
“I want revenge.”
And that’s how their little team was formed.
It was a two-person job. Emma entrusted Wonwoo with digging up the information she needed about the three men she wanted to bring down, all while she was in charge of putting their plans into motion by heading over to the front lines.
Gavin was an easy target. Unlike the other two, he’s the only one who pursued professional basketball and for a while, he amassed quite the number of fans and admirers because of his outstanding plays. What’s more was that he managed to wife up a beauty queen who’s already conquered the international stage a few years back. Now with their first baby on the way, one would think that Gavin Kim has a picture perfect life.
But further down the road, talk about how he’s actually a womanizing wife beater started to seep out of the cracks and crevices of the athletic industry. The allegations were serious, but no one really bothered batting an eye. It’s normal. Lots of athletes are like that. We can't do anything about it.
It was easy to get a hold of which gym Gavin frequents to maintain his physique. He preferred working out in public facilities instead of the one provided for his team because it gave him all the freedom to ogle and flirt with other women who just happened to be hitting the gym on days he was on the prowl.
Wonwoo even added a little footnote in the file he prepared that said likes to engage in post-workout coitus in the shower rooms. Emma rolled her eyes in disgust when she read it, but made sure to keep it in mind.
The day finally came when she’d collect enough evidence to ruin Gavin’s career. Emma hasn’t dropped by the gym in a while—work having sapped her energy too much to let her psych herself back into working out. But she realized she didn’t have to act out too much because the moment she started operating the treadmill right next to Gavin’s, he was already checking her out.
He didn’t seem to recognize who she was, unlike Wonwoo. But then again Gavin was easily the stupidest out of her trio of high school bullies. This man was all brawn and no brains, which was why it was all too easy for Emma to seduce him in the showers of this shoddy gym not thirty minutes since she’d arrived.
It wasn’t the most pleasant experience. The last thing Emma wanted was to have this idiotic man inside of her so she offered to go on her knees and blow him instead—something that Gavin was all too happy to relent to.
He didn’t even boast a cock of considerable size. It probably wasn’t any longer than her middle finger, and for a split second, she wondered why his beauty queen wife stayed with him despite having a cock that didn’t back up his cocky attitude. It was probably the money.
Emma didn’t waste much time though. Wonwoo visited this gym only a few hours prior to plant a bug somewhere inside the specific shower stall they were currently occupying. She just had to hope she and Gavin were positioned well enough so the camera would get a full view of what they were doing.
It was the longest twenty minutes of Emma’s life, and she had to go home right away to disinfect her mouth about ten times, but hey. All in the name of vengeance, right?
At around eight in the evening on that same Saturday, her phone lit up with an email notification from Wonwoo.
From: Wonwoo Jeon
Subject: CLASSIFIED
Good evening, Miss Emma. I hope this message finds you well.
I retrieved our bug from the gym earlier today and extracted the videos taken before properly disposing of it. Attached to this email is the MP4 file of our evidence against Mr. Gavin Kim.
Around the time this message arrives to you, I have simultaneously sent said evidence to Mr. Kim’s managers, sponsors, teammates, other colleagues, and of course, his wife.
The only difference between their emails and yours is that this is a self-destructing message. Once you’ve closed this window, it will be deleted from your inbox without a trace.
So if you are interested in watching the video below, best save it to your device of choice for better perusal.
If you have any further questions and concerns, I am merely a text message away.
Regards,
Wonwoo Jeon
Secretary, Finance and Logistics Department
PLEDIS Insurance
Like hell she was going to watch it.
The moment Emma finished reading through Wonwoo's overly formal email, she quickly exited the window and, true to his word, the message itself had disappeared. Despite being a fairly new player to the game, she had to commend all the precautions Wonwoo was setting to make sure her plans were a success.
It made her wonder if his previous bosses have also asked him to do shady things under the company’s nose in the past. Whether or not that's true, she was reaping the benefits of his expertise, so she had no room for complaints.
As long as she had Wonwoo, she’d get to punish everyone who wronged her without fail.
Gavin’s downfall followed soon after.
Tabloids were their best friend in that scenario. The thumbnail of the video that Wonwoo spread around like some virus that wouldn’t stop replicating headlined every single paper, talking about how one of the most promising basketball stars of their generation had fallen prey to his own vices.
It was a good thing that not only was Wonwoo careful enough to not leave digital footprints as he sent out those emails, but he also edited the video to keep Emma’s identity a secret. As Gavin’s world started to crumble before his eyes—him being kicked off the starting roster of the team, his wife leaving him behind, and the public execution of his reputation—Emma simply shared a bottle of aged wine from Tuscany with the man who helped her pull off a wonderful performance.
“You’re not too bad,” she mused as she took a small sip, crossing her legs from where she’s seated unceremoniously on the edge of her desk. “You're surprisingly more on-board with this plan than I thought. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were never friends with Gavin in the first place.”
Wonwoo retained his stoic demeanor, not having touched the glass Emma offered him simply because it was against company regulations to intoxicate himself on the job. “If my boss tells me to ruin someone's life, I'm mandated to do it. I’m just doing what’s written on my job description, ma’am.”
Emma’s lips stretched into a grin as she threw her head back with a laugh. She leaned in closer to Wonwoo, who seemed wholly unfazed by the fact that the gesture granted him an ample view of her cleavage through her blouse.
“Does your job description cover watching and editing your boss' sex scandal so you can mass send it to hundreds of people?” She giggled before leaning back to take another sip of her drink. “You’re in the green for now, Wonwoo. Keep it up and I might just have a pay raise arranged for you with HR if our next escapade is a success.”
He hummed in understanding. “Who’s next?”
In usual Emma fashion, she didn’t give him a straight answer right away. Instead, she hopped back to the carpeted floor of her office—not even wobbling in those thin heels she’s wearing—before rounding her desk to access her computer.
“Have you been watching TV lately? Primetime soap operas?” she asked him as she clicked away on her screen.
Wonwoo shook his head. “They don’t really interest me, ma’am.”
“I figured they wouldn’t. But this might.”
Emma gestured for him to peer at her monitor and Wonwoo wordlessly followed suit, getting up from his seat and standing behind her. Flashed on the screen was an article from a more reputable news outlet that featured two co-stars who played the main couple in a popular network’s newest drama.
“Ezra Lee and Alaina Park…” Wonwoo muttered under his breath before his eyes flickered to Emma. “You have any leads I can work with?”
His boss chuckled before looking up at him with an expectant smile. “Someone's determined. I never thought I’d get to see someone so eager to do the dirty work for me.”
Wonwoo shrugged. “Miss Emma, I'm not sure if you're aware but desk work gets boring sometimes. You’re right. This is a lot more interesting.”
“Alright, then,” Emma chuckled before retrieving both of their wine glasses and handing Wonwoo's back to him. “Unlike Gavin, I don't have a lot of surface-level leads with Ezra. He’s a celebrity—their reputation needs to be squeaky clean, so it makes sense why I can’t dig up anything about him through regular means. But this should be a piece of cake for you, right?”
Wonwoo stared at the bright red liquor inside the expensive glass, gaze darting to the wicked smile playing on Emma’s lips. If he looked a little closer, he would be able to tell that the shade of her lipstick matches the color of the liquor in her hands.
He took it from her grasp with a sigh, clinking the edges of their glasses together before downing the entire thing in one fell swoop. The wine was aged well, and had somewhat of a sweet aftertaste, but despite the appealing flavor, Wonwoo reminded himself to never drink on the job ever again.
“I’ll get back to you once I have the information you need.”
Wonwoo swiftly left Emma’s office after that little victory party. Even with his new sideline of being his boss’s lead henchman, he still had a lot of work to do for PLEDIS Insurance. And that included telling the other employees to quit horsing around in the break room when their designated lunch break ended hours ago.
“Sir Wonwoo,” one of said employees, Soonyoung, snickered before throwing an arm over Wonwoo's shoulders. “You've been hanging out in Miss Emma's office pretty frequently. Is there something going on? You became close real quickly.”
“Yeah” said one Seokmin, who’s still snacking on a wafer despite Wonwoo's scolding. “Boss, we know you're not the fuck-your-way-up kind of guy, but who knows, right? But with your position right now, do you really need it?”
Seungkwan, the last member of their unruly trio, slapped Seokmin’s arm with a scowl. “Hey! Do you really have to say it to his face? Oh, boss, if you make a report about these two, please know I have nothing to do with whatever they're saying.”
Soonyoung snickered. “Are you sure about that? Weren't you the one who first noticed that Sir Wonwoo was stepping inside Miss Emma's office more frequently—”
“Hey! Boss told us to scram, didn't he?! Let's go.”
Seungkwan quickly ushered his two friends out of the break room, scolding them in a hushed tone before they all went back to their respective cubicles. Wonwoo shook his head with a sigh, muttering something about inevitable rumors as he made himself a cup of coffee.
Was that how they perceived Wonwoo’s sudden closeness with the department head? That he was fucking Emma in the solitude of her office? Well, the idea of a boss having illicit relations with their secretary wasn’t too far-fetched. He’s heard about how the head of the Advertising Department gets frisky with his secretary through the corporate grapevine. But just because it was a popular trope among the employees’ strange fantasies, it didn’t mean it applied to himself and Emma as well.
They were strictly professional: he did the dirty work and she paid him in full. That was all there was to it.
(But what people don’t know was that editing Gavin’s scandal wasn’t exactly the walk in the park Emma thought it was.
Despite being one of the most indifferent people in the company, Wonwoo was still a man. Seeing his boss, whose body would be coveted by anyone who dared to want her, in such a compromising position excited an…unexpected physiological reaction out of him.
His resolve was as sturdy as steel, however. Instead of taking care of the obvious problem in his pants as he edited the scandalous video, Wonwoo dealt with it by taking a long, cold shower until all the blood that rushed down south started circulating properly again.
He told himself not to think about it come morning.)
“A drug den?”
Even Emma was baffled by the news that Wonwoo brought her the following week—a scowl of disbelief permanently etched on her face as she scanned the file her secretary prepared for her. Wonwoo merely stood at her side, waiting for her to finish going through the data he’s gathered.
And he sure hoped she understood every single word printed on it. He practically risked his life trying to investigate Ezra’s secret business. No wonder it was so hard to dig up any dirt on him—dead men tell no tales after all.
“This is…” Emma swallowed thickly before continuing, “way above my expectations. If he was just getting faded on his own with a private dealer, I'd understand. Lots of celebrities do recreational drugs. But for him to head an entire operation? Where'd he find the time on top of his taping schedules?”
Wonwoo sighed. “I would’ve been able to investigate further if his men weren't so meticulous. They're fiercely loyal to Ezra. Couldn’t bribe him like we did with Gavin’s gym coach.”
“And you made sure to keep your identity under lockdown?”
“Positive.”
Emma drummed her fingers across the smooth surface of her work desk—brows furrowed as she stared into nothingness. Though they’ve only been working together for roughly six months at most, Wonwoo knew her well enough to realize she hit a wall.
It made him wonder if this was where she would draw the line. Their success with Gavin gave them both an unexpected high, sure, but Wonwoo recognized that this game they were playing was a dangerous one. The people they were trying to take down had more money and connections than the two of them could ever hope to get their hands on.
But one thing that he failed to recognize right away about Emma was that she’s always been grossly ambitious.
“The file you gave me also mentioned na he was hoping to insure his new house in Incheon,” she pointed out. “Care to tell me why you decided to include that?”
“I know you told me not to involve the company in this as much as we can, but I couldn’t think of any other way to penetrate into his circle.” Wonwoo adjusted his necktie, suddenly feeling like he’s being watched by the hawk that was his boss. “I’ve been told that he’s wary of people. Side effects of the cocaine, probably. Though the info broker sounded like he was joking, it’s best to be wary of him. If he can hide behind the protection of his management and his family, we need to play our cards right and protect ourselves, too.”
Emma took a moment to process what her secretary just told her, nodding slowly before closing the folder containing Ezra’s file and locking it inside a hidden drawer beneath her desk.
“Oh, Wonwoo. If only all men were as intelligent as you are,” she sighed, getting up from her seat before pinching his face. “Good work. Let's go out for drinks later. My treat.”
Wonwoo's face twisted with confusion. “For what? Doing my job?”
Emma rolled her eyes. “For going above and beyond every single time. You think you're only good at doing dirty work? At being my errand boy? You never fall behind your quotas here in the office either, you know. I think that in itself is a cause for celebration.”
Now that she’s reasoned it out, Wonwoo was even more weirded out by this strange turn of events. In the six months that Emma Rodriguez has spent as the head of PLEDIS Insurance’s Finance head, she never failed to uphold that arctic cold façade. She treated both executives and regular employees with the same degree of cut-throat harshness.
And that’s when Wonwoo realized that she didn’t really treat him the way she treated them.
Huh. Did the Ice Queen have a melting point after all?
Despite his extensive protests, however, Wonwoo let Emma rope him into grabbing dinner and drinks at a food hub several districts away from their office. The fewer people who could recognize them outside, the better. Of course, he pleaded and reminded her several times that she was his boss and she really didn’t have to—
“Hey! Keep drinking!” Emma slurred with a huff, face red from the alcohol as she pushed another pint of beer into Wonwoo's face. “Why aren't you drunk yet, huh, Wonwoo Jeon? Are you God? Maybe that's why you're so good at obtaining information for me. Ah! No! Maybe you're the devil! Right, what we're doing isn't exactly good nor is it legal…”
Wonwoo exhaled long and hard as his boss continued blabbering nonsense across from him at their shared table. One glance at the smartwatch on his wrist told him that it was near midnight and that he should probably bring Emma home before she could make a scene.
But…maybe they could stay for a few minutes more.
“Miss Emma? Are you sleepy?”
“Hm? Why would I be sleepy? We're drinking, aren't we?”
“You're half-asleep on the table, so.”
At the prospect of being called out, Emma quickly shot into an upright position—looking around to see if anyone caught her drooling. When she realized she was in the clear, she narrowed her eyes at Wonwoo.
“Not a word about this in the office,” she warned, using one of the finished barbecue sticks on their empty plates to threaten him. “But...yeah. Alcohol makes me sleepy. Drive me home.”
Not even a please. This woman was really shameless even when drunk.
Not a peep of complaint was heard from Wonwoo when he drove Emma all the way to her condo unit in uptown Poblacion. Though he had to practically carry her inside and even help her out of her clothes and into her pajamas (at her request, not his own initiative), he simply told himself this was all part of his job.
When his boss was safely tucked in bed, he was ready to bid her farewell and head back to his own place to catch up on some sleep. But for someone who was intoxicated beyond belief, Emma was still quite aware of her surroundings. The moment Wonwoo took a step away from her bed, her hand shot out to grab ahold of his wrist, making Wonwoo look back at her with an eyebrow raised.
“Wonwoo,” she murmured, face still smothered in her pillows despite her tight grip. “Can you stay?”
“There's nowhere for me to sleep,” he chuckled. “I should go.”
“Then sleep next to me.”
The furrow on his brow merely deepened. He’d ask her to repeat what she said, but Wonwoo could recognize that Emma wasn’t really in the headspace to be reasonable right now. So instead of refuting her wish, Wonwoo carefully pried her fingers off his wrist so he could take off his work coat and fold it neatly on top of her vanity table.
This is all part of the job, he told himself.
Wonwoo laid on his boss’ duvet perfectly still. He didn’t want to make the mistake of touching her when he didn’t have explicit permission to do so. He was merely told to sleep next to her after all—nothing else.
But about fifteen minutes after he lied next to her, Emma shifted on her side of the bed—turning to him with a sleepy look in her eyes.
“You know,” she whispered, so softly, he would’ve missed it if he wasn’t as observant as he was. “I hoped...so hard back then that you would help me when I needed it. But you never did.”
Emma probably won’t remember what she mumbled in her drunken stupor in the morning. But the sadness and honesty that underlined her words sent him back about ten years into the past. To a time when he was a much greater evil than those who directly wronged her.
An apology sizzled across the tip of his tongue—something that’s a decade overdue. But before Wonwoo could hope to let her hear his piece, Emma’s breathing had become even and shallow.
She was already fast asleep.
He sighed, staring up at the dainty ceiling of her bedroom as he chuckled helplessly to himself.
“That’s why I’m making up for it now.”
If Gavin’s case was a walk in the park, Ezra’s was an Olympic-level marathon.
Wonwoo didn’t want to dwell on the details anymore. To cut it short: he was going to cross out ‘exposing a notorious drug lord’ off his bucket list without thinking of doing it again ever. While he managed to get out unscathed during his investigation, it just so happened that their final altercation with Ezra ended up putting Wonwoo in the hospital.
But so what if he fractured a couple of ribs trying to save Emma from being killed by that drug-addicted lunatic? As long as their goal to bring Emma’s enemies down was achieved, he’d gladly sustain any life-threatening injuries.
Which was, admittedly…strange.
Long before Emma came into the picture as his boss, Wonwoo never would’ve pictured himself risking his neck for the benefit of someone else. Though he had an entire arsenal of skills and knowledge at his disposal, it would take more than just his generous salary to get him to put them to good use.
But with Emma, he found himself utilizing whatever means to help her exact her revenge—on people he once called his friends, much less.
He must be going insane.
“Wonwoo…?”
Funnily enough, he ended up recalling everything that happened over the past two weeks first before recognizing that he was just regaining consciousness in the intensive care unit. Wonwoo's eyes hurt because of how bright the fluorescent lights were overhead, but for some reason, he didn’t flinch away from her relieved smile when it was a million watts brighter than the hospital’s indoor lighting.
“Good…day, ma’am,” he croaked out awkwardly, belatedly realizing that he didn’t know what time it was. “What day is it? Did someone fix your schedule for today? Did someone go over your meal plans in my stead? Were you—”
His endless stream of questions was interrupted by hacking fit—making Emma scramble for a glass of water on the table by his hospital bed, a concerned look lining her gaze.
“Don't talk too much,” she scolded him as he finished his drink. “You’ve been out for two days, idiot.”
Two days?
Needless to say, he couldn’t do a thing about it once his boss started fussing over him. She called over doctors she personally knew and handpicked only the most competent of nurses to look after Wonwoo. How Emma could be the judge of that, Wonwoo wasn’t very sure, but he gladly let her take care of him for a change.
After all, they successfully concluded another chapter in Emma’s little revenge story.
“When are we going to start with Leo?”
Wonwoo brought the matter up about three days after he woke up, right in the middle of eating the stale hospital food served to him for dinner. Emma, who was snacking on some takeout fast food, hummed before tossing a french fry into her mouth.
“You're not even healed yet, and you're thinking about work?” she sighed before pointing a fry in his direction. “I’m still paying you your regular wage even if you're stuck here. You don’t have to worry about making ends meet so much, Wonwoo. You just need to rest—”
“But I don’t want to rest, I want to be useful to you,” he interrupted her gruffly, which was strange of him because he never interrupted his employers.
For a moment, Wonwoo thought he’d be on the receiving end of a verbal lashing even if he was still recovering. Emma never let other people talk back to her without consequences. But instead, his boss threw her head back with a laugh that bordered on a snort. It’s a look that Wonwoo had seen on her time and time again—a look that he noticed Emma only showed to him.
Back then, he didn’t really think of her smile all that much. But now…
“You’re being useful enough just by being alive, Jeon,” she reassured him, that grin of hers unwavering. “Enough questions about Leo. I'm not even thinking about him yet because compared to the previous two? He’s a lot easier to track down.”
Wonwoo shot her a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”
“Same approach lang with Ezra.” She flashed him a toothy smile. “We’re going to get him to insure some of his properties under PLEDIS. But instead of us going to him, he'll be going to us instead.”
“I…? Sorry, ma’am. I don’t follow.”
Emma stifled a soft laugh behind her palm, unwrapping the burger included in her takeout meal before taking a bite of considerable size. “The Choi Corporation is expanding a chain of shopping malls somewhere in Jeju. Leo Choi personally contacted our CEO and there we have it: another big shot client.”
Another person to drag down to hell.
“Is that good enough for you?”
Wonwoo was still processing the news as they both finished up their respective meals. He should probably be glad that Emma didn’t decide to put their secret operation on hold just because he was out of commission. But something about how smoothly they’re progressing into the next phase of Emma’s big revenge plan that made him wary of treading any further.
He felt like he was being paranoid—probably the aftermath of almost crossing to the other side because of what happened with the Ezra incident. Wonwoo couldn’t help but be wary of any and all threats to both his life and Emma’s, and it was for a good reason.
“Okay,” Wonwoo breathed, wincing a little when he felt the spot where his ribs broke ache at how fast he inhaled. “What do you want me to do for now? Investigate? Trace his whereabouts?”
Emma’s smile suddenly turned ice cold. “I want you to rest, Wonwoo. Do I have to keep repeating myself?”
“But—”
“No buts. Boss’ orders—I'm your boss, right?”
Ah, there’s the Ice Queen they all knew and loved.
Fine. Maybe he could use a break from all that quote-unquote field work he just did. But one thing about his entire hospitalization still remained unanswered.
“What did you tell HR? About…this?” Wonwoo gestured towards his battered but healing body. “You’ve got the charisma, but I’m pretty sure it’s difficult even for you to go into cahoots with the other employees of PLEDIS. Much more, our human resources head.”
Emma waved away his concerns with a shake of her head. “You're so persistent, aren't you? Don’t think about HR. Or Leo. Or the rest of our plans. Can’t you be a normal salaryman and be happy that you have a break from all the things I make you do?”
“I told you, Miss Emma. I just want to make myself useful.”
“And I told you that you're the least useful in your current state. So give. It. A. Rest,” she threatened, putting emphasis on every syllable.
But behind her intimidating façade was someone who actually cared for him. The details were still a bit muddled in Wonwoo's head, but he remembered being rushed to the hospital in an ambulance. Remembered how Emma never let go of his hand as they made the trip all the way. And how he heard her pray for him to make it out alive despite being a well-known agnostic.
Once their conversation had mellowed down, he laid back against the steady elevation of his bed, watching the scenic city lights glimmer outside the window of his hospital room—just behind the woman who made his life a lot more interesting.
He couldn’t wait to be useful to her again.
“I hate this. I fucking hate this so much.”
Wonwoo spared his employer a quick glance as she practically glared at her reflection in the full-length mirror. He’d been browsing through a sports car catalog tucked underneath the hotel’s coffee table, but watching Emma have a furious meltdown about her wedding was more worth his time.
“You're the one who said that there'll more benefits if you accepted the marriage proposal,” her secretary reminded, crossing his legs as he leaned back on the couch he was sitting on. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Of course I was just…gaslighting myself about this entire fucked up situation!” Emma growled as she stomped over to him with a scowl. “Can’t fucking believe my dad agreed to marry me off just like that, too. After all his talk that I needed to love whoever I'm supposed to marry...”
Wonwoo shrugged. “Anyone can be blinded by money—especially if it's from the Chois.”
“Even you?”
It’s a question that sunk into the room with a rhetorical implication. Emma was quick to exchange the earrings her stylist chose for her with something more suited to her taste—a pair that didn’t sparkle all that much but was worth more than six months of Wonwoo's salary. In her reflection on the vanity mirror, he could clearly see the way her red lips parted in concentration as she clipped the earrings in place.
“No,” Wonwoo responded even if he knew she wasn’t looking for an answer. “I’m more easily blinded by other things, ma’am.”
Emma glanced behind her with a puzzled look, not getting his drift. “Like what?”
Wonwoo didn’t dare think twice.
He got up from his once comfortable position on the couch, closing the distance that sat between him and Emma in long, calculated strides. She didn’t seem fazed by his sudden need to walk over, but the moment Wonwoo was behind her, she stiffened when he reached a hand in front of her face. Then, with a firm yet featherlight touch, her secretary wiped off the lipstick that stained past her lip line with his fingers—not once breaking eye contact with her in the mirror.
“It wouldn’t be fun if I told you, now would it?” He smiled before pulling his hand back. “I need to keep you on your toes sometimes, too, Miss Emma.”
He half-expected her to scoff and brush off his attempt at being smart with her. Emma was a no-nonsense kind of person, and with the wedding happening soon, Wonwoo understood why she’d be more high-strung than usual.
But instead of acting the way she always did with him, Emma took Wonwoo by surprise when she fisted his silken necktie in her manicured nails, tugging him down so that their eyes were leveled with each other. Normally, that wouldn’t be enough to wrestle Wonwoo into complete submission, but this was his boss they were talking about.
There’s a glint in those sharp eyes of hers that had his heart beating off the charts. This wasn’t the gaze of someone entitled the Ice Queen of their office. No, there’s something warm in there—borderline sensual. And before Wonwoo could even hope to figure out what it was, Emma was already closing her eyes and sealing their lips together like some unspoken pact.
It’s an inconsequential kiss. Wonwoo has made out with both men and women alike—all desperate gasps and lust-fueled passion—but somehow, none of those experiences could hold a candle to the way Emma Rodriguez pecked his lips for a fraction of a second before pulling away.
“You're getting more and more insufferable,” she muttered, resting her forehead against his. “You were never this cheeky before. What happened?”
You, he wanted to tell her. You happened.
At that point, Wonwoo's brain was merely operating on carnal instinct alone. He lunged forward to capture her lips again, making her gasp in surprise as he snaked a strong arm around her waist. Thank fucking god Emma’s wedding dress had a simple design—no pretentious frills to obstruct his movements.
Despite the fact that this woman—his boss—was getting married in less than two hours, Wonwoo couldn’t even give a damn. He swiped all the makeup boxes and accessories off the vanity table, propping Emma up on the horizontal surface as he kissed her until she saw stars.
“Wonwoo,” she sighed against his lips, thighs inching apart as he bunched the long hem of her gown up to her waist. He wondered distantly if Emma was going to ask him to stop—to see reason. But the glazed look in her eyes told him otherwise.
“More.”
Wonwoo wanted nothing more than to give her more. He’d do everything she could ever dream of asking him. Never mind the fact that it was more than a little messed up for him to consider fucking his boss right before she’s married off to the man who tormented her endlessly at sixteen.
Nobody else mattered—not Leo, not the director, not even Emma’s intricate revenge plot that was years in the making. At that moment, only the two of them existed, only separated by a few layers of clothing before they could finally become one.
But Wonwoo was abruptly reminded why he always chose reason before ambition long before he met Emma. Dreams and delusions were bound to end when you least expected them to. Reality, on the other hand, would always remind you of life’s harshest truths.
“Miss Emma?” They both could hear the voice of Leo's personal assistant outside the door to the hotel room, preceded by a few short knocks. “It’s time for your prenup shoot. Director Rodriguez is also looking for Sir Wonwoo. Is he in there with you?”
Whatever dream the two of them have fabricated only minutes ago had been erased from existence—all that was left was a bride-to-be with her dress ruffled in all the wrong places, and a pitiful secretary with red lipstick stains adorning his face.
“Yeah, he’s here with me,” Emma yelled over to the doorway, eyes refusing to part from Wonwoo's. “We’ll be down soon. Thanks, Christina.”
“Okay, ma’am. I'll just wait for you in the lobby.”
Wonwoo counted to ten before peeling himself away from Emma, quickly striding towards the bathroom to get some tissues both for himself and his employer. But while he was wiping off the lipstick on the corners of his mouth, Wonwoo immediately noticed the shift in the atmosphere.
Emma was already busy straightening herself out—smoothing down the creases in her gown and retouching her makeup as best as she could without her stylists. Wonwoo wouldn’t have minded the silence, it’s exactly the kind of setting he preferred working in.
But just when he thought he’d managed to melt the Ice Queen’s heart over the past year, she turned arctic cold all over again.
“After the wedding, tell my driver to accompany me to Leo's penthouse. Though I despise the idea, we have to go home together to keep up the act for everyone to see.” She gave her orders the same way she used to tell Wonwoo to sort the company’s financial reports—straight to business with little room for playing around. “Other than that, I don't have any more orders. You can rest easy for the day, Wonwoo.”
He felt like he should say something to address what just happened between them five minutes ago. To ask why she was pretending as if they weren’t breathing each other in like all the oxygen on the planet had gone in a flash. But Wonwoo wasn’t some desperate fool that overestimated his place in Emma’s life.
“Duly noted, ma’am,” he muttered with the same degree of aloofness she’d just given him before tossing the soiled tissues in the trash. “I’ll be waiting for you outside.”
Emma didn’t even break face as Wonwoo's footsteps resounded on the carpeted floor. She didn’t even spare him a second glance. But then again…
He was her secretary, and she was his employer.
That was all there was to it.
Much to Wonwoo's surprise, Leo's case was closed much sooner than he thought it would be.
Before Emma could even make it to the cathedral, the commotion had already started. Wonwoo had arrived earlier in the venue with Emma’s father, the director of PLEDIS Insurance, and were just about to take their seats among the other principal sponsors when the television screens mounted all over the church suddenly started playing a video.
A video that Wonwoo has already seen before.
He didn’t have to glance at Leo to know that he was sporting the most horrified look he could muster upon seeing one of your many sex scandals having an impromptu screening at the cathedral. Collective gasps and disgusted remarks were heard in a chorus of murmurs that reached all the way up to the high ceilings.
Wonwoo could hear Leo's assistant, Christina—who turned out to be part of the sex parties her boss secretly indulged in—barking orders for the church staff to cut the feed. But it was too late. Those who needed to see the truth have already gotten their fill.
Recognizing that his daughter couldn’t possibly be wed to a man with a reputation that’s been tarnished in a church, of all places, Director Rodriguez ordered Wonwoo to contact the bridal car driver and tell him to send Emma straight home instead. It’s a job that Wonwoo got done fairly quickly, and despite the numerous text messages that Emma sent him demanding answers about what happened, he didn’t respond to any of them right away.
After a few hours of digging around, Wonwoo eventually found out that one of Leo's cousins was behind the public exposé. Apparently, said cousin was able to obtain the same footage that Emma acquired and was able to sabotage Leo's attempt at seizing their family riches before Emma could even put her plans into motion.
Well, at least someone else already did the dirty work for them.
As usual, Wonwoo collated all the information he’s gathered in a concise email. This was how he kept Emma up to speed about their progress—through self-destructing emails. He informed her about the involvement of Leo's cousin and how the trash had taken itself out, ensuring that Leo Choi had fallen from the false pedestal he’s clung onto for years.
Their behind-the-scenes mission has been fulfilled.
While he didn’t expect Emma to respond enthusiastically, receiving radio silence in return wasn’t something Wonwoo had anticipated either. But he opted not to read into it much. She must’ve been royally pissed that Leo's demise wasn’t brought about by her own hand, and Wonwoo respected that.
The following Monday after the canceled wedding, however, he ended up finding out the reason behind her silence.
“Boss,” sobbed Seokmin when Wonwoo timed in at the office. “Please don't leave!”
Immediately backing him up was Soonyoung, who didn’t hesitate to hug Wonwoo, even giving him a few pats on the shoulder as if they were old drinking buddies. “It's okay, Sir Wonwoo. You've been here long enough. Maybe it's about time you found your path elsewhere.”
…Huh?
“What are you talking about?” Wonwoo voiced out his confusion. “You’re speaking like I got fired.”
As if on cue, the third member of their trio walked in on the conversation as he sipped on his usual iced americano. Seungkwan stared at Wonwoo with a puzzled expression before saying:
“But weren't you fired, sir? Miss Emma announced it this morning, but I think she left right away after, too.”
Not privy to the way the pieces started to click in his head, Seokmin and Soonyoung kept consoling Wonwoo as he made his way to his (old) cubicle. Emma had been one step ahead too—someone already having packed away most of his belongings in storage boxes. Not to mention the notice of contract termination sitting on his desk. Effective immediately, it says.
“I really don't get it though” Seungkwan droned behind him. “You? The best secretary in the city? Fired just like that?”
Seokmin nodded. “I don't understand it either. You two were business-as-usual after the wedding. Miss Emma must've been so pissed that she didn't get married that she laid off the boss here.”
“True,” Soonyoung agreed with a snicker. “Boss, maybe Miss Emma's just being unreasonable. I bet she'll be begging for you to come back in a few days' time.”
Yeah. That’s what the situation would seem like to an outsider. But Wonwoo knew perfectly well that Emma wasn’t bluffing about this. She fired him for a reason that’s been stewing for more than a decade. Even if Gavin, Ezra, and Leo have had their taste of justice, Emma’s revenge plot wasn’t finished like Wonwoo thought it was.
Because Wonwoo was one of her targets all along, too.
I hoped...so hard back then that you would help me when I needed it. But you never did.
“Where is she?”
Seungkwan perked up. “Uh, maybe she went home? She told us something about feeling a bit under the weather?”
Seokmin nodded. “She's probably in her penthouse or something. If i were you, I'd start making it up to her.”
“Hey, you're talking like they're actually dating,” Soonyoung scolded with a laugh.
Not even bothering to thank them, Wonwoo turned on his heel and made a beeline for the office entrance—dead set on doing exactly what Seokmin jokingly suggested.
This is why I'm making it up to you, he mused with an exasperated air as he buckled up in his car.
Can’t you just let me in?
Emma spent her first Monday after the entire wedding disaster with Leo holed up in her unit—stuffing herself full of ice cream. The only reason she bothered going to the office today was to formally announce that her secretary Wonwoo Jeon was fired—just like she’d been planning since the moment she met him again as her secretary after all these goddamn years.
Her high school bullies have been put in their place. Her fifteen-year revenge plot was finally over.
But why did she feel so fucking depressed about it?
She sighed pitifully when she realized she’d already emptied her tub of double dutch ice cream, finally deigning to get up from the couch to deposit it in the kitchen for later disposal. But just when she was about to continue moping in her living room, the doorbell to her unit buzzed from the entrance, making her glance that way curiously.
It could be her next-door neighbor. A kind, elderly woman who lived with her daughter. She borrowed Emma’s rosemary spices yesterday—something that she barely used because she often opted to go for food deliveries instead of whipping up her own meals.
With that reasoning in mind, she didn’t bother checking who was at the door through the peephole. She simply undid the locks before opening the door—only to come face-to-face with—
“Hey,” Wonwoo sighed as he jammed his foot between the door and the doorframe. “Ma’am, please talk to me first. Did you think I wouldn't catch onto what you were trying to do?”
“Why do I have to explain myself to you? You’re fired, right?” Emma growled as she pushed the door with her back, but sadly, Wonwoo easily overpowered her. At least he was decent enough to not let himself in—he simply lingered out in the hallway with a placid look on his face. “What?”
“Emma,” her ex-secretary addressed her for the first time without any formalities. “If you fired me as vengeance for not helping you all those years ago, I get it. I deserve it, even. But after what happened sa hotel…
“You can’t convince me there’s nothing between us anymore.”
Her breath hitched, face growing warm at the reminder of that intimate moment they shared hours before she was supposed to get married. Whenever she closed her eyes, she could still feel Wonwoo's mouth on hers. But that wasn’t a thought that was healthy to entertain at the moment.
“What are you saying? That was all part of the plan, you know?” She bluffed with a mirthless laugh, fully turning to face him as she crossed her arms. “Make you smitten enough with me to let your guard down. Look, you didn't expect me to fire you, did you?”
“No, but you can’t fool me, Emma,” Wonwoo chuckled with a self-satisfied smirk. “You wanted me too—that was real. If I’m mistaken, then make me leave. Call security on me. If I’m the nuisance you so desperately want me to be, then get rid of me here and now.”
The silence was thick between them. Emma was practically shaking with frustration as Wonwoo stared down at her with that overconfident look on his face. She wanted nothing but to punch him, hit him, slap him—
Kiss him.
Maybe Wonwoo was right. Maybe Emma did want him more than she led herself to believe.
Because why the hell did she fist the front of Wonwoo's work shirt before pulling him inside her penthouse? Why did she slam him against the door, earning a sexy groan from him as she crushed their lips together?
Was this a healthy way to deal with your current predicament? No—definitely not. But it felt too fucking good to pass up on.
Wonwoo, however, was all too quick to regain control—hooking one of Emma’s thighs around his waist as she gasped into his mouth. She could practically feel him smirk against her lips, and though she’s loath to admit, it only made her want him even more.
“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” he chuckled before peppering her neck with love bites. “You might need to kill me first before I stop pursuing you.”
Emma spared him a breathless laugh that quickly melted into a moan when Wonwoo's hand found itself inside her oversized sleep shirt. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were obsessed with me, Jeon.”
His fingers were warm against her skin, and Emma couldn’t help the full-on shudder that racked her body when Wonwoo grazed her bare nipples. The smile on his face was wicked—dangerous, even.
“Maybe I am,” he chuckled, his breath fanning against her flushed face.
“What would you do if I was obsessed with you, Ma’am?”
Emma was well aware that Wonwoo knew the answer to his own question. It was obvious in the way he quickly picked her up from the floor, fully wrapping both her legs around his waist as he carried her towards her bedroom. But despite the carnal urgency in his grip, Wonwoo was awfully gentle as he laid her down on the mattress.
“Last chance to kick me out,��� he murmured against her ear as he started unbuttoning his shirt. “You could exact your revenge on me even better, ‘no? I’m giving you the leeway to frame me for forced entry…among other things.”
God. She knew Wonwoo was a little crazy when he accepted Emma’s orders to help her make his old best friends suffer. But the way he looked at her with such crazed desire further confirmed her suspicions.
And she didn’t want her men any other way.
“Fuck me, Wonwoo,” she told him clearly before stripping her own clothes and laying herself bare for him to feast on—eyes lidded, desiring him just as much as he did her. “That’s an order.”
He shook his head with a chuckle, and Emma had to force herself not to drool over his perfectly built torso. If she had more patience, she would’ve taken her time worshiping every inch of Wonwoo's body, but he’d already set a fire in the pit of her stomach. One that she fully expected him to deal with sooner than later.
“So wet for me,” he observed with a lopsided smirk, pressing their foreheads together as he lathered his fingers with her slick. “Have you always wanted me this way? Do you touch yourself to the thought of me, Miss Emma?”
Yes. Fuck, yes.
“That’s none of your business, Jeon,” Emma stubbornly insisted, keeping herself from moaning when his lips descended onto one of her hardened nipples.
Wonwoo made good on the opportunity, using the fingers he’d used to feel up her slick cunt to rub her essence across the other bud he wasn’t suckling on. The effect was near immediate—Emma throwing her head back with a pretty little whimper as Wonwoo started to massage her breasts.
Fuck. He’d always dreamed of getting to smother his face between them.
“Wonwoo,” she gasped out loud, hips bucking desperately when he bit down on her sensitive flesh. “F-Fuck me. Now.”
“Demanding.” He pulled away from her sensitive nipples with a pop, staring up at her with a lustful gaze. “You enjoy ordering me around too much, you know?”
“You enjoy being ordered around, too,” Emma pointed out with a scoff, trying her best not to moan too loudly when Wonwoo's fingers started to toy with her leaking cunt again. “Just—I need you. Please.”
Ah, he never thought the day would come when he’d hear Emma Rodriguez begging for his cock.
“Okay, Ice Queen,” he relented with a playful laugh, kicking his underwear and trousers off as he pumped his already hard length. “Since you're so eager for me to fuck you, I’m not going to prep you anymore. You better not cry when my cock splits you open, okay?”
Hearing him talk so lewdly to her made her pussy gush with excitement. What’s more was that, not only was her secretary blessed with a face and body that gods would covet, but his cock was something she was afraid she’d keep looking for even when he was done with her.
He was awfully careful when he first pushed inside of her, sharp eyes riveted on her face as it twisted with both pain and pleasure alike. His size was something that one needed getting used to, and he wasn’t about to make his first time with Emma uncomfortable for her.
No, he wanted her to keep thinking about him even after they’ve had their fill of each other.
“Squeezing me so fucking tight,” he rasped against her neck, licking a long stripe along the column of her throat to make her shiver. “Too bad you already fired me. I always wondered what it would feel like to bend you over and fuck you in your office.”
He could feel her pussy squeeze his cock even tighter at the shameless image she put in her head, making Wonwoo smirk with pride as he started to move. Emma mewled his name, grabbing his face as he chased his lips. He was all too willing to give her what she wanted, meeting her with an open-mouthed kiss as their tongues clashed together in time with his thrusts.
“W-Wonwoo,” she moaned into his mouth, hips eagerly meeting his. “Deeper. Fuck me deeper.”
And fuck her deeper, he did—Emma’s got him wrapped around her pretty manicured fingers, after all.
Wonwoo was relentless with the way he pounded her into the bed, the sound of skin slapping against skin ringing much too loudly in his ears. But he didn’t fucking care. The feel of Emma’s velvet pussy walls pulsing around his cock sent his mind into a frenzy—fucking her until the bedframe creaked, until Emma was begging him to give her more, more, more—
All of a sudden, she gasped, “Coming, coming—!”
If being inside her was life-changing, feeling her cum around his cock sent Wonwoo straight to heaven. Her cunt spasmed deliciously as Wonwoo helped her ride out her high—lips locked together as they breathed each other in.
“Cum inside me,” she murmured deliriously into his mouth, practically rubbing her breasts—sensitive and littered with all the marks Wonwoo left on them—against his toned chest. “Make me yours, Jeon.”
He didn’t have to be told twice.
“God, I love you,” he sighed a little mindlessly, and those carelessly uttered words made Emma’s eyes widen with surprise before losing herself to the feeling of delirium.
Wonwoo spilled his load inside her quivering cunt with a long-winded moan, feeling like he’d been shot through the head and was experiencing a level of euphoria that bordered on illegal. Emma moaned at the feel of his warm cum filling her to the brim, bringing him down for another sloppy kiss as the heat of the moment started to dissipate in the quiet atmosphere of their bedroom.
As their breaths started to settle, Emma was the first to glance at him—to meet his eyes. Wonwoo couldn’t find any trace of the arctic cold Ice Queen that practically told him to scram the other day at the hotel.
No, it was just Emma.
His Emma.
“Can I still take back my verdict?” she muttered softly, inching closer to bury her face in his chest. Wonwoo instinctively pulled her in for a tender embrace, kissing the crown of her head with a smile.
“You mean the contract termination?” Wonwoo chuckled. “Take it up to HR, Miss Emma. I’m just a lowly secretary.”
All of a sudden, Emma rolled over so that she was seated upright on the bed. Wonwoo had to keep himself from groaning at the sight of her—hair disheveled and body sporting all his marks. Seeing her freshly fucked by him was doing things to his libido.
“You’re not just my secretary, Wonwoo,” she sighed, twiddling with her fingers awkwardly. “I…I wasn’t going to fire you anymore. I got used to your company. I…
“I fell in love with you.”
The words floated between them like a cloud that couldn’t easily be swept up by the wind. Wonwoo offered her a comforting smile before pulling her into a firm kiss.
“Yet you fired me anyway,” he pointed out with a laugh. “Why? You couldn’t deal with the fact that you fell in love with one of your high school bullies?”
That earned him a punch in the shoulder. “You’re not one of them. You’re different.”
“And you’re in love with me too, no? You said it yourself. Since when?”
Shaking his head, Wonwoo then pressed a soft, featherlight kiss on her nose—one that had Emma’s heart fluttering like she was a schoolgirl.
Gosh, this man. He’s fifteen years too late.
“Maybe I’ve always been a little in love with you. Who knows?” Wonwoo spared her a Cheshire cat smile. “There’s more where that came from though.”
Emma punched him in the chest this time—a bit too close to the spot where he broke a few ribs months prior. But he didn’t care.
She could send him to hell and back and he’d do it for her in a heartbeat.
From: Wonwoo Jeon
Subject: NOT-SO CLASSIFIED
Good evening, Miss Emma. I hope this message finds you well.
I heard that you dealt with quite a stressful client today. I’m very sorry that I wasn’t here to help you with the matter as I was given tasks to do elsewhere. In order to make up for this lapse on my part, I am cordially inviting you to dinner at 7PM tonight after work.
Rest assured, the expenses shall be shouldered by me and your only job is to sit and look gorgeous as I wine and dine you for the evening. Sincerely hoping for your most favorable response.
Regards,
Wonwoo Jeon
Secretary, Finance and Logistics Department
PLEDIS Insurance
Your boyfriend :)
end notes: this wasnt thoroughly proofread so if you spot some strange errors (aka sentences in a different language bc this fic was partly in filipino) here and there, pretend you didn't see em! as always, ur feedback means everything to me so scream in the tags or my ask as much as you want ^__^
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DOWNRIGHT ICONIC (aespa karina)
(smut, male reader, screenwriter you, stranger karina, public sex, rough sex [choking/slapping/biting/spanking/hair-pulling etc], oral, anal, facefucking, titfucking, facial, bondage, degradation, name-calling, other weird stuff, 26k words, it's been 1 million years..., BUT WE'RE SO BACK BABY <3)
Hey, turns out the critics really are onto something:
You’re going to win an Oscar for this.
You aren’t surprised when the nominations are announced. It’s all anyone’s been talking about. You’re this up-and-coming screenwriter, this newly-minted visionary, and - cue the applause - you’ve just made the movie of the year. Clips go viral everywhere; the reviews are calling it extraordinary. They all want to know how you - a relative nobody - managed to pull it off. What’s your secret? What’s your inspiration? Where’d you get this billion-dollar box office idea?
And here’s one version of the truth:
“Well,” you’re quoted saying in every single interview: “honestly, it’s about a girl.”
Everyone eats this up, of course. It’s so fucking romantic.
You’ll tell an abridged version of this story for the rest of your life. A blip in time in early January - a certified slow-motion movie moment. You’ll say things like she was the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen. You’ll say things like, I know it sounds lame, but that’s how it went. She took my breath away. She fascinated me. I saw her and I don’t think my life has ever been the same.
You’ll never once say her name.
“It’s weird, actually,” you’ll say in an interview after the news of the nominations drops. “Making this movie about her. She’ll last forever there, you know? She’ll always exist in this film, in this one moment in time. She’s in all of it, basically - every scene, every line. It’s all her.”
“You make it sound like she’s dead,” the interviewer will say, all open-mouthed melodrama.
You’ll laugh. “Oh, God, no,” you’ll say. “She’s alive and well.” As if it hasn’t been years since you last saw her face, watching you from down the corridor, looking lost and torn apart and very, very small. “She’s okay. I mean - I think - yeah, she’s okay.”
As if you’d know.
Because here’s another version of the truth:
You’re going to win an Oscar for this. You’re going to stand up on that stage and thank your family and your friends. You’re going to stare at all those faces until they swim together into one golden, glittering blur, and then all you’ll see is her - her dark eyes, her glossy hair, her wrist in your grip, her throat between your fingers - her in your sheets, her smiling in your doorway, her shivering in your shower, her sobbing into her hands, her bleeding in your bed, her walking away. Her, her, her. Immortalized forever in this perfect thing you made, winning awards off the reconstruction of a memory. Art imitating life; reality warped into something magnificent, and beautiful, and better.
And the only thing you’ll feel like doing is throwing up.
Sure, you’ll bask for decades in the thrill of it: the fame, the fortune, the glory; the adoration, the worship, the attention; the eternal, endless love. You’ll be able to look back on your life when you’re decrepit on your deathbed and know that you - brilliant you, utterly superior you - were divinely blessed with earth-shattering success, and no one will ever be able to take that away from you. You made your mark. You meant something. You were the best, for fuck’s sake, and you have the accolades to prove it - you really, really were.
So here’s the full truth - the final bottom line:
You’re going to win an Oscar for this. You’ll live the kind of life people beg God for. You’ll get everything you ever wanted.
It won’t be worth it at all.
-
First, though, there’s this.
-
Disturbingly enough, you’re in the romance section of a bookstore when everything starts.
This is really not your genre - that’s the funniest part. Historically, you’re bored to death by the cartoonish pastel covers; you don’t get your kicks from seeing the same delightfully quirky heroines fall for brooding bad boys, or whatever the fuck goes on in those books. You have your standards. You prefer your art a little gritty, a little fucked up, a little more interesting - the kind of thing that can leave you shellshocked in a movie theater, overcome with the sort of full-body, lightning-struck epiphany only truly good work can manage. It’s not a judgment call - you’re not trying to be pretentious. It’s just that you prefer something with some fucking bite.
The second funniest part is this:
You’re pressed against the shelves, surrounded by the cutest, chastest love stories ever told-
“Are you serious?”
-and Karina’s on her knees, about to take your cock down her throat.
Maybe this is what your contemporaries call cinematic irony.
That’s gotta be the only phrase for it, really. The scene itself dripping with classless, crude, erotic filth - the way she ducks her chin to spit on her hand, the slow pump of her fist around you, the rough hum in her mouth at how achingly hard you are - nasty and irredeemable, too fast and too loud. The gross lack of subtlety in her sex appeal: all pale thighs and porn-star tits, the wet pink flash of tongue. Seductive in a way that screams at you. It’d be so easy to write this off as some deliberately controversial opening scene, gory shock value, horror-film suspense - starring you and the slut you’re about to ravage and ruin and potentially leave for dead.
“Baby - are you sure?”
It’d be so easy, if Karina didn’t look like an angel incarnate.
“I mean, you-” You’re stammering. You’ve got both hands in her hair, fingers sliding through the glossy black in petting, soothing motions - your clumsy attempt at reassurance. “You don’t have to, if you don’t - we’re in public - I’m not expecting you to - I don’t need it-”
Karina’s fine, sculpted eyebrows twitch upwards. Her lips are a twist of scarlet, distinct and amused. She doesn’t quite smirk, doesn’t give a voice to the sarcasm, but the sentiment is the same - yeah, right.
And then she lowers her mouth to lick.
“Jesus fucking Christ-”
Scratch that, then. This is the funniest part. The most inhumanly beautiful girl you’ve ever seen, debasing herself in public like some sort of desperate common whore - come on, bring in the laugh track.
Not that anyone’s laughing now.
You’re no poet - they’re a few sections over, Plath and Yeats and Dickinson - but Karina’s the kind of thing that makes you understand the motivation completely: only capable of being captured in metaphor, without context, painstakingly interpreted hundreds of years from now by people who will never get this right. All carved-out cheekbones, fluttering lashes; tight fuckable body clad in a little low-cut dress, feet tucked neatly behind her like she’s simulating worship. Dirty and religiously devoted in how she stretches her full glossed lips around your cock and lets your grip tangle in her hair and-
“Karina,” you get out, but her only response is to blink sweetly up at you and suck.
Well, who gives a shit about the poets, anyway? You doubt any of them ever got to fuck a mouth like this.
There’s an unfamiliar caution to the rut of your hips, a wincing fascination every time she gags - and she gags loud, choking and heaving, saliva dripping slick around you and down her chin - that seems to both entertain and confuse Karina. A skeptical crease in her forehead, saying everything she can’t: you don’t wanna fuck me up? Ruin me? Cloudy spit falling in strands to her tits, seeping into the crimson fabric of her dress; she’s wearing a worn black sweatshirt that’s slipping off one shoulder, exposing the clean line of her collarbone. The hollow of her cheeks, the obscene painful sound of your cock clogging her throat - it’s subtext, explicit suggestion. A preternatural understanding. I know what this is. I know what you want from me.
Which - she couldn’t possibly.
“Baby.” You sound so wretched that it’s humiliating. Karina’s sharply lined eyes seem to flash with humor, smug and lazily self-satisfied. “You’re gonna make me fucking cum.”
The thick, sloppy, choked noise she makes is the closest she’s gonna get to a laugh.
Oh, sure, whatever, it’s not like you’re not thinking about it: digging your fingertips into her scalp and really fucking her face, relishing in the way those eyes would go wide and glassy with unshed tears; refusing to let her have control, to let her lick and lap and breathe. You’re scripting it in your head already. You’d strip her bare and make her sob. You’d wreck her throat and cum all over her face and force her to walk out like that: coated in the sticky, filthy evidence of everything you’ve made her - look at this, you’d say, look at what I have. Look at what I did - all this, all me.
“God.” Your thumb braces against Karina’s temple, like the gentle stroke of a brush, like you’re painting her right into existence. “You’re just-” A harsh gag; a fall of dirty, drooling spit. “You’re really enjoying this, huh? Getting on your knees in public for a fucking stranger?”
That’s why the fantasy of fucking her into brutal submission is actually so understandable. You don’t know her. You don’t owe her shit. You could destroy her and it’s not like she could do anything to fight back - not when she’s already below you, looking up. When she asked for this.
Except-
“Karina.” You can’t stop saying her name. “You’re - fucking perfect.”
And it’s true.
So you cum.
Karina swallows it all with the same amount of sultry grace she seems to do everything - how she laughs and walks and talks and takes your cock like a fucking professional - languishing in the practiced bob of her throat, the preening flicker of her eyelids, her face shiny and pale. It tugs the same feeling out of you as a flawless shot in a film, a well-timed bit of dialogue: watching an expert at work, pulling out all their stops. One hand through her hair. Her nails the same rich color as her mouth and her dress. Nasty, slutty, impressive attention to detail - Christ, get this girl in front of a camera, get the moon to be her limelight - you’re breathless, you’re enthralled, you’re so fucking far gone.
Then: the sticky retreating glide of her pouty mouth, lipstick smeared badly down her chin, stark and arresting as blood.
“In my experience,” Karina says, finally, “being perfect’s never gotten me anywhere good.”
She pulls the sleeve of her sweatshirt up and wipes her face with her wrist.
“You’re unbelievable,” you say, dizzy.
“Thank you,” Karina says, sweet like she means it, and sits back on her heels.
You can’t help yourself; you’re petting back her hair again, cupping her face softly in your hand, caught on the dark glint of her irises. Angel was an understatement. She looks more than that - looks like something holy and all-powerful, something omniscient and blindingly beautiful, something who knows exactly what you need and knows exactly how to follow through. Something worthy of mythology. Something like a god.
And any sort of rough, ruthless, fucked-up fantasy - it’s never going to happen.
You just can’t ruin a girl like her.
“So?” Karina’s voice is a smoky bombshell lilt, like she’s just stepped out of some film noir from the 1950s. Hands folded primly in her lap, fingers interlocked like a lady. She could be a pop culture icon, an eternal sex symbol - a Marilyn, a Bond girl, a timeless universal beauty. “What now?”
You think your brain actually short-circuits. “Sorry?”
Head tilted, lids dropped low. Smirk still sharp and scarlet. “Are you gonna take me home?”
You open your mouth to respond, but then a customer walks by the aisle.
You’re a panicked flurry of motion - zipping up your pants, turning away, frantically patting down your clothes - but Karina just stays kneeling on the floor, little chin on an incline, utterly incriminating. It doesn’t matter. The customer passes you by. The world returns to the way it should be: just the two of you.
“Karina,” you say, flabbergasted by her composure.
Karina’s lips quirk. “What?”
You shake your head and offer your hand to help her up, but Karina laughs instead - actually laughs. It’s peculiar, beautiful: raspy like a chronic chainsmoker, as though there’s something foreign she’s trying to dislodge. The raw, gravelly aftermath of a skinned knee, a grisly scrape over skin.
“Wow,” she says, and stands all on her own, tugs the sleeves of her sweatshirt over her fingers. “That’s a yes to taking me home, then?”
“What are you doing?” You’re laughing too - you can’t help it - reaching for Karina’s tiny waist to pull her in. “What are you - what do you want?”
When Karina smiles, it seems to set her eyes aflame. Bright and dancing, lashes like a shroud of smoke. “What do you mean?”
“You just met me.” It sounds feeble, somehow: a thin, useless excuse. Nothing against the way her body slots between your hands, a smooth effortless fit; nothing compared to how she kisses you between sentences, so quick and easy it already feels like a habit. “You don’t - you don’t know me.”
Karina’s mouth puckers, coy. “No?”
“No,” you shoot back, grinning, but it doesn’t sound convincing at all. “Come on, baby, seriously. What do you want?”
There’s gotta be some motive, you’re thinking. There’s gotta be a reason. Karina is so still, so soft and pliant under your hands, all the carved porcelain perfection of a marble sculpture but with none of the cold stiffness. Spine curving under your fingertips, jaw tilting into your touch.
A complete stranger, maybe - but every part of her body is begging to be known.
“Don’t you get it?” Karina says. “I want whatever you want.”
It’s so simple and earnest it takes your breath away.
“I - Jesus.” You’re biting on the inside of your cheek, drinking her in. “What if I told you I don’t know what I want?”
Another rasp of a laugh, sound like the serrated edge of a blade. “I’d say fine, okay.” Karina’s voice is low, conspiratorial. “But I’d think you’re lying.”
And here’s the thing you know for sure:
The very second you saw Karina you swear you saw the next hundred pages of a manuscript unfurling in front of you, lines and themes and gorgeous dark-eyed heroines, tragically beautiful endings and stunning cinematography - infinite narratives in the glossy sweep of her hair, in the seductive stretch of her legs, in the way she looked at you in a crowded room and smiled a lovely, secret smile and told you she’d follow you anywhere. She’s worth making art about. She’s worth devoting lifetimes to. The most honest thing you could say to her right now is baby, I’m writing a movie about this one day, and I think you’re really gonna like it.
Karina couldn’t possibly know any of this, but it still feels like she does - impractical knowledge in how she loops one arm around your neck and kisses you again, no hesitation. Like she actually knows you.
“I want to fuck you,” you murmur against her mouth, because it’s the next most honest thing. “Is that enough for you?”
You’re a screenwriter. You know your horror movies. A small part of you recognizes that this is precisely how they start: fanged vampires, wicked succubi, femme fatales out for blood. Karina’s so gorgeous she can’t be human - teeth so sharp there’s no way her intentions are pure.
“Sure,” Karina says, smirk glimmering like starlight. “Then I want that, too.”
It’s a murder plot waiting to happen.
You take her home anyway.
-
(Oh, and about your Oscar-winning script-
In theory, this is how it begins.
It’s classic. There’s a stranger and there’s a beautiful girl and they’re both sitting at a bar, talking for the very first time. The girl has a rose tucked behind her ear; it matches the crimson color of her lipstick perfectly. The stranger had asked her what the deal with it was, but she’d said something vague and nonsensical about it being a gift, so now they’re talking about normal, average things. Jobs, names, flirtatious pickup lines. It’s obvious because it’s meant to be, like a set-up to some predictable porn - everyone watching knows they’re going to fuck.
She keeps getting closer to him. At one point he thinks she’s going in for a kiss.
Instead, all she does is pluck the rose from behind her ear, and hand it to him.
It’s okay, she says. No thorns.
He stares at the rich furled petals and the whittled-down stem.
Thanks, he says, amused, charmed. He thinks there’s something odd about her. He likes it, though; if she were as beautiful as she is - which is very beautiful, exquisitely fucking beautiful - and she behaved like most people do, he’d find her terribly boring.
He takes it from her. Turns over the rose in his hands absentmindedly as she keeps talking. She’s got all this hair: wild and glossy black, pouring over her thin shoulders, her ribs, her tiny waist. After a moment he feels the sharp prick of a thorn against his fingertip and releases the rose in surprise.
You said there weren’t thorns, he tells her, laughing. Ow.
Whoops, she says. Then: Did it get me too?
She turns her head, pulls her hair out of the way. There’s a scarlet bead of blood trickling down the side of her perfect pale neck. He can’t quite tell where the point of entry was, where the thorn had dug in and broken skin. It’s bleeding a bit too heavily. Covering its tracks.
She swivels, slightly. She sees the look on his face. Is it bad? she asks.
No, he says, though he can’t really tell. But - couldn’t you feel it, though? The thorn?
The girl presses her hand to the side of her throat. It comes back bloodstained, a neat smear of red along the lifeline of her palm.
No, she echoes, though this can’t possibly be true. Hey, you wanna get out of here or something?
Alright, he says, smiling. They both stand. They leave the rose where it is. Let’s go.
He cups her cheek instead of her neck when he kisses her for the first time, so he doesn’t have her blood on his hands.
It starts simple like that.)
-
Karina’s so out of place in your apartment that it’s almost laughable - or it would be, if you were capable of thinking about anything but her mouth and her hands and her tits crushed up against your chest as you pin her to the doorframe. She keeps making these little sounds into your mouth: low and throaty, almost agonized. You swallow all her moans off her lips - oh, baby, you’re okay - and you only kiss her harder. She doesn’t belong, among your carpet worn-down from pacing and your laptop still open and idling and the mess of incoherent colorful post-it notes pasted to your fridge. She doesn’t fit here. Here kissing your mouth, here in your arms, here on fucking earth with the rest of you heathens-
“You wanna fuck me so bad,” murmurs Karina, chin on an incline, staring up at you, “then do it already.”
She doesn’t squirm or fidget; she doesn’t get needy or start begging. She stays pinned down by your body, lips parted, and stands completely still.
It’s like she’s telling you to make your move. Waiting for something inevitable.
“What happened to patience?” you say, anyway.
Karina’s mouth curls. She palms your cock through your pants. “What the fuck is that?”
You try to laugh, breathless and turned on, but all she does is kiss you again.
You’re a creative - you’re ready to attribute meaning to every movement - but there’s nothing so profound about it when you get Karina on your bed, all that thick black hair fanned out on your sheets, her hands grasping to get your shirt off - off, she murmurs, off. Even that comes out measured. She never shakes. She’s so sure. You kiss her everywhere you can reach, her face and her neck and her collarbone and her tits, drunk on the soft, humming sounds she makes when you do. You’re so fucking gorgeous, you can’t stop saying, and Karina keeps laughing that same raspy laugh, like it’s the most hilarious thing she’s ever heard.
“You told me you already know that, right?” You’ve got her face cupped in one of your hands and your other one at the neckline of her scarlet dress. “So what’s so funny?”
“Everything.” Her teeth glint the way fangs would, a deliberate trick of the light. She’d be villainous if she weren’t so content to be trapped underneath you. “All of it.” She presses her palm to the side of your neck. “You’re too nice.”
“Fuck.” Your thumb accidentally digs too hard into her cheek. She doesn’t wince, but you feel it - the stomach-turning thrill, the possibility of leaving a bruise. Your hand drops low - lower, down her throat and her tits and her flat midriff - and slips between her thighs, up her dress. It feels safer, somehow. “How do you manage to make the word nice sound like an insult?”
“It’s not,” she says, simply, and spreads her legs.
And it must not be - because Karina’s so wet.
She makes another low velvety sound when you first touch her, seems to melt into the stretch of your finger in her cunt - just one finger, and her back arches faintly, prettily, hips lifting to take more. “Jesus,” you mutter, but Karina’s not looking at you: her eyes are shut tight, lashes fluttering black, tits heaving in her dress with each draw of breath. You’ve fucked girls who’ve seemed unsure of themselves - embarrassed by their own wantonness, how wet they are, how bad they want it - but all Karina does is wrap her hand around your wrist and tug, once: a clear soundless plea for more.
For a second you’re actually, positively certain that you’ve lost it.
It’s abject fantasy. It can’t be real. You in your apartment with the dream girl - the personal Aphrodite - the muse; God, if anyone was ever made to be a fucking muse, it’s her - underneath you with her ridiculous tits and her tight little pussy, face like a Hollywood dream. Ludicrous. Impossible. Bucking as she tries to fuck herself deeper on your fingers, all the way to the knuckle - slowing down only to say you wanna fuck my cunt open with your big fat cock or what?
“I,” you try to say, strangled - her mouth’s so fucking filthy. “I was - I mean - we could take it slow-”
“How romantic,” says Karina - and this, too, sounds like a heinous insult coming from her - but she drags your wrist to her lips and sucks her own slick off your hand anyway.
You choke on your next breath. “Karina-”
She looks up at you, unflinching, tits half out of her dress and cunt dripping down her thighs. Lipstick worn-down, kissed-off. All over your mouth, or your throat, or your shirt. Mouth chapped from the cold and stained marvelously pink. There’s something in the way her smile forms slight and crooked every time you say her name, as if there’s some private joke you’re not in on.
“You’re such a gentleman,” Karina purrs, all syrupy-sweet condescension. Then: “You really don’t have to be.”
She licks the pad of your finger. She’s so completely shameless. You feel monstrous on top of her, in this sick, superior way, like she’s just too small to be so sopping wet and slutty and fuckable - too beautiful to be anything but treated just right.
“If you want me to fuck you like a whore, baby,” you tell her, half-joking, “then just say that.”
It’s a mistake the moment it leaves your mouth - a line crossed. Because all Karina does is cock her head, your wrist gripped delicately in her hand, her legs parted underneath you, and stares. Almost droll, bemused. Like you’re so goddamn predictable.
“Didn’t you hear me?” That perfect face sears right through you. You’d nearly fucked that face. Not quite. Not yet. “I want whatever you want.”
She’s even tinier than you originally thought she was. You only realize this now, tracing her stomach under your fingertips, feeling the sharp relief of each rib straining beneath her skin. You don’t know it until you touch her, but you can span the width of her thigh under one hand. It sends a strange shiver through you: mapping every jut of bone, every startling edge. She’s tiny. Breakable, practically. Men meaner than you have probably thrown her around, fucked her up against walls, used her like a toy.
“So,” says Karina. “What do you want?”
Your fist clenches tight in her grasp, right in front of her face, knuckles going horrifically white.
Like you - like you’re going to-
An accident. A primal sort of gesture, like you’re less than human, turned under her touch into some feral hot-blooded animal who can’t control itself: carnivorous, predatory. You stare at your own hand and then the sharp scythelike curve of her mouth and feel revolted embarrassment crawl straight up your spine.
It’s abhorrent.
It also doesn’t even seem to matter.
Karina doesn’t go wide-eyed and nervous; she doesn’t look at your wound fist like she’s scared of what it could do to her. She clicks her tongue, once. Like this, too, is something she already saw coming.
“I thought so,” she says, anyway. Maybe this is it, what does it for her; looking the devil full in the face and begging to be burned. “Then do it.”
“I can’t do that to you,” you mutter, but you tug her dress up, and you fuck her anyway.
-
She’s a stranger. This is the point of fucking strangers. To do things to them that you’d never do to anyone else - to take out your worst impulses and tell your best lies and know that none of it matters, in the end. Because they’re nobody, and because you’ll never see them again.
But you just can’t.
She’s too indulgent and stunning and soft, with her low moans and the addicting drenched heat of her cunt, hand gentle and careful on the nape of your neck so she can keep pulling you into a kiss. She’s made up of curves, delicate edges - those hips and those tits you can’t keep your hands off of and her lips in a dreamy smile - and you find yourself stroking her hair back from her face so you can drink it all in: the blush in her cheeks, the almost serene way she lets her eyes slip shut and her mouth drop open, slack and enticingly wet. So good, baby, you keep telling her, because she is, her entire body warm and wanting and so easily fucked open, little pussy swallowing your cock right up. She doesn’t fidget or plead. She’s so sweet, such a perfect fit, humming into your mouth as your cock eases her open; so wet you can hear it, the sloppy squelch of her cunt when you bottom out. Your voice comes out coaxing. You like that? That feel good? Taking my cock so nicely, huh?
“Mmm,” Karina breathes, in an exhilarating moan, right into your mouth, against your tongue. “Mm, mm-”
She never quite manages full sentences. Never finds it in herself to make any more obscene demands. Just gets all small and soaking underneath you, licks messily at your bottom lip, and lets you do all the talking - lets you draw a careful hand through her hair and drop your other one between her thighs, clenches tight around your cock when you rub at her clit, keens low in her throat and listens. To the good girl, to the I got you, baby, to the that’s it, there you go, this is what you wanted - I know, honey, I know, you just needed to get this cunt fucked right, you just needed to cum real bad. I know what this is. I know what you need.
“Fuck.” She’s flushed pink to her chest, delightfully ineloquent. “Yes-”
Well - good thing you’re decent with your words, when it counts. Let Karina blush and drool and slick up your cock with every stroke. That’ll work just fine with you.
It’s the kind of juxtaposition you’d really lean into - the kind of thing you’d write just to get so self-indulgent with, a personalized note to the director, a wink and a nudge to every audience member. Look at that. Look at her eyes like something straight out of poetry. Look at her body like a pornographic fantasy. Look at how she gets so tamed and docile and compliant when she gets her tiny pussy stuffed full, creaming all over that cock, huge tits bouncing - look, that’s art, isn’t it? What else would you call it? What else could it be?
“You gonna cum, baby?” She’s so fragile underneath you. Color staining her cheeks apple-red; lips swollen and begging to be kissed. Fictive little fairy tale. “You gonna cum for me?”
“Yeah.” It’s breathy and barely-there. Her chin trembles, jerks in a weak nod. “I’m - I - fuck-”
See: you just can’t rough her up. It’d be blasphemous. Sacrilege. Taking one single look at the stained-glass windows of a church and tearing it all to the ground.
Still, you’re mesmerized by how utterly vulnerable she looks: the glossy shine to her irises; the way she inhales all slow and shaky, body slipping from some sort of precipice. Not just like she’s near-tears, but like she’s stunned - struck dumb from a violent blow, mouth wide open in the aftermath. And it’s just sex - and, fuck, you’ve said it, you see things the way every obsessive artist does; sex is never just sex. Every one thing means something more. A metaphor. An allegory. You get nasty and debauched and dirty because you know exactly what you can spin it into. Put the entire scene in a silent film and everyone can swoon about the things you might be saying to her, this impossibly captivating stranger in your bed with her graceful name, her dizzying moans, her shuddering frame in her orgasm. Don’t you get it? you could be telling her, hand brushing gently over her sweat-damp hairline. Don’t you feel that? You’re a stranger to me, baby, but you don’t have to be. There’s a reason we met. There’s a meant-to-be here, somewhere. I’m not a believer, sweetheart, but you could make one out of me - I swear you could, I promise-
But that’s the reason why these things are best left to the imagination, anyway.
A million scripted sweet nothings - and none of them manage to make it out of your mouth.
“Karina.” Your hips jerk hard. You sound half-possessed. “So pretty, cumming all over my cock like that. Such a perfect little cunt, baby - so fucking good-”
Her eyes suddenly shut tight; her body arcs into your touch, lips parted in a silent gasp. And for a second it seems like such a snapshot of innocence, like she’s brand-new to getting fucked quick and rough and dirty - though you know this can’t possibly be the truth, not with the way she flirts and whines and drips for more like she’s made for it - but she’s trembling under your fingertips, and you can dream. She’s your beautiful stranger, your pristine muse; you can pretend she’s whatever the fuck you want.
“God,” Karina murmurs, so soft and weak it makes your head spin.
Before you know what you’re doing - before you can even think twice about it - you’re pulling out, and cumming all over her stomach.
You can’t help it. You shouldn’t have had that thought about innocence. Jesus. This is what you mean, about you and your own painful humanity; you’ve got all the same vile desires. When you see a pure thing - all that porcelain skin, all that thick glossy black hair, all those gleaming white teeth in her open mouth - your very first instinct is to fuck it up bad.
You’d do worse, if you were worse - you’d make a real fucking disaster out of her.
“Baby,” you say, breathlessly. “Are you…”
And Karina, then, does something truly evil:
Sighs luxuriously, stretches her arms above her head, eases those gorgeous eyes open, and smiles.
As if she’s reveling in it. The scent of sex - the defiled tautness of her tummy - the way you’re not sure where her little red dress or her shoes or her panties are, how her cunt’s dripping wet onto your sheets, her hair a glorious mess. Grinning in the face of utter filth.
“You,” you exhale, running your palm down her side. “You’re so…”
Karina’s mouth pulls up at a corner, like she’s daring you to finish the sentence, but you never do.
You can’t stop staring at the stretch of cum-covered skin before you. Coating her belly, pooling into her navel. You realize with a start that there’s a new bruise blooming on her chest, a vicious sort of bite mark. You can’t remember when you did that. You’d been kissing her - of course you kissed her - her mouth and her neck and her tits, but you’d been so gentle, sucking light and soothing her skin with your tongue after-
“You didn’t want to cum inside me?” Karina asks, hoarsely.
You blink so hard your vision blurs. “What?”
“Right.” Her eyeshadow’s smudged dark underneath her eyes, making her look deliciously used up. “You did want to cum inside me.”
“Karina,” you warn - or, at least, you mean to make it sound like a warning - but her name comes out too faint. It’s horrific. Your hand traces her hipbone so reverently. You’re no match for her.
Karina arches a brow in unhurried challenge, ghosts her hand across her tummy. Takes two fingers and drags them through the cum you spilled, pulls back with it clinging thickly to her skin. Drifts down, down, down.
“Karina,” you try to say again, even more pathetic than last time. “Jesus-”
But you saying her name holds no weight here; she’s made that more than obvious. Nothing to stop her as she smears her cum-slick fingers across her glistening pussy, gaze locked amusedly on your face, tracking your reaction. She’s still so fucking wet - she rubs your cum in circles across her clit - tossing her head back a little, chest heaving and falling, fingertips just barely dipping inside her cunt-
“I can’t.” Karina lifts her hand to pop her fingers in her mouth, sucks them clean. Pointedly flashes her too-sharp nails at you like she’s unsheathing claws. “If you want it, you’re gonna have to do it yourself.”
“You,” you say, though your hand’s already pressing hard into her ribs, “are fucking cruel, baby.”
“And you,” replies Karina, head tilting, “just want to see my cunt all filled up and leaking your cum.”
Oh, she hasn’t been wrong about you all night. She certainly won’t start now.
“What?” A sly, languid smirk tugs at her lips. “Afraid you’re gonna knock me up or something?”
Your breath halts right in your lungs.
You’d been right about her too, it seems. Succubus. Vampire. She must be; she’s bloodthirsty. Tits gleaming with sweat, the scarlet stain of that bite mark you can’t remember leaving, cunt all dripping wet and desperately empty - body like a fatal fucking blow.
Karina’s eyes glint. I want what you want, she’d said.
With the way she spreads her legs, she’s gotta be ready to prove it.
So you never stood a chance. You give in and scoop up cum with one finger and sink it deep inside her aching cunt, feeling as she clenches down, as she takes it so well; like a good girl, you tell her, letting me do whatever I want with this needy little cunt; that’s my good girl. Karina lifts her hips - goes so still and so obedient - and lets you repeat it over and over again, fucking into her with your fingers until the plane of her stomach is bare and sticky and her cunt’s dribbling your cum onto your sheets. It’s completely nasty. It’s hot. It’s Karina craning her neck back and shutting her eyes as you bury three fingers inside of her and fill her with your cum, every part of her in utter surrender, entirely at your mercy, breathing out hard through her nose until your thumb rubs at her clit and she’s cumming again, all over your hand. She gets this look on her face, afterwards - exhausted, every line of her face gentle and lax - staring up at you like you’re the only person still left on this planet. Adoring, almost. As if you’re something out of another world.
It’s an expression too sweet for a scene like this - and it’s exactly what men like you make art about.
“There,” you say, soft and mesmerized, wiping your hand across her chest. “Satisfied?”
Karina laughs her strange, gravelly, gorgeous laugh.
“No,” she says, shamelessly. “But that’s not your fault.”
Your fingers curl around the curve of her jaw. “No?”
She barely looks like she belongs in your bed - she must be something divine, lit from within, god-blessedly gorgeous. She’s a fucking fever dream: stunning eyes and the bob of her throat and her tits and her curves and all that hair. Stay, you think of telling her. Let me see what I can make of you. I don’t know you yet but I could, baby, I really could.
“Nope.” Karina smiles, and somewhere, soliloquies are writing themselves. “I always want more.”
“Okay,” you say, mouth hovering over hers. “Then stay.”
-
So she stays.
-
(An update on your script:
The stranger and the girl are back at his place. They’re sitting on his couch. Nobody has cleaned off her neck. He’s been too busy pawing at her: at her face, between her legs, at her tits in her tight dress. I need you, he’s been murmuring to her, and it feels like he really means it: like he’ll die if he doesn’t get her desperate and whining underneath him, his cock stretching her tight little cunt wide open. He doesn’t feel too bad about it. She’s a dirty slut. She’s said as much. She’s got her own needs, too.
What happened to your window? she asks, suddenly.
He pulls back from her chest, his spit clinging shiny to her skin.
She isn’t looking at him. He has the sudden, unnerving feeling that she hasn’t been looking at him the whole time. Not like she’s had her eyes closed in blinding, overwhelming pleasure - but like she’s deliberately been trying to look at anything else.
But his hand falls between her thighs, and he realizes she’s already wet.
A bird flew into it, probably, he says. That happens, sometimes.
They’re talking about the stain on the once-clean glass of his window. The backdrop of the night sky behind means it’s barely visible, but the suggestion of it is enough. Implicit gore. Tiny little black feathers, caked in blood from the impact, dark and dried. It’ll be scrubbed off soon enough, he knows. It’ll be all gone eventually.
Oh, she says. She doesn’t apologize for potentially killing the mood. She hasn’t, anyway, not really. She’s still wet and small underneath him, begging for it. Poor thing.
Yeah, he says.
She turns back to him. Her hair’s everywhere, all over the arm of his couch, wayward strands beneath his fingers. She’s clearly expecting something - to be kissed, to be fucked hard, to be called baby and angel and good girl. It doesn’t really matter either way. Those are the only things he can give her.
He stares at the blood on her neck.
Let me clean that off for you, actually, he says, and goes to the kitchen to get a washcloth.)
-
Much, much later:
��I admire you,” Karina says, all tucked up in your bed, underneath your sheets, half-buried into your side. Moonlight bleeds into the room. Her eyes gleam like galaxies. “For showing some self-control.”
“What?”
Karina’s hair pours over your pillowcase. She takes your hand and brings it close to her face, working your fingers into a tight fist.
“Fucking bitch,” you mutter, and then regret it immediately. It lands too harshly, too strange and serious. “Sorry. I didn’t - that came out weird. I don’t think you’re a bitch.”
Karina’s lips brush your knuckles. “Not the meanest thing I’ve been called.” Her voice twists with humor. She shouldn’t be so comfortable curled up with a man she doesn’t know in the middle of the night. You think of kissing her hard, of scraping her neck with your teeth, of warning her about self-preservation - sweetheart, you could tell her, this is how people end up dead. “Not the meanest thing I’ll be called, either.”
You shift. Your fist, unconsciously, goes tense in her hand. “What’s your deal?”
Her mouth tilts. “What’s yours?”
You huff out a laugh. “You’re unbearable,” you say softly, which feels much kinder than calling her a bitch. “What are you - what do you mean?”
I’m not hard to figure out, you want to tell her. I’ll let you in if you ask me to. But you - you, you imagine saying, cupping Karina’s face in your hands and saying her name like you’re praying to her, drafting scenes in your head with each whispered syllable - you. Look at you. I’d fill a thousand pages trying to find a way to understand you.
“If you want to hurt me,” Karina says, “then hurt me.”
Your throat dries up. Your fist falls open. “What?”
“I wouldn’t blame you.” Her voice is matter-of-fact. You see her tongue dart over her bottom lip, the slick glimmer of spit. “If that’s what you wanted.”
You stare at her, hard.
It’s not difficult to make out her silhouette in the dark; she’s illuminated so distinctly by the moon, like it’s her own on-set spotlight, professionally arranged - she’s got the cosmos calling her shots. You think about how careful you’d been with her: doing what she wanted and making her cum and kissing her like you have history and maybe fucking her like you love her, just a little.
You think about that bruise you left on her chest, her skin between your teeth, the feeling of biting down.
“It’s not,” you say, and the lie tastes acrid in your mouth. “It’s - it’s not, Karina.”
“You fucked my face in public within like an hour of meeting me. And fucked me and came on my stomach. And fingered your cum inside of me.” It’s far past midnight. She sounds more alert than she should. “You’re gonna start being polite now?”
It sends an odd knot to your gut, the way she puts it. Equating all of that to hurting her. Laughing in the face of your clenched fist - not because she thinks you won’t do it, but because she knows how bad you want it.
Hurt me. She says it like it’s so easy. Fuck me. Let me stay the night. Hurt me; you’ve earned it.
“I’m not polite.” The truth doesn’t taste much better. “I just have, you know, common fucking decency.”
“Hm,” Karina says, a nonchalant little noise, and nothing else.
You brush her hair off her neck and your fingertips graze the hollow of her throat. You feel her swallow under your touch. You open your mouth, though you’re not sure what you’re about to say - Karina, like a chant, like she’s consumed you in a matter of moments, Karina - but she shuts her eyes delicately, and curls close to you, and just like that the moment is over.
I have common decency, you’d said. I won’t hurt you. I promise. I can control myself.
So maybe you weren’t right about everything. You’re not the devil. That’d be a delusion of grandeur - the idea that you’d ever have that kind of power over a girl like her.
Not for long, she’d replied, in the knowing tilt of her smile. Not if I can help it.
-
In the morning, it’s a picture of crime-scene proportions. It takes a little work to piece it all together.
Karina’s not in bed when you wake up, but there are traces of her everywhere - telltale, incriminating bits of evidence. Strands of her hair on the pillow. Blood-red lipstick stains on the fabric. Her crimson dress crumpled on your bedroom floor, sporting a tiny tear in the hem that you don’t remember leaving; you can still smell her perfume all over your sheets, like a calling card. If this was a TV drama - a clichéd police procedural - she’d probably be dead in your living room right now, blank-eyed and beyond saving, rigor mortis deforming her perfect body into something grotesque.
This is also probably not a thought you should ever relay to Karina, but you do anyway.
“Sorry to disappoint,” she replies. She’s perched on your kitchen counter, dressed in one of your t-shirts, bare legs swinging. “I’m very much alive.”
“I was being dramatic,” you try to say, gesturing with your hands to set the scene - the lighting, the fake blood and the special effects, the potential pallor of her face. “I’m - I’m a screenwriter. It’s in my nature. I didn’t mean I wanted to find your fucking corpse out here-”
“It’s okay if you did.”
You choke. “What?”
“I’m right with you, babe.” Karina leans forward conspiratorially. There’s a sharpness to the dark glint in her eyes that kind of makes you think she really does understand: that she has the same tendency to jump to the worst possible conclusions. A kindred, morbid spirit. “I get it. I’m pretty devastated that I’m still breathing, too.”
She says this all in a scratchy, sultry voice, hoarse as though she’s been sleeping for years instead of hours. Lashes fluttering like she’s just told you something very adorable and sweet.
“God,” you say, desperately charmed, and laugh until you feel light-headed. “You’re sick.”
Karina’s mouth curls. “Right.”
“I’m serious.” It’s surreal: her wearing your clothes and sitting on your counter like this is an everyday occurrence, indulging every fucked-up thing you say to her. Maybe you’re still caught somewhere in a dream, just waiting to wake up. “You’re, like - not normal.”
“Hey.” A light, careless shrug; her palm rests over the back of her neck. “No arguments here.”
You rub a hand over your eyes, smiling like an idiot, and take a breath.
It’s late January, and cool sunlight drips into the room, over your furniture and your floors and the angel right in the middle of your kitchen. It should wash her out, blur her at the edges; it doesn’t even come close. Turns her to a freeze frame instead, carefully color-graded, every hue just a bit too intense: skin ghost-pale, lips pouty and pink, hair jet-black and tangled to her waist. Your shirt hangs off of her slender frame like it aims to swallow her up. You thought you’d been stunned by Karina before, lulled by the late night, the electric rush of touching her - you’d assumed you could blame it on the alcohol, the slutty dress and the sultry makeup and the long-held habit of artistic romanticization-
But it’s nothing compared to seeing her now.
Karina crosses one leg over the other, and waits as though expecting a rating: to be starred out of five like a film.
Face scrubbed clean. Bone structure a study of faultless symmetry, delicate in a way that feels both inhuman and invulnerable. She’s so classically breathtaking - a miraculous second coming of a tragic, iconic movie star, a phenomenon back from the grave; jaw and nose and mouth all clean lines, aesthetically precise art - but God, those eyes. Enormous without the thick liner, suggestive only of impossible innocence. Like some darling baby animal, some long-lashed lamb to the slaughter - something pristine and completely untouched.
The morning after, the direct light, the exposed behind-the-scenes - she’s still beyond beautiful.
And somehow she’s still here with you.
“That’s insane, by the way,” you say, unable to stop yourself. “That you stayed.”
There’s a loud cracking sound.
You squint, disoriented. “What-”
Karina blinks at you, wide-eyed; her jaw shifts. The sound echoes again, startling and sudden. “What?”
“Are-” You step closer. “Are you chewing on fucking glass or something?”
“Or something,” Karina replies, smile’s tiny and closed-off. She gestures to the cup next to her. “It’s just ice.”
She’s so calm watching you approach her. You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the freakout, for the breakdown - or, at the very least, the scrambling excuses before the walk of shame. Here’s the truth: she doesn’t know you. Here’s an even worse truth: judging by her hickey that looks like you might’ve tried to rip her throat out earlier, she’d have every right to take one look at you and run.
Karina doesn’t do any of it. Just raises her cup to her lips and tips it back, the arc of her neck so inviting.
“That’s so fucking bad for your enamel.” You’re laughing again. You’re in front of her now, settled between her legs. “You’re gonna break a tooth.”
Karina sets her glass down. Wipes the corner of her mouth with her wrist, eyes locked amusedly on yours - heavy-lidded enough to seem lazy, but pupils blown enough to be a siren call, a deliberate suggestion.
“Oh, no,” she says, all smoky sarcasm. “Who’d ever want me then?”
She parts her thighs the second you touch them; her body’s so obedient under your fingertips, like a doll’s, something to be dressed up and posed and played with. Daring you to do everything you’re already thinking about doing.
“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur, and give in completely.
So:
Look, you know exactly how the movies would frame this. Pandering to the wide-eyed teenagers and hopeless romantics; adding the swell of strings every time your eyes or hands or lips meet, each motion accompanied with unsubtle cues - there’s the meet-cute, there’s the moment, there’s the love-at-first-sight. It’s ridiculous to drag any of that into your real life, of course. It’d be like believing in God. Giving up logic to put your faith in something silly and mythic and implausible - to follow true love like a religion, expecting it to save your soul; to pray to the one like a healing property, a benevolent higher power.
You can’t believe in that. You can’t.
But-
Karina pulls back the barest amount, eyelids fluttering open like a new day dawning, and smiles when she sees the look on your face. So sweet and gorgeous; so struck and adoring. So comfortable wrapped up in your arms.
“Hi,” she murmurs.
And - as though it’s some bone-deep instinct, saturating your bloodstream - you just have to kiss her again.
Don’t you feel that? you think of telling her again, your hand slipping to cup her cheek - the sentiment always seems to come back around. You swear you can see scenes flashing behind your eyelids, the beginnings of a creative epiphany; it must be seeping through your fingers, staining her skin with ink, every possible action depicted neatly between brackets. A laugh, a look, a touch. A version of Karina projected across the silver screen to a wild, wanting audience. Don’t you see what you could do for me? What you’re capable of becoming?
You can’t believe in any of this, but it’s gotta be something close.
The feeling doesn’t end when the kiss does: only intensifies, made tangible somehow. Sculpted into the spit-slick curve of her lips, the flinty gleam in her eye. Like she feels it too. Like she knows.
“And it’s not insane that I stayed,” Karina says, belatedly. “You asked me to.”
For a moment you just stare at her, seconds from her mouth and speechless.
It’s the truth without difficulty. It’s a confession with no strings attached. It’s the fucking dangerous way she says it - as if whatever you want extends to a lot more than sex.
“And you don’t-” Your throat closes over a swallow; you find your eyes darting between hers, searching for anything but honesty. “You don’t think that’s insane? Doing whatever a stranger tells you to?”
Karina only laughs her strange laugh, gritty the way good music is, demanding to be heard.
“Nope,” she says, like this is all so simple. “That’s just what I do.”
It’s unbearably filthy in its implication - and it’s exactly what you need.
The room seems to fill with potential, fantasies pouring in from the ceiling, enough to bloat any manuscript to its breaking point. You let out a breathless laugh, loud and unabashed. You think of pushing for even more, pressing your nails in and digging deeper - why me, why this, why now - but Karina leans in close before you can and slots her mouth to yours, and you’re no fool: there’s no line of questioning worth giving that up.
Seems like you’ll have to come up with this character motivation all on your own.
-
“Look at us,” she murmurs against your lips - meaning this very minute, the chemistry, how every glittering star must’ve conspired to get you here. “Kinda feels like this was meant to be, huh?”
She’s clearly kidding, because it’s too soon and too fucking crazy, but-
Well, the way you kiss her then is absolutely your version of a yes.
-
Here’s something people should probably know about artists like you:
You’re rather enamored with the idea of a magnum opus.
It’s a natural thing to reach for, to visualize - the concept of your one great masterpiece. Something you can pour years and years into, water into roaring reckless oceans; time transforming the things you make into something worth remembering forever. Everyone you know - your sculptors, your songwriters - has their own version of this, somewhere. When I finally create this one perfect thing I’ll be - go on, fill in the blank. Fulfilled. Gratified. Happy. When I finally do this, I’ll feel whole.
It’s strangely fantastical. A lifelong dream a kid would have - a childlike, storybook aspiration.
Yours - as far as you’ve figured out - looks a little like this:
“It’s not as romantic as it should be,” you admit, now. “I’m not really into that as a theme. True love, I mean. Or optimism. Or hope. I want something more…” Something rougher, you mean. Something with pain. Something with blood and bruises. “Nuanced, you know? Complicated, messy.”
“I get it,” replies Karina. She has her hands twisted in her lap, watching you very closely. You’re obsessed with the way she looks at you - like she’s drinking every word in with those smoldering dark eyes, greedy for more. For you. “All the best art is about pain, huh?”
You snap your fingers, pleased to be understood. “Exactly.”
Karina smiles, small and knowing, and gestures you on.
In your vision, your magnum opus is always about a girl. Like you said, it’s the way it goes with all the best films ever made: not about love, but the futility of it lasting. Think of all the famed examples - think of the filmmakers and their obsessions, sneaking the great loves of their lives between each line: there’s something she said, there’s a dress she wore, there’s a conversation they had in the middle of the night, tangled up in sheets and whispering against skin. Your future muse will be just like that. A reincarnation of the infamous women who haunt all the greatest artists - an amalgamation of their bodies contorted into narratives and replicated in loving, graphic detail. Someone with skin like marble, a statue you could take a sledgehammer to. Someone who looks unfathomably pretty when she cries.
Someone like-
“Uh-huh,” says Karina. She must’ve just gotten out of the shower before you found her, because her hair’s damp enough to have left wet patches on your t-shirt. She licks her bottom lip, once. “Sure.”
Someone to be what you’ve always wanted: a flawless girl to fall from the sky into your lap. To fulfill your promise to yourself: when I meet her, I’ll know. I’ll be able to make this movie. When I meet her, everything will slip exactly into place.
Karina cracks another ice cube between her teeth.
“So,” she says, low with insinuation. “When you told me last night that you found me inspiring…”
She doesn’t need to finish the question. She knows exactly what you want.
“You’re…” You shake your head. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. I saw you and I just - I felt like I knew. I knew. I wanted you.” You shrug helplessly, smiling. “Do you think I’m nuts?”
She should, probably. You’re a total stranger, a practical lunatic, an artist talking of your visions like you’re possessed. You don’t know her - that’s the reality of the situation. You don’t know her.
But then there’s everything else.
The unbelievable sex, the staying the night; the way she lets you touch her, blinking slow and subservient, like you already have a claim to her body. You think muse and you think in abstract concepts, glittering stars, guiding lights; you think of skin cut up and sewn together, of creators and their finest monsters, of the implicit poetry in the undoing. You think muse and you think of the way Karina smiles at you now, full lips and frail bones, a painter’s portrait reference. Unmoving, unafraid. Too otherworldly for your day-to-day but just right when she’s in your arms, like a trial-run demonstration: this is what we’re capable of. You could make it happen. You could make me fit.
You swear you’ve been dreaming of someone like her your whole fucking life.
You think muse, and now you can only think of her.
It’s a sign. It must be. And this, the next one:
“No,” Karina says, easily. “I think you’re just like everyone else.” But she raises an eyebrow, so you know it’s a joke. “I think you’re all the same.”
You laugh, delighted; Karina’s smile widens, shows her teeth. “Shut up.”
Karina acquiesces immediately - claps a hand over her mouth like it’ll keep any other words from escaping. It’s so adorable that you can’t keep yourself from pouncing, suddenly all over her like an animal: wrenching her thin wrist down, fingers threading through her hair, tugging her lips to yours as if you’ve been starved and she’s something to devour. She’s so cold, ice still melting on her tongue; even her body feels glacial, more porcelain than real. It drives you wild - the stunning impossibility of her. The desire to see it all reworked, unwound, shattered.
“So,” you breathe over her mouth. “I can write about you?”
“Babe.” Karina’s dark eyes sparkle, frozen-over streets in the mid-winter sun. “You can do anything you want with me.”
That’s the whole point of having a muse, after all. Everything they are becomes yours.
-
“But,” you can’t help saying right after: “you don’t have to be, like - concerned. About what I said. About art and pain. I mean…” You falter. You’re standing in between her spread legs now, thumbing the sharp curve of her jaw. “It’s fiction. I’m not that kind of guy in real life - I’m not going to hurt you.”
Karina just stares at you, sentiment clear and unspoken.
“Not like - not seriously.” You roll your eyes, laughing it off. “Not like that.”
“Not like that,” Karina echoes. The hickey on her neck seems to flush redder every time you look at it - a photograph in a darkroom, developing. “But in other ways.”
Your mouth opens, but whatever defense you might’ve had gets traitorously stuck in your throat.
Karina laughs hoarsely, lets you trace her bottom lip with a finger. She seems to get the picture - that you’d love to see it bitten and bloody, but only ever in the name of art. There’s a kind of sick, sadistic beauty in destruction, battles waged and lost. She leans into your touch like she’s seen all the war films and knows precisely why they’re so well-loved.
“For the record,” she tells you, arms looped loosely around your neck: “I look very pretty when I cry.”
“Jesus Christ.” You’re smiling. She couldn’t be more perfect if you’d dreamt her up yourself. “Then I guess I’ll have to make it happen.”
-
It’s like fate, probably.
-
(Up next in your script:
The girl is standing in the stranger’s bathroom. She’s turning a little glass perfume bottle over in her hands when he stops in the doorway. He’s perfectly content to watch her; she’s the kind of beautiful that deserves to be observed, like some exotic wild animal caged between four walls in an elaborate exhibit, mildly unaware of all the attention. Her hair is messy; her head is tilted down. Unseeing.
Oh, he says. That was my-
Except he doesn’t even get the rest of the sentence out before the girl whirls around, and the bottle slips from her hand and shatters on the floor.
Jesus. The stranger jolts back. Jumpy. He’s not too concerned about the broken bottle; it’s not his, anyway. Why the fuck did you do that?
Sorry, the girl says. She’s leaning rather casually against the counter, observing the glass covering the ground, the sickly-sweet smell of the perfume sticking to the tile. Honeysuckle and the sharp note of alcohol, rendered unrecognizable. You scared me.
He looks down. A crystalline stretch of tiny little shards - if she tried to move she’d slice her foot open.
No worries, he says. Hold on.
He ducks into the kitchen to get a broom and when he comes back he stops in his tracks. There’s something slightly off about the picture in front of him. She’s small against the background counter, frozen, barely blinking. Everything about her looks suddenly frail, fair skin ghostly underneath shitty bathroom lighting, cheekbones gaunt and sunken-in, hair pouring ink-black in endless waves. A vengeful spirit. An incorporeal haunting.
Did you…? he starts to say, thrown.
She blinks, finally. Did I what?
He pauses, reassesses. She’s gorgeous. She’s art. She’s vibrantly alive.
Never mind, he says.
It seems kind of like she’d moved, but he can’t tell. He forgets about it. She’s still beautiful and she seems okay and so he steps forward and clears the worst of the glass out of the way.
It’s silly, she says, watching him. I used to know someone who wore that perfume.
It was my ex-girlfriend’s, he says. She left it here a while back. I think it’s a common brand or whatever. Hey, let me help you.
He’s very chivalrous about it, sweeping her off her feet, cradling her bridal-style across the possible remnants of glass. She laughs all the while, playing into it - a princess out of a fairy tale, being carried to safety by some gallant knight. But then he sets her down and cups her ass and says, You gonna pay me back for the property damage or what? and she laughs harder, because there’s nothing funnier than that: sweet moments turned filthy, a startling hairpin turn in intention.
Or - conversely - a revelation of the absolute truth. Because what else could he ever want from her?
So she says, Yeah, sure, take everything, and leans in to kiss him.
It’s a normal kiss, mostly. It’s just that it begins pointedly erotic but seems to turn strange after a second, like he might be gripping her hair too hard, like she might be corpse-limp in his arms, like at any moment he could unhinge his jaw and sprout fangs and swallow her whole, cannibalistic, viperous. There’s too much spit and sound. There’s too much teeth and selfishness. It stretches on too long and lingers where it shouldn’t and overstays its welcome terribly - the score seems to fall off-beat, the lighting seems to shift dark and discolored-
But then the kiss breaks, and it’s over.
When he pulls off of her she looks like the perfect picture of flushed contentment. Eyes half-lidded and lashes fluttering, her pouty lips swollen and rosy. Smiling like she wants more, like she wants it so, so bad.
It didn’t get you? he asks finally, looking at her neck, thinking of thorns and pinprick pain and the rivulet of crimson that’d decorated her throat. The glass?
No, she says. Don’t you wanna fuck me now?
Oh, God, he says, grinning, and every other thought melts away into nothing. He likes how she doesn’t play coy. He likes how she’s smaller and has to tilt her chin up to look at him. He wants to fuck her, so he does.
It’s excellent sex. The blood on the tile doesn’t really matter.)
-
Before you really start writing, there’s just one singular problem: you don’t know anything about her.
“That’s not true,” Karina replies, right away.
You open your mouth, then close it, because - okay, she’s not completely wrong.
For about an hour now you just haven’t been able to stop talking to her. About anything, everything: your start into screenwriting, your favorite novels, your greatest inspirations, your neverending passion for eerie, erotic art. You can’t seem to shut up. And it would be bad - would be making you feel self-conscious right now, if it were anyone else - but it’s just not. Because it’s, well-
It’s you, you told her, thoughtfully, watching as the sun climbed higher into the sky, golden light grazing each scalpel-sharp edge of Karina’s body. You’re easy to talk to. Has anyone ever told you that?
Karina blinked at you. Tucked a strand of silky hair behind her ear and looked away, considering it.
She has this way about her: this serene openness to her big eyes, her body language. Leaning back on her hands, humming and nodding and saying I get it, I feel that way too, I understand with such sweet sincerity that you can’t help but believe her. Like a Catholic confessional, a pristinely blank page - something you could pour hours and hours of words into that would never, ever complain.
Yeah, Karina said, finally. She pulled one leg up to her chest; you could see the lacy black of her panties. I get that all the time.
Just one of those people, huh? Her character was taking shape already. A vault for everyone else’s thoughts and ideas, cradling them between her fingers like something infinitely precious. A listener. Such a lovely trait; a perfect protagonist characteristic. An observer.
Yeah. Her cheek rested gently against a knobby knee. Exactly.
It’s something of an art study. You’ve been filing away these details about Karina since the moment you met her, unraveling her bit by bit.
She always seems to think deeply before she speaks, a sort of charming self-scripting, like she wants to make sure she gets every sentence just right. She makes silence seem like the most natural thing in the world. She doesn’t laugh nervously or blush or get embarrassed, ever. She’d mentioned offhand during one of your tangents about your most beloved movies that she tends to like films about gorgeous, dangerous, scarily self-possessed girls: Thirteen and Black Swan and Girl, Interrupted. She seems both intensely present and consistently lost in thought, there one moment and gone the next, her long-lashed gaze falling in and out of focus like a camera lens. A contradiction, you think to yourself. An enigma, even. Profoundly complicated. Not just a girl but something more.
Art in and of itself, displayed deliberately on your kitchen counter, waiting to be understood.
“No, you’re right.” Your fingers have strayed to your open laptop; you’re seconds from typing Karina’s name like a title, something you’ve created all on your own. “I know…”
You’re trying to think of something nonchalant to say and failing. I know you - the first instinct, somehow. I know you’re something brilliant and remarkable and new. I know I’ve never felt this way before about anyone. I know there’s something here, I know what I feel, I know what I want - you, you, you.
Karina stares at the ice melting in her glass.
Then she says, mouth tripping up at a corner: “You know I’m a world-class fuck.”
“Jesus.” You laugh out loud, surprised. “Okay, yeah. That.” A pause. “And, obviously-”
“Obviously,” Karina echoes, like she knows where this is going.
“I know that you’re, like - outrageously fucking beautiful.”
Karina hums once, letting the compliment wash over her, and turns to look out the window.
You bite down on your lip - bite back all the other too-soon things you could say about her, threatening to claw their way out of your mouth - and go in on your script instead.
It’s shockingly easy to write with her in the room. The details seem to stitch themselves together on-page, the restorative aftermath of an autopsy: sealing the slit chest cavity back up, prepping a corpse for an open casket, making something disconnected whole and beautiful again. You’d pulled these specifics from her like pulsing, throbbing organs - her tits, her tone, her tiny waist - and now all you’re doing is repurposing them. You know her body now. You turn stretches of pale, bruised-pink skin into prose, the curl of her little fingers around her thigh into dialogue. You imagine taking that perfect frame and picking it apart again, bit by bit; not just undressing her but peeling back layers of flesh, familiarizing yourself with the stark scarlet of her bloodstream. Until there’s nothing to hide and you can finally say it - I know you - and it’ll feel earned, and real, and honest.
All very melodramatic, of course. It’s just the process: the natural consequence of being a writer.
Your eyes trace the jutting protrusion of muscle in Karina’s throat, and you think about fucking her again.
“Also,” you say, as though your earlier conversation isn’t long over. “I want to know-”
Karina makes a huffy, half-impatient noise.
You grin, gaze flicking back to her face. “What?”
“You want to know more?” Her brows furrow in exaggerated confusion; her smile is absurdly self-deprecating. As if there’s anything she could possibly be insecure about. “You already got the two most interesting things about me, babe.”
“Stop.” Your mouth twitches. “No way.”
Karina’s smile stills in place, expectant. “No?”
“Come on.” Your hand slips from the keyboard to trace her knee. “I’m sure there’s all kinds of interesting things about you I haven’t learned yet.”
The laugh she lets out is quiet and nearly secretive, legs parting to let you touch her. You’re already half in some faraway daydream, wondering if you can bottle the color of her eyes and turn it loose on the page.
“Okay,” Karina says, easily. She nudges your laptop away, scoots closer to you, her sharp chin pointed down at you. “Come and learn them, then.”
“God.” As if that’s what you’re doing. Memorizing her body as some private education; taking her apart in a classroom dissection. “Can I - I’m trying to write, Karina. I’m being productive. I…” You’re shaking your head as though you’re not already giving in, fingers slipping up her thighs - she’s smirking at you like she knows it. “You’re fucking insatiable, you know that?”
“Then satiate me.” Karina’s head tilts, lids heavy. “Fuck me. Use me.” She leans down like she’s telling you a filthy, sordid secret. “Cum in me like I know you want to.”
There’s something surreal about how certain she is: never tripping over her words or waffling over intentions, the most practiced actress you’ve ever seen. Every move - her tongue wetting her bottom lip, her hand sliding gracefully through her hair, her mouth forming a sweet little pout - all clean, choreographed precision.
I know you, she says - like it’s earned, real, honest. Inexplicable, but there anyway. I know you want to.
“Karina.” Her name comes out embarrassingly strangled. You’re pulling her thighs further apart, toying with the edge of her underwear. “You’re such a fucking - you’re so needy.”
Her smirk sharpens even as you tug her panties roughly to the side. “I’m what?”
“Needy.”
“No.” She’s so wet - she’s probably seconds from dissolving into a whimpering breathless thing, begging to be underneath you, begging for more. That damn smirk is probably seconds from shattering completely. “What were you going to call me?”
“Nothing.” You drag a finger down the slick drenched heat of her cunt.
“A slut.” Her voice is a purr, gravelly and sensual. “You think I’m just this fucking slut who needs your cock all the time, huh?”
But it’s the kind of question that you already both know the answer to. Karina takes your finger-fucking so well, hips raised and rutting, hair cutting across her cheekbones - seems to give herself over to desire so fucking easily, with her whole body, back arching and neck craned and hot little cunt a sloppy mess. Never puts up a fight, never demures or acts shy; never says wait or don’t or stop. Only spreads her legs, and drips down your hand, and waits to be fucked good and hard.
And - hey, there’s one dirty word for a girl like that.
“Well.” You raise your eyebrows at her: a challenge. “Are you?”
It’s dangerous. This is all dangerous. Stumbling down a treacherous path, asking a stranger something like this. Are you what I think you are? Do I know you? Do I really?
Karina makes a low, luxurious noise at the stretch of your fingers in her cunt, buried to the knuckle.
“Sure,” she says - and the gleam in her eye tells you she knows exactly what she’s getting herself into. “I’m whatever you want me to be.”
-
So, it’s possible this is really the most interesting thing about her: she’s the kind of girl who never says no.
-
That scene goes down how all scenes should:
“Fuck, fuck, fuck-”
Karina’s choking out curses like she can’t recall any other words, head lolling back to expose the pretty bob of her throat. You thrust deep right then and she lets out a sound like an aching gasp, like you’ve doubled down with a fist to her gut, like you’re knocking the the air right out of her; you might as well be - oh, she moans, like she could be in shock or awe or pain - with the way you’ve got one of her thighs pulled up so you can fuck deep into her tight dripping cunt. It’s not nice, not really. Her back keeps hitting your counter. You keep staring at her neck and her hair and her face: the faint flush of her cheeks, the flawless construction of her bones underneath - there’s so much unmarked skin - God, she’s so clean, it’s like she’s never been fucking touched-
“You gonna cum for me?” you murmur, voice coming out thick and half-animalistic.
She has one hand curled around the back of your neck. She’s got those ridiculous clawed nails on her but she never presses down. Her pussy can’t stop clenching around your cock but she takes it so well, lets you make room inside her little cunt, shuts her eyes and trips over her own breath as you force her spine hard against your counter over and over again.
“Karina.”
“Yeah,” she exhales, raspy and strained, as your cock stretches her out. “Fuck, yeah-”
“Cum for me, honey. Cum all over my cock - oh, there you go, good girl-”
It’s hypnotic. The tiny bitten-off sounds spilling from her ice-cold mouth - that small pristine face and all that hair tangled to her waist, just available to be knotted and tugged and fucked all the way up - Karina clings to you when she cums, and you feel so much bigger than her when she does, like you’ve got her sloppy and open around your cock and you could do anything to her, that’s what she told you, and even if she hadn’t, it’s not like she could stop you - she’s gorgeous but she doesn’t have it in her - she’s just too fucking delicate-
It happens too fast to process.
One minute you’re buried inside her pussy and the next Karina’s on her knees, on the ground, and you’re jerking your cock until you’re cumming all over her.
It’s obscene. It’s fucking inevitable. Thick ropes of creamy cum coating her forehead, her cheekbone, her nose and mouth and getting all in that hair-
Her hair. You don’t realize how hard you’re gripping her hair with one hand - balled in a brutal fist at the back of her head - until you disentangle your fingers from it and Karina sinks to the floor like she’s just been cut loose from marionette strings, breathing fast and hard. She doesn’t even say anything: doesn’t comment on the fact that you’d just shoved her straight to the ground or complain when the head of your cock smears cum across her jaw. Doesn’t even flinch when your cock slaps heavy across her cheek, at the indecent sound of the impact.
You’re staring at her, open-mouthed. At her gorgeous, breathtaking, defiled face.
Karina’s not looking at you. Instead, she’s preening in the most lewd, pornographic way possible: swiping her thumb through the cum streaking across her forehead, popping it into her mouth to suck. Halfway through she seems to remember you’re still in the room - seems to recall the value of a performance - and she redirects her gaze up at you, lids heavy, and smirks.
“Did I…” you start, without knowing how the sentence will end. “Did I - was I-”
Karina lifts a cum-covered eyebrow. Her mouth’s an arresting pink, puckering around her thumb like it puckered around the cubes of ice, how her lips formed a ring around your cock back in the bookstore yesterday. She lets it slip free, shiny with spit.
“No,” she says. “You’re good.”
You can’t stop looking at the cum caught in her hairline. She’d been so fucking clean.
You glance down and realize there are strands of black hair broken off in your clenched fist.
Karina’s looking at her hair in your hand too, now, but with a sort of amused detachment. She stands shakily, using the counter for support. There’s cum all over her. Her knees are red from how hard she’d been pushed down.
“You’re so cute,” she tells you, grazing the side of your neck with her fingertips. “There’s no shame in being rough with me, babe.”
“Right.” There’s an unnamed pressure coiling in your chest. “But - but you-”
“Hey.” The word comes out in a rasp, and then Karina laughs, pushing the low hoarse lilt of her voice to its limits. She steps closer, angles her little cum-stained chin up at you. “Are you really gonna tell me you don’t like seeing me covered in your cum?” She’s tonguing the corner of her mouth. “Turning me into a-” her smirk pulls wicked; your next breath hitches so badly- “messy fucking whore for your cock?”
“God,” you get out, because she’s winding an arm around your neck, and her pretty face is still sticky with your cum. “I-”
“It’s what you wanted.” Karina blinks, in a show of such doe-eyed naïveté that saliva begins pooling hot in your mouth - like you’re feral, like you’re rabid. “Isn’t it?”
You’re looking down again. Her knees are going to bruise. Black and blue, as if someone’s bullied her in the schoolyard, pulled her pigtails and knocked her to the asphalt. An echo of something teachers could’ve told her years ago: oh, look, he’s mean to you because he’s got a crush. It’s okay, really - he only hurts you because he likes you.
“You like me like this,” Karina murmurs, dangerously low. “All sloppy and slutty for you.” Her gaze is trained on your mouth. “Marking me up.” Her hair slips from your hand. “Owning me.”
Her name clogs your throat, cloying and candy-sweet. “Karina-”
Karina’s head tilts. “Yes or no?”
She’s too close to you. She’s so filthily beautiful she seems somewhat alien, some kind of foreign invention. Her jaw is smeared with your cum and her flawless teeth shine like jewels and she’s like every creative vision you’ve ever had cut in clips and playing back in a movie theater, made to be scrutinized.
“Yes,” you tell her, winded. “You’re fucking - you’re unreal, you know that?”
You’re smiling like it’s flattery, like it’s an exaggeration. Like she’s not living, breathing, visionary art.
She smiles back, like she knows just how much you really mean it.
“So I’ve been told,” Karina says, and taps your neck, lightly. “Go make breakfast.” She shakes her hair out; some of it gets stuck to the cum on her cheekbone. “I’m taking another shower.”
“Right.” You bite into your bottom lip, hand skimming down her side. “Go get clean.”
“Clean?” She steps back and flashes a disbelieving grin, gestures pointedly at herself - her creamy thighs, her porn star tits in your t-shirt, her body like sex itself. Dirty by design. “Never happening.”
Some cynical part of you keeps waiting for a slip-up, some mistake in a masterfully crafted script - no one can be that gorgeous and still be here with you. But Karina moves and your eyes are hopelessly drawn to the disheveled curtain of her hair spiraling down her back, the sharp distinct lines of her calves, the flex of muscle in her thighs. Her hands, balled into little fists. She’s alluring as if manufactured that way: engineered to be perfectly bruisable, ruinable. It defies logic. It’s movie magic.
“Well.” You snort with laughter, swat at Karina’s ass as she turns to go. “At least you can try.”
You don’t even think she can help it - that’s the thing. It’s just what she was made for.
-
“What would you have done if I said no, though?” you ask after a moment, as she wavers in the doorway. “Like - what if I told you I didn’t like you like this?”
Karina shrugs.
“I would’ve been something else,” she says, and closes the bathroom door behind her.
-
(Next:
The stranger and the girl fuck and afterwards he promises her breakfast and then he realizes his cabinets are bare, his fridge painfully unstocked. Sorry, he says, as she pokes around his kitchen. I don’t know how that happened. I usually have something to eat here, I swear.
I don’t mind, she says. Her fingertips sweep his shelves. She seems fascinated by the emptiness, admiring the vacancy. Oh, wait, look.
She finds a half-eaten jar of honey that she ends up scooping up crudely with her fingers, dripping sticky amber down her hand. He’d tell her that’s disgusting but she makes it - as she seems to make everything - into a pointed seduction, her tongue pink and wetly visible, her skin gleaming as she licks it off. It’s funny. He’d never thought it possible to turn eating into some sort of sexual performance but she manages it anyway: meets his eyes, sucks loud and lewd, smacks her lips and wipes her mouth with her thumb, ill-mannered and stunning.
I can’t imagine that’s very filling, he says, delighted by her commitment.
Yeah, well, she says. It’s a good thing I hate feeling full.
But it seems like a moment of hilarious irony when ten minutes later he’s got her bent over his kitchen counter, tits pressed punishingly to the flat surface, honey stuck to her neck and collarbone as she’s fucked hard again and again, stuffed with his cock, his fingers everywhere, like her own body barely even belongs to her - all mine, he keeps saying, and means it; you’re all mine. All filled up. Overfed. Bursting.
Sex is a manner of consuming, it seems. He might as well be eating her alive.)
-
“Do you do this a lot?”
Eventually, it turns into one of those lazy Saturdays. An afternoon of sitcom plot points.
It’s just so easy to fill the time, the space, the page - you tell Karina some inane story from your college years and she reacts in all the right places like your own built-in studio audience; she says something off-handed and enticingly vague and suddenly you have a new thread of dialogue to explore. You’re both sprawled out over your couch, Karina’s got her thighs tucked over your legs, wearing another one of your t-shirts, a fresh hickey bruising over her throat. There’s something delightfully domestic about it - like you’ve been doing it for a lot longer than you have, or like you could do it eternally if given the chance, holding all the silken comfort of an old routine. When you’d mentioned it - I kind of feel like I could do this forever - she’d laughed her scratchy laugh and said forever’s nowhere near as long as you think it is, babe. A perfectly cinematic line. You stared at her, leaned over, and added it immediately to your draft.
“This whole…” You’re trying to elaborate now, staring at the blinking cursor on your laptop screen. Your knuckles skim her bare, bony knees. “You know.”
“Eloquent.”
“Shut up.”
“I thought you were a writer.”
“Karina.” You’re charmed by the drawl of her voice, the raspy roll of sarcasm. “I’m just wondering.”
Karina shifts in your lap. You’ve got one hand sneaking up the hem of her shirt - your shirt - skating up her tummy, her ribs. You’re probably about five minutes from snapping your laptop shut and pulling her on top of you and saying something crass about her tits and passing it off as a character study.
“What do you mean?” She’s as close to clean as she can be. You made sure of it - licked the hollow of her collarbone earlier after she got out of the shower, tasted nothing but soap and skin. “Do I have a lot of sex with strangers? Or do I stay the night a lot after I have sex with strangers?”
“Both.” You think of taking her hair down, sifting your hand through it, wrapping the strands around your fingers. “All of the above.”
Karina shoots you a look, fluttered lashes, suggestive understanding. You hear it without her having to say it. You want me to tell you that you’re special.
“I’ve kind of been going through a phase,” she says instead, nonchalantly.
Your eyebrows fly up. “A phase?”
“I’ve been, you know.” She gives an airy sigh. “Trying to find myself in the big city. Running wild. Terrified of monogamy but being very brave and quirky about it. Sordid past with love and romance and general human connection. Doing the whole manic pixie dream girl thing.” Her eyes flick to your open laptop, abruptly too wide and innocent. “That sound about right?”
“Fuck off.” It’s a complete non-answer. You run a hand past her stomach, laughing. “You’re fucking with me.”
“What?” Karina inches closer. “Isn’t that what you wanted? Your textbook rom-com love interest?”
You make a rather disparaging sound in the back of your throat. “Ugh.”
“Oh, my bad.” Her mouth curls, contradictory. There’s nothing apologetic about her. “I forgot. You don’t believe in art about love. You wanna see broken people and broken people only.”
“See?” You’re obsessed with her tone; all flirtation, some distorted version of come-hither charm. Talking of suffering like it’s a seduction tactic. “You get it.”
Karina rakes a hand through her hair; her fingers fall to the back of her neck and linger there. She pulls herself out of your lap and turns, hooks one bare long leg over you until she’s straddling you. Your hands find her hips. You’re disarmed by her strange weightlessness, like she’s seconds from either shattering or taking flight.
Then she asks, “Is that what you’re doing with me?”
It’s gotta be a very roundabout request to fuck her stupid, because she follows it up torturously: ducks her chin, parts her lips, rocks her hips down until you groan. You watch her throat, the way muscle works over bone, picturing unspeakable things: taking her by that pretty neck and pinning her to the wall, ripping your shirt right off of her with your fingertips leaving bruises - bending her over to fuck her fast and cruel until her cunt’s raw and aching and leaking your cum - until she’s begging pathetically, saying please, God, please - and you’re triumphant, victorious. Telling her you asked for this, didn’t you? You said anything. You said anything I want.
“Depends,” you reply, when you can breathe again. “Are you a broken person?”
Karina stops, moments from your mouth.
“Depends,” she echoes. “Is that what you want from me?”
It actually takes a beat for the question to sink in. Then two, then-
“No,” you say, loudly. “Obviously not, Karina, Jesus. Why would I…”
You falter.
Karina only looks back at you, patient, tolerant. Like if right now you said that’s exactly it: I want you broken, I want you ruined, I want you decaying and dead and buried, she’d smile and say do your worst. Flashing those white, white teeth, perfect like pearls, ready to be knocked right out and strung together.
You blink the bloody vision away. “Why would I ever want that?”
Karina studies you for a second longer, expression indecipherable.
“Okay,” she agrees, breezily. “Then I’m not broken. I’m just going through a phase, like I said. I don’t like being tied down.” Her shirt rides tantalizingly high up her thighs; her hand slips down to palm your cock. There’s a twist to her lips, a dirty sort of smirk. “You understand that, right?”
You stare at her.
“Right?” Karina prods, again, low and sultry.
“Right,” you say, unable to fight your sudden smile.
The pout of her mouth’s an inevitability; her little body in your lap’s a seductive form of foreshadowing. You dig your fingers into her protruding ribs, playful, and you don’t quite get the squeal of laughter you were expecting - all Karina does is curl closer, expecting more, expecting harder. She knows what you’re capable of. You’re both just biding your time until you cross the same line you’ve been crossing and you fall back into bed again.
“A phase,” you add, considering. It intrigues you, anyway - the casualness, the connotation. “So - I’m not special, then. That’s the moral of this story.”
Karina’s fingers sift gently through your hair. “You wanna be special?”
“I mean, yeah.” Your palm falls to her neck, presses down. She doesn’t seem to mind. “Doesn’t everyone?”
Her eyebrows rise in vague, unconvinced amusement. It makes sense: she’s the most special of all, a cosmic glitch, an angelic fluke. Someone like Karina wouldn’t understand the aching, clawing, consuming desire to be extraordinary. She’s already there.
Your hand on her throat looks even bigger now, tendons straining from underneath skin.
“I think we all want to feel important,” you mumble, thumb grazing gently across her jaw. “Don’t you?”
You’re pretty sure the wry, glittering smile that sits at Karina’s mouth is an answer in itself.
-
Alright, forget your television metaphors - you’re not sure there’s any sitcom out there that goes quite like this.
“By the way,” you say, grinning against her hair as you pull her to the bedroom. “Did you say you don’t like being tied down?”
Karina turns in your arms and doesn’t even flinch when you force her too hard against the doorframe and its edge smacks into her shoulder blade, digging in hard. You should apologize but you don’t; the possibility of her in pain seems laughable, a distant fantasy. This is how it goes, fucking a girl who looks like a god - your brain is convinced she’s wholly immune to hurt. The universe wouldn’t actually let someone so pretty bleed.
“Oh, sorry,” she says, voice raspy with insinuation. “Let me rephrase.”
“Karina,” you say, not really like a warning - more like you’ve got something to prove. This is real. You’re really here. You’re really this perfect, gorgeous, greedy thing. You’re really made for me.
Karina only lets her lips tilt in a smirk, devilish and knowing.
“I meant that I don’t like commitment,” she says. “I love being tied down.”
She’s still smiling when you shove her through the doorway, across the threshold - across that same old fucking line.
-
Not that it makes a difference now, but one of the reasons you and your most recent ex-girlfriend broke up was because of what you’d both referred to as sexual incompatibility. Actually, there were about fourteen other things, too - she was a trainwreck and a textbook attention whore; you spent all your time writing and she took offense to the fact that you found your scripts more interesting than her - but the crux of the sex problem between the two of you was that she thought you wanted too much power over her. She seemed to assume that was the point of potentially tying her up and shit like that: to exert power. To put you and only you in control. To make her into this helpless little toy - and I hate that, she’d said, working herself into a fit, I hate feeling helpless.
You hadn’t pushed her. You’d also tried to justify it in a number of ways. It isn’t about that. It’s not about control. I’m not trying to make you feel bad. But it hadn’t made a difference and she hadn’t believed you and you’d come to the reluctant, inevitable conclusion that that particular dream would never actually get fulfilled.
Until-
“Look at you, baby.”
Until now, when you’ve got Karina stripped bare and tied to your bed, thighs parted as you kneel over her, pretty little cunt glistening wet and tits heaving with every breath as she waits, and waits, and waits.
Eyes half-lidded. Utterly fuckable. A curated collection of every salacious desire you’ve ever had.
“You’ve been looking at me forever,” murmurs Karina, her tone still humorous, like the reason her voice is run so ragged is because she’s holding back a fit of giggles. “You gonna fuck me anytime soon?”
To Karina’s credit, the idea of tying her up didn’t seem to bother her one bit. She’d let you knot her wrists to your bedframe and only grinned sharply when you asked her if it was too much. She didn’t seem to care about feeling helpless or feeling bad. Actually - judging from the wetness that collects on your fingers as you rub two of them over her cunt - it all seemed to turn her on either way.
“You’re so fucking mouthy.” You lift your hand only to ghost it over her stomach, leaving a lewd shiny streak across her skin. “It’s like you want to be punished.”
“Well, you put in all this work.” Karina yanks at the ropes tethering her wrists to the bedframe until they bite so severely into her skin that it turns white. “I’d hate to see it go to waste.”
“Not a waste.”
“No?” She’s got that seductive little smirk on, legs spread shamelessly, head back and throat bared.
“Nope.” Your eyes rove down her body. “It’s a great view, actually.”
You’re shocked by the sound Karina makes, then: harsh and derisive, scratchy and painful, like she’s choking badly around some injury in her throat. You’re half-expecting her to turn her face and spit blood onto your sheets - all murder-scene evidence, horrifically vibrant gore. Coughing up her own vocal chords.
It’s so awful it actually takes you a minute to realize that she’s laughing.
“Karina?” you say, perturbed.
“Oh, please.” Karina hacks out one more horrid laugh. “Cut the shit.”
You draw your hand back uncertainly. “What are you-”
“Come on, man.” There’s a glint to Karina’s gaze as she looks up at you: bored, mocking, infuriating. Irises flashing like the darkest corners of haunted houses, set-ups for a summoning; lashes like cobwebs, self-spun and delicate. “Fuck me or leave me alone.”
For a second you just stare at her, unmoving, something caustic and furious threading up your spine.
And then-
Look, none of this next part is on you. You can’t blame yourself. It’s her - her tiny hands in tight clenched fists, tummy so flat it seems caved-in, hollowed-out; her own glimmer of slick smeared on her belly, physical proof of how desperately slutty she really is. The bruise on her chest; the one on her throat. Her goddamn eyes. Her lazy, lilting drawl, the exact matter-of-fact casualness she’d had last night when she’d told you to hurt her - fuck me or leave me alone.
It’s so obvious what she’s trying to do - provoke a reaction out of you. It’s gotta be the only reason she’s talking to you like that. Like, what else are we here for? Like, what else could I possibly want from you?
So - no, God, it’s not your fault.
But-
It’s over before you can even think about it. Before you’ve even rationalized doing it, before you recognize the sound ricocheting through the room as the perfect violent land of a blow, the hot whiplash of skin on skin, your palm connecting with its target. Before you blink, and recalibrate, and you take in the rapid reddening of her cheek, and her angled jaw, and her hair falling starkly past her chin - it’s too late. It’s already done.
Because you’ve just slapped Karina clean across the face - hard.
“Oh.” You’re babbling as if on autopilot, all your nerves on shutdown. “Oh. Oh, God. Karina-”
Karina licks the corner of her lip, like she can taste the impact.
“Jesus Christ,” you’re saying, panicking; you can’t shut up. You don’t know what to do with your hands; you find yourself kneeling carefully in front of her, cupping her face, stroking her temples with your thumbs like it’ll soothe the sting. You can’t believe you hit her. All the things you could do to a girl like that, and you - “I’m sorry. I didn’t - fuck, baby. I’m sorry.”
Karina blinks up at you, expression placid and blank, porcelain-doll cool.
“For what?” she asks.
You freeze, her face still between your palms. “For-”
But the serene tilt of her mouth makes the words die in your throat.
“Seriously.” Karina’s voice is softer now, a kind twist of mirth. “Isn’t that what you wanted to do with me this whole time?”
Her features seem to fall out of alignment, occurring to you in cut, edited fragments - the baby-animal eyes, the bone-white glint of teeth, the pretty blooming flush of her cheek, blood rising underneath skin but never breaking through. No evidence of a limit breached; she doesn’t wince or wail or cry. She wears the hit so well. She’s smiling. A you-don’t-need-to-be-sorry smile, a you’re-forgiven smile: I’m strong, I’m good, I can take it. Whatever you need. Whatever you have to give.
You blink and Karina reassembles, stitched up at the seams, beautiful and uninjured and intact.
“You want this,” you exhale, a wondrous revelation.
“Of course.” Karina’s shoulders rise as much as they can with her arms so tightly tied back. “You do, don’t you?”
The panic recedes, and something else - something electric and brutal, visceral, intoxicating - takes its place instead.
It’s the way she says it: rhetorical, all-knowing. As if she’s seen exactly what’s in your mind - what repulsive daydreams have settled right behind your ribcage, clawing to be set free - and she’s offering her own body in sacrifice. Saying here, put them here.
So you do.
She doesn’t even look surprised when you slap her again.
“See?” Karina’s chin tips upwards in delicious, submissive invitation: eyes darkly pleased, pale skin a burning wildfire, curled mouth a beckoning. Like it’s been what she’s waiting for, all along. “There you are.”
And when you’re finally able to catch your breath:
Oh, you think, in some exhilarating epiphany. Here I am.
Every single reservation falls out the window. Karina’s smirk slants viciously and then you’ve got your hands all over her, on her shoulders and her tits and her hips and her throat and her face, thumb digging hard into her cheekbone. Any sort of gentle caution is gone when you’re getting on top of her and burying your cock deep inside the suffocating vice of her aching little cunt, half-drunk on the high mewling moans you’re forcing out of her, head swimming at the drenched audible sound of her pussy every time you fuck into her - at how tight she clenches down around your cock. Fuck it all, then, it’s not like it means anything - hurt me, she’d said, running through your head on loop; I want it so bad, I need it, hurt me - and so you do, wrapping a hand around her delicate neck and pressing down, slapping hard against her heaving tits, salivating over the marks that you leave. She doesn’t even struggle. Takes it like a good girl, an obedient girl: something meant to be hit and torn up and pulled apart. A hands-on art piece. A disassembling, made purely for audience consumption; a sign hung around her neck that says leave your mark, that’s the point. You’d been so naïve, thinking of being careful with her - like she’d ever even fucking want that-
“You like it like this.” Your voice sounds raw, almost unrecognizable; your fingers press into the base of her throat. “This is all you needed, huh? You just needed to be roughed up real hard.” Your hand trails up to grip a fistful of her hair, merciless. Karina shuts her eyes. “Like you’re just a slutty fucktoy-”
Karina chokes out a small, wet gasp.
“Oh, baby.” You yank harder at her hair. “It’s okay to admit it.”
But in a way, she already is. Doesn’t fight against the restraints tying her wrists, doesn’t flinch at how rough you’re fucking her, doesn’t whine or blink back tears at the harsh graze of your thumbnail against her nipple. Like she’s a plaything, here in your bed for your pleasure alone. Like-
“Like you were just fucking made for this, yeah?” She comes undone so easily: cunt a wet sticky mess when you reach down to rub her clit, teeth pearly-white where they’re caught on her bottom lip - though nothing can hold back the anguished noise Karina lets out at your pace, the thick stretch of your cock, your palm smacking at her tits over and over. “Look at you. That face, these tits, this little fucking cunt-”
Like it’s her one and only purpose - to have all her fair skin turned searing red and bruised under someone else’s hands. Her cunt just begging to be split open and stuffed full, railed so hard she could break. It’s gotta be what she was created for. She’s more than mortal, so above the concept of imperfection; a nasty little fuckdoll of a girl, meant to be used hard and licked clean. She looks too irresistible all fucked-out and ruined. It has to be in her nature. Made for this, you keep telling her: to be fucked until she can’t walk. To be treated forever how you’re treating her now.
Your ex-girlfriend couldn’t have been more wrong. It’s not about power or control at all.
“You’d really just let me do anything to you, huh?” you murmur, awed, but you’re holding her throat too hard for her to reply.
You fuck her, and fuck her, and fuck her. Rub at her clit until she clamps down and cums around you, until you can really get on top of her, force her to hold those huge tits together so you can fuck them. You can’t handle how tiny she is underneath you, her face and her mouth slack with lust, eyes glazed over entirely. She squeezes her tits around your cock. She’s hardly even human. It’s the best thing about her.
“That’s how I know you’re a fucking whore.” Your grin feels wide and manic on your face. You’re gonna cum all over her - again. “None of this even matters.”
And it’s only after - after you’ve painted her collarbone and chest creamy white and let up on her throat so she can fight for air; after you’ve groped her tits and grabbed her face after just to see your cum glistening all over her perfect slap-marred cheeks; after you’ve rolled off of her and you finally leave her alone - that Karina gives you a response.
“No,” she says, hoarsely, staring up at the ceiling. “It really, really doesn’t.”
-
Power just isn’t the right word for it. It’s something much more beautiful than that.
Desire. You’re dozing off, halfway in a sleepy fantasy. You imagine rolling the word around in your mouth, using it in speeches, citing it as an obvious central theme. It’s about desire, you’d say, in interviews, at film festivals, patiently explaining your motivations to the masses. That irrational animal instinct. That innate human greediness. You’ll maybe even throw in some fun anecdote about how people in past relationships never agreed with you. It’s never been about power, though, you’d explain: how foolish, how crude. It’s about the ache of truly wanting something. Isn’t that so much more romantic?
So you’ll make a movie about this one day. So you tied Karina to the bed and slapped her hard and fucked her senseless. Actually, you picture yourself explaining, foggy and on verge of falling asleep: actually, it’s about hunger. Irrepressible, all-consuming hunger. That’s why I did this. That’s why I’ll keep doing it. You’re all like me; you get it. That makes sense, doesn’t it?
And it will, to raucous, riotous applause.
Good. You’ll laugh so hard. You’re dreaming, now; you can’t tell if you’re talking about the sex or the hypothetical future movie. I’m glad you understand. Anyone would’ve done what I did.
Because - honestly - what’s the point of starving yourself of something that’s right in front of you?
-
(Let’s pull back from your script for a second. Here’s a real story:
A few months back you were visiting a museum with one of your friends when you got into this conversation about performance art. He’d told you about a woman back in the seventies who walked into a gallery and laid out various objects and let the audience do whatever they wanted to her for six whole hours. Her as the artist, in title only; herself as the art. A free, untethered canvas.
And what happened? you asked, morbidly curious.
Your friend grimaced. What do you think happened?
It was a rhetorical question. The performance had been a test of what the general public was capable of - a reflection of their moral compass, of what they’d do if left unchecked. The setup spoke for itself. You didn’t have to get all the gory details in order to understand.
Seriously, though, your friend said, about the artist: I don’t know what’d compel someone to do something like that to themselves. He’d shaken his head, baffled. Like - I think it takes a deeply fucked up person to just give up their body like that. Like it doesn’t even matter to them.
It’s strange. It’s an almost universally accepted fact that, at least on some level, artists are inclined to put pieces of themselves into the things they create. A memory; a feeling. Condensing twenty different emotions into a single acrylic painting, or a lyrical reenactment of heartbreak into a song - something personal and unique and lovely. Often inspired, sure, but yours.
I think that’s what’s funny about it, you told your friend, before you realized that funny was a fucked up word to use here. There’s nothing personal about that. It’s so detached. It’s about the rest of the world, whatever they might make of her - it’s not about her at all.
You were both quiet, thinking. Visualizing what it might’ve been like. To be there, one of many in the audience, watching this woman who had thrown herself to the wolves and asked to be ripped apart.
She’s just - material for them to use, I guess, you said, after a moment. A blank page.
Removing her own identity; becoming nothing, no one. A ghost. An empty vessel. A slab of clay, taking on the impression of everyone who’s ever touched her: the ridges of fingerprints, the half-moon cuts of nails, molding her into something new. Even if it took some force. Even if it hurt.
Still, it’s what she’d asked for.
You can’t imagine she’d ever expected anything else.)
-
There’s this fascinating complaint people have about films these days, you’ve found. It’s actually quite the phenomenon. You talk to your colleagues and scroll through social media and read comments on movie trailers trying to get a grasp on it all: market research. This isn’t realistic, people gripe. It’d never sound like that. She’d never look like that. This would never, ever happen - God, are you kidding? Who are they trying to fool? As if they’ve somehow missed the point of fiction - of a sweet, escapist fantasy. As if they’ve convinced themselves that the real world is better.
Which is moronic, obviously.
“So what’s the solution?” Karina asks.
Well, you’re no expert; it’s been a while since you’d finished your last movie.
“But you have an idea,” Karina interpets. She’s perched on the edge of your coffee table, nursing a new glass of ice. She’s watching you with her head at an angle, eyes shrewd. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be telling me this.”
As with most of her guesses about you, she’s right.
“It’s all about the details,” you say, after a moment. “It humanizes a person. Having little bits and pieces about who they are - it makes them alive. Their likes, their dislikes. Embarrassing stories. Things that make them laugh. Diary entries, favorite foods - first loves, first heartbreaks. So on and so forth.” You’ve got one of Karina’s ankles between your hands; your thumb brushes against the bulbous protrusion of bone. “It’s what makes people real.”
Karina’s mouth twists, sharp and strange; it takes a second for you to realize that she’s grinning.
“Oh, right,” she says. “You want me to spill my guts to you.” She pushes her ankle further into your grip. Her legs are just like the rest of her: thin and pale, waifish. Like a nineties catwalk model. “That’s how you’re gonna make me real. In your movie.”
You pull a face, letting her ankle slip from your hands. Spill her guts; what an ugly figure of speech. As if you’re doing something much more invasive and violent than just writing about her.
“Basically,” you agree, anyway. “I mean, it helps that you’re already, you know - a real, whole, living person.”
“Ugh,” says Karina, dry and amused. “Barely.”
You wonder if she’s also thinking about this morning; you, stunned and staring at her cum-streaked hair, calling her unreal.
She’s got a point, in a way. There’s something slightly uncanny about her sitting in front of you, as if she’s been taken straight out of some wildly different scene - some spotlit stage, some movie set, some glossy high-budget existence - and haphazardly edited into your life. You reach out and press two fingers to the side of her neck, like they do on television if they think someone’s bleeding out.
Karina tips her head to allow you access. Her pulse throbs hotly under your touch.
“I don’t know,” you say, smiling at the swanlike line of her throat. “You seem pretty alive to me.”
“Sure.” Her hair tickles your wrist. “But you want more.”
She says it like it’s this given - as if she’s always faced with people wanting more from her. You wouldn’t doubt it, little tease she is. You can picture her in motion so easily. Always running. Letting people pine and plead for more.
“Yeah,” you say. It seems pointless to lie to her. “I want more.”
Karina leans in closer. She reaches up and touches one of your knuckles with the pad of her thumb. Without makeup, you can see the shadows of dark circles underneath her eyes, but even those look painted-on, pre-planned; a study on the aesthetic allure of bruises. She lets her gaze drop to your mouth, then bites down on her bottom lip. Impish.
“Karina,” you say, grinning wider now.
It’s one of those unspoken things: the translation of body language, the transcription of the tilt of her mouth. Then have me, she’s saying, almost certainly - like a swooning melodramatic heroine, throwing herself into your lap, wanting to be saved. You want more? You want me? I’m right here. I’m yours.
“Fine,” Karina purrs, and kisses you again, like sealing a contract. “Take it all.”
-
You don’t fuck her again - not at first. There’s more than one way to take someone apart.
Karina says she’s got a story for you and then she pulls out her phone.
“This was back in high school,” she explains, scrolling back through her photo gallery. There don’t seem to be a lot of recent additions to it; you’d expected selfies, pictures of her with friends. There are more photos of food than anything: plates of pasta and donuts and burgers and pastries piled with whipped cream. It’s cute. It makes you laugh. “When I won prom queen.”
You splutter. “When you what?”
“What?” Karina gives you a bemused, sideways look. “Does that surprise you?”
It floors you, actually. At first you can’t quite put your finger on why, but then you look at Karina again - at her intense dark eyes and pouty fuckdoll lips and the exaggerated pinup proportions of her body - and you realize you’re making that mistake writers often do: buying into archetypes. It just makes sense that she’d be some kind of brooding bad girl. Mysterious, promiscuous; in your creative vision she’s probably cutting classes and chainsmoking in the girls’ bathroom. A favorite of the rumor mill. A pretty little delinquent.
“Wow.” Karina makes a funny noise in the back of her throat when you tell her this. “No. I was - I did fine in school. Perfect attendance, almost. And I can’t stand the smell of cigarettes.” But she doesn’t look offended, either; you imagine people make these assumptions about her all the time. “The prom queen thing - it wasn’t my idea, though. My best friend did all the campaigning for me.”
“That’s sweet.” You watch as she reaches the year she’s looking for. Flashes of her in a sparkly dress with her arms thrown around another girl - a tiny doe-eyed brunette - slide by. In one of them, Karina’s got her head tipped back, clearly mid-laugh; in another, she and the girl have their heads bent close together as if they’re trading secrets, unaware that they’re being photographed. “Well - I think it’s sweet.”
Karina’s fingers stall. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I’m just saying-” You shrug. “It’s a nice gesture if it’s something you wanted, I guess. Seems like a lot of attention, otherwise.”
“Oh.” There’s a pause. “Yeah. It was - I didn’t get to go to junior prom, so it was kind of - this was - senior year. Senior prom.” Another pause. “Yeah. She did it to make me happy.”
“And did it?” She passes by pictures that fill up with more people: friends with big grins who stick close to her side, wrapping her up in an embrace. “Make you happy?”
“Of course.” Karina’s thumb pauses on a video, the preview dark and unfocused. She says it like she doesn’t even have to think about it. “She was my best friend. She always knew what I wanted. Hey, look at this.”
The video’s of her in the back of someone’s car, prom queen tiara askew on her head, satiny sash falling off one shoulder. She’s yelling, laughing; the sound isn’t on, but her mouth’s wide open and her dark eyes are crinkled to half-moons, creased underneath heavy false lashes and glittery makeup that’s begun to smudge and fade. It makes her whole face look very soft. Young, too - cheeks full and flushed pink with excitement, hair blown-out and everywhere, glossed black. As if she’s having the time of her life.
“How old were you here?” you ask, in awe.
“Eighteen. Just turned, I think.”
“You look-” Like a baby, you almost want to say. It’s true, though. Big brown eyes, scrunched little nose - grinning like the rest of the world hasn’t quite dug its claws into her yet. Skin unmarred and infant-smooth. “You look pretty.”
Karina doesn’t look at you, but you can see the slight, entertained upturn of her lips. All the nasty things you’ve called her - all the irredeemable ways you’ve touched her - and now, inexplicably, you’re going for pretty.
“Thanks,” she says, and clicks the volume up.
“Shut the fuck up,” baby Karina is saying, delightedly. Her voice sounds high, childish and carefree. “You’re so dumb. It wasn’t - it wasn’t even like that, I swear!” She flaps one hand in the air, her nails all short and painted the same rich deep maroon as her dress. “No - you’re just saying that because you’re jealous, you idiot, I know you - you just-”
The person behind the camera says something that you can’t quite make out.
Baby Karina presses one hand to her sternum, pearl-clutching, and gasps.
“I would never,” she admonishes - over-the-top like an actress from a movie - before she throws her head back and laughs.
It’s a startling, wonderful laugh. A little-kid laugh. A mess of wild, unabashed giggles, hiccupy and sweet, so loud and infectious you can hear the other people in the car start cracking up with her; out of frame, someone reaches out to interlace their fingers with Karina’s, waving their joined hands until they smack against the car window and Karina only laughs harder. With her whole body, shoulders shaking and all. Streetlights flashing across her face, making her look sort of blurry and surreal, like something out of a painting.
“Your laugh,” you find yourself saying, stunned.
Karina’s touching the back of her neck, completely engrossed in the video. “My what?”
You don’t laugh like that anymore. That’s what you mean to say. That scratchy, almost painful laugh that she’s been gracing you with since the moment you met her - there’s no trace of that in how baby Karina wriggles with laughter in the backseat of the car until her happy, breathless blush spreads to her neck and her chest. Head tipping back against the seat, like she’s all tuckered out.
“Um,” you say, voice caught in your throat.
On the screen, her eyes fall shut, lashes fluttering so delicately.
You can’t do anything but stare. Brilliant, past-life, prom-queen Karina - grinning at nothing, and sleepy from a perfect night, and laughing as if she’ll exist as this version of herself forever. As if she just doesn’t know any better, yet.
“You,” you start to say, again-
Karina shuts her phone off, and turns.
And you’re about to say something - something about the gnawing, uncertain feeling you get when you watch this former self of hers. It’s on the tip of your tongue. You don’t laugh like that. Something happened to you. For a moment the whole image just seems off - like the way people make posthumous holograms of pop stars, superimpose faces of long-dead actors on stunt doubles. A kind of intense wrongness. A murmured, uncomfortable: that’s not really you, is it? It can’t be. I barely recognize her.
“What?” Karina asks. Her smile reveals her teeth. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Then reality hits you, all at once.
“Sorry.” Your hand finds her thigh. You laugh because you’re being ridiculous - how would you know who she really is, anyway? “I was just thinking - I don’t know. Never mind.”
She seems to take that at face value. You like that about her. How she seems to trust so easily - going home with you, winding up in your bed, staying when you ask her to stay. Giving you whatever you want: her body, her story.
“So,” you say, eventually. “I can put in my movie that you totally peaked in high school, huh?”
Karina snorts. “Yeah,” she says, playing along, and taps her dark phone screen with a clawed nail. “Say it was the last time I was happy.” She pulls a face, like the thought of it is just unspeakably pathetic. “That’s a tragedy if I’ve ever heard one.”
“Shakespearean,” you agree, and let her clamber into your lap. “It’s perfect.”
But you know she’s kidding. You’d like to think that you understand girls like her. They live in a different world than the rest of you - the kind of world where every person on earth looks at them and falls to their feet, falls madly in love. You’ll write about it one day; you’ll feel out the narrative for her, a curious exploration. That rose-tinted life she must flourish in, closed-off and flawless like a snow globe, her spinning and protected in the glass.
“Perfect,” echoes Karina, and kisses you - like she’s proving she really means it.
That’s the reality, here. That’s it. This is all there is.
-
Well, almost.
-
Karina lets you scroll through the rest of her photo gallery, front to back. You take the opportunity, because you’re greedy for as much as you can get.
There’s a lot of photos that are just her, funnily enough - selfies posed in front of the same full-length mirror, over and over again, clad in unholy outfits. Swimsuits, sports bras and little running shorts, lingerie: shit that makes your mouth water, eyes lingering, groaning out loud as she laughs at you. But it’s also her in faded old t-shirts, holding the hem up to expose her stomach. Body angled to the side in girlish sundresses. Hair pulled up, showing off her neck, her gorgeously sharp collarbone - in makeup or out of it, stare intensely focused and sultry.
“That’s hot,” you comment. “Self-obsessed as fuck, but hot.”
Karina smiles - her tiny private-joke smile - and doesn’t say anything at all.
There’s one video in particular that catches your eye. It’s recent, relatively - the date reads late December, last year. Less than a month ago. Christmastime. You click on it, curious.
Karina’s immediately recognizable in it, black hair winding past her shoulders, drowning in a large black sweatshirt. She’s smiling, but it looks sort of tense and tired - bags under her eyes, like she hasn’t slept in a while. She’s got both hands balled up into fists, held close and protective to her chest; her sharp chin rests on her pale knuckles. There’s a tiny smear of red across her mouth, lower lip bitten bloody.
“You just got here,” she says. She’s looking at something behind the camera. “The first thing you wanna do is hear me sing?” She laughs once, scratchy and hoarse. “Why are you even filming this?”
The answering strum of guitar strings, a pretty, perfect chord. An invitation, or a demand.
“You’re kidding.” Karina’s voice is flat.
Another chord - evidently not.
“Wow,” says Karina. Her smile, out of nowhere, goes very soft at the edges. “You just do this because you know I can’t say no to you.”
“What?” you ask Karina now, laughing. “Is this - what is this? Do you - are you really going to sing?”
And then - crazily enough - she does.
“Oh,” you say out loud, adoring, and Karina turns her face into your shoulder.
Her voice in the video is breathy, sweet. Shyly unpracticed, raspy from disuse, completely and utterly gorgeous; lids slipping shut and open again, laugh leaking into her melody line in lyrics about black eyes and kisses and wanting someone who’s just so, so bad for you. But what surprises you more than anything is the look that dawns on her blurry on-screen face - irises sparkling and smile bashful, hiding her mouth behind the sleeve of her sweatshirt, curled up with her knees to her chest. You see now that she’s wearing pajama pants, fuzzy and patterned with snowflakes.
She looks radiantly pretty. She looks vulnerable. And not even in a sweaty, satiated, filthy post-fuck kind of way - actually, genuinely vulnerable. Soft and wide-eyed and tender.
Suddenly, you just can’t tear your gaze away.
“Stop.”
The song’s over. On-screen Karina’s fully grinning now. Porcelain-fragile, but undeniably happy, too.
“I hate you,” she says. “Baby, I really do.”
“You love me,” says the person behind the camera. “You’ll love me for the rest of your life and you know it.”
And in the video - in vivid, fluid motion - Karina laughs.
Whole-hearted, lovely. Familiar. For a moment, you swear she’s still that girl sitting in the backseat of a car with her prom queen tiara on, giggling free and uninhibited, unhurt, untouched. A month ago - less than that, even - looking like she’s coming back to life.
That’s where the clip ends.
It doesn’t change anything, if you actually think about it. It’s just another version of reality. A Karina from a whole other universe, laughing like a child, and so, so far away from whoever she is now.
-
(Back between the lines of your script-
The stranger and the girl drink to get drunk and that’s about it. She reads the label of his wine; he makes fun of her for being a snob. She doesn’t really drink, she says at first, but he laughs like this is a challenge, and pours her a glass anyway. She flushes pink and fidgets around. She seems to shed hair like a cat and he thinks this is the most hilarious thing he’s ever seen, picking up thin black strands off of the arm of his couch, teasing her about girls and how they really like to leave their mark, huh?
Leave their mark, she repeats. There’s some trick of the lens here, some sort of strategic camera work - he’s in the forefront and she’s in the background, and she looks so much smaller than him. Why do you say that?
He still had his ex-girlfriend’s perfume in his cabinet. He probably still has some of her clothes in his closet. Not out of any particular emotional attachment, but sometimes this is just the way things are: when you spend years intertwining your whole existence with someone else’s, it’s hard to rid yourself of that connection. You’ve grown into each other’s spaces, tangling limbs and heart lines, putting down roots. It’s gonna take a little force to get them out.
They’re just so much, he says, gesticulating with his hands. And they affect everything in your life, like a fucking infection. And then it doesn’t work out, and you - he makes a wide, sweeping motion here, attempting to encompass the wreckage. You have to fix everything they broke. Purge them from your system and all that. It’s so fucked up.
It’s like this, he means to say - you love someone and then they leave you behind and you’re left staring at the blown-up decimated crater that used to be your life together. You love someone and they don’t love you back and all you have now is the debris.
They’re both drunk. There should be music here and there isn’t. It’s only eerie, too-still silence, suffocating the both of them with every passing second.
Well, she says, laughing, and takes another sip. You and I can agree on that, at least.)
-
It happens like this:
There’s a monologue you want to write.
You tell Karina this after you’re finally fucking her again, when she’s balanced on the edge of your glass coffee table with her legs spread and your mouth slick with her cum. Well - not after, technically. She’s between orgasms and you have your thumb on her clit, tracking the expression on her face, the split-second moment where she comes apart. It’s then when you realize so badly that you want to write some great speech for your heroine - something about the sweat beading on Karina’s midriff and her tits that you can’t stop touching and the jerky movements of her hips, trying to get your tongue back on her clit, panting and delightfully desperate. Something about desire.
“Desire,” repeats Karina, voice halfway into a raspy, worked-up moan.
“Yeah.” You’ve replaced your mouth with your fingers, fucking up into the obscene tight heat of her cunt. She’s trembling, dripping everywhere; she’s the very picture of what it means to want, probably. “But I just can’t figure it out.”
Karina laughs roughly, and then she cums.
“Is that funny?” you ask her, after, when you’re wiping your wet mouth with your wrist and she’s sucking on your glistening fingers, licking the taste of her own cunt off your skin. Her eyes big, lips all full and pink - slutty angel on her pedestal, perched above you. “Me writing about desire?”
Karina lets your fingers free with a loud pop. She’s still clutching your hand close to her mouth, thumb dragging through the sticky gleam of her spit. “No,” she says, eyes distant. “It just reminded me of something. There’s this Anne Carson quote, about men and desire…” She shakes her head. Presses her lips once to your fingertips in a small, startlingly sweet kiss. “It doesn’t matter. Tell me more.”
There isn’t much to tell, truthfully. Except that you’ve got this love for movie lines that are just so utterly quotable - things that make their way into the pop culture consciousness. That’s the kind of work you want to be doing: creating something that has an impact, something that’ll exist long after you’re gone. Everlasting. If you had to pull for an example, you’d say-
“You ever seen Closer?”
“Yeah.” Karina drops your elbow into her lap. “Oh, I get it. He tastes like you but sweeter. Lying’s the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off - et cetera.” She hums the melody line. “So you want an early 2000s pop-punk band to make a song about your movie? Ambitious.”
“More or less,” you say as she shimmies her shirt back down, hem falling back over her midriff. “But like I said, I’m kind of stuck.”
Karina rolls her neck. Her hair is everywhere, sweet-smelling; snapped-off strands decorate your table, looking like cracks in the glass.
“Any suggestions?” you ask, thumb skimming along the pale bruised inside of her thigh.
She smiles, mischievous. “Maybe.”
That’s how you both end up curled on your couch together with your laptop in front of you, Karina’s eyes glued to the movie playing on the screen, watching as the four main characters fuck and flirt and cheat on each other and scream at the top of their lungs. Melodramatic dialogue. How do you feel about him using your life? You’re lying; I’ve been you. This will hurt, which Karina laughs at - as if announcing the pain will make it better, playacting at exoneration.
It’s also - predictably - how you end up fucking again. You barely make it an hour in, and then-
“Hey.” Karina’s breath tickles your ear. She’s already seconds from climbing in your lap already; her thigh is hooked over yours, bare and inviting. “Are you inspired?”
You’re swallowing back a grin. “Sure.”
“Oh. Great.” She’s no actress herself, clearly. She couldn’t be subtle if she tried. “Do you wanna be more inspired?”
And - whatever. It’s a movie about sex. If anything, at least you’re sticking to the theme.
The dialogue plays in the background as Karina rocks her hips down on your lap - you can feel how wet she is again, like she never stops wanting to be fucked. You’re telling her something about how she’s the most insatiable girl you’ve ever met; the sound of the film saturates the room, setting the tone like it knows its purpose. How? How does it work? How do you do this to someone? This big, infidelity-ridden confrontation. Did you phone her? Beg her to come back? Asking him why he falls for another girl, getting this ridiculous answer - it’s because she doesn’t need me.
“Huh.” You smile into the curve of Karina’s neck, already palming her ass. “That one’s funny.”
“Is it funny?” Karina’s sharp jaw brushes against your cheekbone. Her eyes are so dark, shadowed by her long lashes. “I think it’s pretty realistic. People don’t like needy girls. It’s a burden to be loved so hard.” Her tongue darts across her teeth; her smile’s somewhat caustic. “Too much to handle, I guess.”
“What are you talking about?” This strikes you as fairly fucking ridiculous, too. “What men have you met who don’t like needy girls?”
Karina just laughs and leans in for another kiss.
It’s easy to let the rest of the film float away in the background, the lines coming disjointed, unconnected. A spoken-word soundtrack, tone perfuming the air: the angst and pain and eroticism seeping into your clothing. Once in a while you’ll pull back from kissing Karina’s neck or tits or mouth and see a thoughtful little quirk to her mouth. Like she’s genuinely listening, even as you’re taking off her shirt, slipping a hand back between her legs. Where will you go? Disappear. I can’t still see you - if I see you, I’ll never leave you. I amuse you, but I bore you.
“I bet you’ve never felt that,” you say, half into the silk of her hair.
Karina pauses. Her shirt’s on the floor; she’s gloriously naked on top of you. “Felt what?”
“I amuse you, but I bore you,” you recite. You already sound sort of fuck-drunk, far gone. “You’re the farthest thing from boring.”
Back in the movie, the female lead sobs into her fists. Karina studies you, fingertips grazing the nape of your neck. You try to imagine it - her as one of those heartsick heroines, crying herself to pieces, begging a man not to leave her - but you draw an utter blank. Some people just aren’t breakable in that way.
“You’d be surprised,” Karina says, after a moment. “People get bored of me all the time.”
“Oh, please.” Even when she’s the one top of you, you can’t help feeling so completely in control. It’s gotta be the look in her eyes, dying to be obedient. “I bet you have lots of ways of keeping guys interested in you.” You smack her ass hard just to make a mark. “I bet you let them fuck you however they want.”
“Exactly,” Karina agrees, without missing a beat. She moves in close until your noses bump together. Lets her voice go all smoky and suggestive. “Wherever they want, too.”
You open your mouth - probably about to say something very rude about what a dirty whore she is and how you should’ve realized it the second you saw her; I knew it, I know you - but then your hands slip lower and Karina presses her lips to yours and licks into your mouth, over your teeth, making you swallow your words. Filling you up until there’s nothing but her and the movie, playing on.
I think I’ll be happier with her.
You won’t. You’ll miss me. No one will ever love you as much as I do. Why isn’t love enough?
“Romantic, right?” murmurs Karina, sweet against your tongue.
“Shut up,” you say, and grab her by the hair, tugging her off your lap as you stand. “Bedroom. Now.”
Later, you’ll take the time to consider the different ways filmmakers illustrate a power dynamic - it’s playing on your laptop screen right now. The heroine’s sitting on the arm of the couch, clutching desperately at the hero’s jacket. Gorgeously emotional and pleading for another chance, her tiny chin tilted up, eyes so large and watery. Made fragile and fearful by everyone: the protagonist, the narrative, the director, the audience beyond. By herself, even. It’s a stylistic choice - she wants to look that pathetic.
And you-
Well, you’ve got Karina’s long hair wrapped up in your fist, tits bouncing as she stumbles to her feet, ankle knocking hard and horribly loud against the leg of your table. Cute little ass all red from your hand. Thighs shimmering from how drenched she is, cunt dripping from how you’ve treated her. She hasn’t managed to work her mouth into a trademark smirk fast enough: when she looks at you over her shoulder, her eyes are abyss-dark and bottomless, crease between her brows, lips parted in pained surprise.
The definition of pathetic, too - but that’s exactly the point. She’s just so much more fuckable like that.
“Ouch,” you say, touching her hurt ankle with the side of your foot.
“It’s fine.” Karina’s skin feels clammy and cold. Her smirk’s intact now, camera-ready. “I’ve been through worse.”
Her ankle throbs under the pressure of your touch; you still haven’t let up on her hair. You’ll go through worse, too, you think of telling her: a sly comment about how rough you’re about to fuck her, what vicious marks you’re about to leave. How you’re gonna hurt her exactly like she asked you to.
You don’t say a thing.
She must already know all of that, anyway.
-
So, Karina’s not breakable like the helpless, weepy, soft-hearted girls in the movies - but that’s alright. She’s breakable in much more enticing ways.
Case in point:
“Oh, get real, baby. Don’t pretend you don’t love it.”
Well, breaking someone down doesn’t really get better than this.
It’s all a scene of your own making, a perfect pre-arrangement. You on your bed, Karina limp and bent belly-down over your lap - you in control and Karina as the most impressive toy you’ve ever gotten your hands on, creamy ass and needy cunt and skin that turns bruises to artwork. You’re goading her and failing - trying to get her to just admit to what she is, what a filthy slut, what a nasty eager fuckdoll - but it’s hard to get a response when even breathing seems to be a chore for her right now. Every noise out of her mouth is nothing but a gasping, choked-out whimper. Her face is buried in her forearm, hidden. And through the shine of lube dribbling down your hand and her ass and into the sticky wetness of her cunt, you’ve got two fingers stretching out her little asshole - and you’re just getting started.
“I know you fucking need this.” Your other hand slides up her back, slips to tangle in her hair. “You’re just too good at it.” You pull hard, wrenching her head from the crook of her elbow. “Too good at being an obedient fucking whore for me, huh?”
Karina’s whole body stiffens when you fuck your fingers deeper, as if tugged taut on a string: the flex of her feet in the air, shoulder blades straining, neck craned back almost painfully. You pull harder. It’s a buzz at the base of your skull, live-wire thrilling: the knowledge that you can yank her into whatever position you want - fuck her anywhere, work her ass open with your cock, fill her up with cum - and she’s just going to have to take it. Like she’s this pliant, powerless thing. Like she’s yours.
Your self-satisfaction seeps right into your voice. “Answer me.”
You hear Karina gulp down a breath. “I,” Karina mumbles, but she can’t do anything but babble. “I - fuck-” All teeth-clenching nonsense; she shoots a baleful glance over her shoulder, desperation clawing its way into every word. “Please-”
Your fingers pause. “You want more?”
Her cheeks are splotchy and pink; you swear there are tears wobbling in those big dark eyes. The heavy arousal in your stomach turns to violent hunger, as though your mouth could start watering at any second. You can’t help it. The thought of seeing her cry is fucking exhilirating. “You - oh-”
“Answer me. You want my cock?” You’re waiting for the breaking point. “You want me to really fuck your ass?”
“Fuck-”
But that’s not a proper reply and Karina knows it, so she doesn’t protest when you pull your glistening fingers out of her and smack your palm hard across her ass. Once, then twice, and then you just don’t stop. She yelps like a hurt animal - trembles uncontrollably, her thighs and her shoulders and her quivering bottom lip - and makes a sound in the back of her throat that might be a sob, but she still lets you hit her: gives into the harsh crack of skin on skin, over and over again. Listens as you tell her that she deserves this, that she wanted this, that you’re making her into a good girl and this is what good girls get when they’re too cock-hungry to follow orders or answer a fucking question, you know that - you know I’m this rough for a reason. It should hurt. It’s so much more fun that way.
“I’ve been too fucking nice to you,” you mutter, teeth gritted in an effort to hide your grin - as if you even need to. It’s obvious how much you enjoy this. It’s the point. “That’s the problem with girls like you - you never learned your fucking place, huh? Never really been punished for anything?”
Karina mumbles out something unintelligible, slurring from her drooling mouth to the sheets.
“Yeah.” Your hand comes down again - she flinches just before her body goes slack. “That’s what I thought.”
And after you’ve spanked her so hard that her fair skin is ravaged and raised with goosebumps along the slope of her back - her whole body in revolt - you finally, finally stop.
Karina doesn’t budge except to breathe, and even that releases shallow, unsteady. You read it all in the shaky lift and fall of her thin shoulders, her hands in white-knuckled fists, her face pressed to your sheets and hidden - her hair coats everything, all ink, all words written but left unsaid. She shivers beneath your fingers. Her cunt’s dripping all over your lap. She’s a masterpiece. She’s a wreck.
You’re filled up with thick, swollen pride. “Karina.”
Karina. Your own personal creation, transformed under your touch. Might as well have your name carved into her, too. A brand right across her back, slicing through tissue, scarring to seal her fate - this is who you fucking belong to.
“Poor baby.” You follow the sharp ridges of her spine, tracking notches, keeping a tally: counting how many times you’ll hit her, how many days she’ll stay in your bed. How many movies she’ll let you make out of her, being your brilliant muse for decades. “It’s painful when you don’t listen to me, huh?”
But then - inexplicably - you think of her bruising ankle. Her twist of a smirk, detached and humorless. I’ve been through worse.
You’re abruptly glad you can’t see the look on her face.
“Come on, sweet girl.” You dig the heel of your palm into her lower back, half a warning. “Pull it together.”
Between the strands of glossy hair tumbling over Karina’s skin and your sheets, you spot a reddish mark on the back of her neck. Like the impression of a thumbprint, small and round. Blurry enough in the dim light that your brain starts conjuring up strange theories; an old wound, maybe. A birthmark or a burn, a childhood injury.
You graze her shoulder blades with your fingertips, exploratory. She feels so small draped over you like this, a tiny wet wisp of a girl. A doll.
She still hasn’t moved.
“Karina.”
Nothing.
“Karina,” you say again, suddenly uneasy. Your hand stops. “Are you-”
For a few terrible seconds, you can’t even hear her breathing.
But then Karina shifts. Slow, sensual, deliberate. Pushing herself up off your lap, arching her back, the slick pucker of her asshole obscene from where you fucked it open with your fingers. Her bruised knees dig into your mattress as she straightens up, and her gorgeous pale face seems to glow in the midday light - heavy dark eyes, bitten-pink mouth, black hair curtaining her cheeks like a frame to a portrait.
“You,” you start to say, feeling suddenly like you’re looking at her for the first time.
“I’m really sorry,” Karina murmurs.
She doesn’t look close to tears at all. She’s so unfazed, as if having her ass spanked punishingly raw is something that happens to a girl like her on the daily. A run-of-the-mill occurrence - a consequence of having a body like that, made to be brutalized. She’s already reaching towards the nightstand for the lube.
“I just wanted it so bad I couldn’t think straight,” Karina tells you, with erotic-film certainty - reciting all the lines that’ll make her seem the most insatiably slutty. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Her lips form a pout; she leans down to press them to the tip of your cock, all sweet and demure, like she thinks she needs to convince you. Eyes flicking up at you through her thick lashes, molten-hot. “I should’ve listened.” It’s only a breath, warm and torturous. “I deserved that, I know.”
Your hand winds tight in her hair. You want to force your cock down her pretty throat, make her gag and choke over her simpering apologies, spitting up your cum until it trickles down her chin, her tits, her tummy. Both a game and a power play: prove how sorry you are.
Karina pulls back before you can, and holds up the lube.
“Babe,” she says, the term of endearment almost a singsong - a lilting reminder. “I thought you wanted to really fuck me now.”
“Uh-huh.” Her tits heave as she moves, crawling closer, offering herself up. “And I always get what I want, right?”
You feel drunk with power. You forget that this isn’t supposed to be about power. You watch as Karina coats her palm with lube and pumps your cock, her fingers slick and hot, her veins starkly blue at her delicate wrists. Expression delighted at how hard you are, pink little tongue poking out between her teeth - seduction down to an art form, meticulously calculated.
“With me?” Her smile burns. “Obviously.”
You pull her in by the neck to kiss the smirk off her mouth.
It’s interesting. There’s this other thing regular critics and moviegoers have been saying about films these days: sex scenes need to have a purpose. Some sort of coherent motivation. Strip your lead actress down to nothing and get her keening and moaning and you’ve got to explain it away somehow. It forwards the plot, you could insist, pitching it to producers and directors. It does something for the character dynamics. It’ll draw in just the right audience, the ones dying to see their favorite celebrity debauched and getting dirty on-screen - they’ll see it over and over just to get a taste. Isn’t that enough? To satisfy the masses? Isn’t that why we’re all here?
Because otherwise all people are staring at is a play at pornography: useless half-convincing make-believe. The heroine can writhe and whine and arch her back all she wants. Everyone knows she doesn’t feel anything.
“Tell me the truth.”
Oh, if you two were a movie - you don’t know how anyone could justify a sex scene quite like this.
It doesn’t matter what artsy angle you take. It all comes down to the same unforgivable details: Karina face-down ass-up on your bed, the perfect bowed curve of her spine, the depraved wide stretch of her asshole around your cock - the sweat shining along her shoulder blades, the hard smack of your palm against the red raw skin of her ass, your other hand at the crown of her skull with your fingers wrapped entirely in her tangled hair - her cunt fucking ruining your sheets, wet all the way down her thighs, each brutal shift of your hips sending her little body into full-blown shudders-
“Tell me that you fucking love it.” Your hand slips lower until you’ve got her pinned down by the back of the neck, fingers pushing down: a grip she couldn’t escape even if she wanted to. “Whoring out your slutty little ass like this for a stranger. Getting on your hands and knees for me just because you’re so fucking needy for cock, baby - don’t even try to deny it, you’re so wet, nasty fucking girl-”
You just can’t stop yourself. It’s so easy. She really is so fucking pathetic. Too fragile to get free - too easily manipulated and manhandled. Trembling and drenched and giving way as you make room inside her, forcing space. She’s just so tight - it’s godless, how you make your cock fit in her lube-slicked asshole, how she moans like a bona fide bitch in heat over it: needing faster, needing harder, needing more. Cheek pink and pressed hard to your mattress, sharp nails digging into the sheets rough enough to tear through the fabric. Giving herself up to be fucked cruelly and stupid and senseless.
Like she’s a real-
“Natural fucking cockslut, huh?”
Look, seriously - you can’t be held accountable for the things you say to her here.
Because when you say shit like you’d just let me do anything - like you’d let me fucking tie you up and keep you here forever, be an eager fucking cumdump for me whenever I want you, I know it, I know you - that’s just the moment talking. The circumstances. The pretty arch of her back and the drooling wetness of her cunt and the indecent tightness of her ass, conspiring to make you lose your mind mid-fuck - that’s the whole reason you even tell her any of it. You think you’re good for anything else? Right at her ear, your body covering hers, your cock buried deep. You’re not. Just made to get this slutty ass fucked open, and your mouth, and your cunt - this is all anyone’s ever gonna want from you and you know it - better get used to it now, baby. This is all you got. This is all you are.
It’s Karina’s fault, really. She just takes it - all of it. She doesn’t even try to fight it.
“But that’s okay,” you murmur, as she gasps and squirms and cries out like you’re killing her. “I’m still gonna make you cum.”
And with your cock filling her ass and your hand between her legs, slapping hard at her sopping cunt until she can’t do anything but collapse - shaking, shattered - her whimpers fucked-out and drool-soaked and bleeding into one big nonsensical mess, everything about her used and ruined-
“You’re mine,” you tell her, laughing as she falls apart. “You get that? You’re mine.”
-then, you do.
When it’s all over, Karina rolls over to face the wall, breathing hard. She’s slick everywhere, sweat and saliva and lube, your creamy cum dripping out of her well-fucked asshole and trickling down her thigh. You trace her lower back and grin at the way her skin seems to give into you, turning pink with a press of your fingertips. You’ve come to realize you adore her like this, the fugue state after you fuck her: utterly dead to the world.
Like she could become a permanent fixture in your bed. Too tired to move. Too tired to ever leave.
“Mine,” you say again, softer.
Karina doesn’t argue.
It’s basically all the confirmation you need.
-
So, really, if you two were a movie-
It goes like this: life can imitate art, too. It happens all the time. The line between fiction and reality blurs together until it’s indistinguishable - until you can’t tell where the fantasy ends, or if it ever did at all.
-
(It goes like this: the heroine smiles sleepily and tells the hero he’s the best she’s ever had. You’ve seen this film before. The movie stars with their fake on-screen fucks might not feel a damn thing, but at least it’s still fun to pretend.)
-
Also, the mark you saw on the back of her neck isn’t actually what you thought it was.
“It’s a tattoo,” you realize out loud, drowsily awed, brushing her hair away so you can get a better look. You’re both tuckered out, an inevitability when you fuck like you do; you’re seconds from dozing off. Karina’s looking away from you, on her side to escape the soreness of her ass, sheets loose across her chest. She lets you touch her wherever. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice that before.”
“You don’t know me,” mumbles Karina, half into your pillow. “It’s not your job to notice anything about me.”
The tattoo’s crimson-red, all delicate linework. It really does look like it hurts: like someone painstakingly cut the shape into her skin. It’s of a heart, rendered in anatomical detail - valves and ventricles and arteries. It’s beautiful, you realize belatedly. Bright instead of faded, and obviously cared for. Lovely.
The only permanent stain on her perfect body. You press your thumb against the ink, fascinated.
“What does it mean?” you ask, but Karina’s already fallen asleep.
-
(In your script, the girl and the stranger watch some gory crime show, except they don’t pay very close attention and he tugs her into his lap and makes her ride his thigh. The episode they’ve got on is about a serial killer who murders so-called sinners - liars, adulterers, the like. Slaughters them like sacrifices, cutting their throats with vicious efficiency. Fake blood drenches the screen with every crime scene: a form of fucked-up baptism, a psuedo-religious cleansing.
The girl’s putting on an equally decent show on top of the stranger: head thrown back, eyelids fluttering, high-pitched little moans. He sinks his teeth into her shoulder and keeps watching the TV.
Hey, he says, a murmur against her skin, a close-up on his mouth. You’re a sinner, right?
She’s got her hands on his shoulders, hips rolling. Sure am.
How do you think this guy would kill you?
He thinks this’ll shock her, but she doesn’t even pause. Like he kills all the rest, she says. Like an animal.
I think he’d be more careful with you, the stranger muses. You’re too gorgeous. He’d have to use, like - a scalpel, or something. Something cleaner. Something that’d keep you intact.
It’s no use. Nothing he says seems to scare her. Her eyes are far-off, almost glazed in recollection. Like she’s thought about it too - her own untimely end. Her own vivisection, skin flayed and organs visible, viscera and bone. There, hold the shot: now the audience can consider it with her, ponder all the ways she could be torn apart, all the repulsive things they could do with her desiccated body. All the ways flesh can warp under a human touch: the blue-black yellow-green purpling of bruises, a whole palette on one tiny girl. There’s value in that, isn’t there? There’s something intimately, incomparably beautiful in suffering. There’s art.
Isn’t that why everyone’s watching?
I get it, the girl says, still soaking his thigh, smiling as if it’s an inside joke between them. You want me dead. That’s been obvious since the moment you met me.
I don’t want you dead, he says, and grabs her by the jaw. I just want to fuck you.
Okay, she says, uncaring, like there’s barely a difference. Fine. Whatever you want.
They don’t turn the TV off. They let the characters scream and bleed out in the background; he fucks her like she’s got a death wish. It’s funny - he expects her to get louder the harder he fucks her, ruthlessly working over the tight clench of her cunt - but she keeps getting less and less responsive, as if he’s pushing her little body into some sort of trance: expression vacant and blank, body limp and lifeless, mouth open and speechless. It makes him angry. Give me something, he’s saying, frustrated, clawing at her hair: baby, it’s not fair, it’s no fun like this. The on-screen shrieks aren’t enough - he wants it from her. Actually, he keeps saying he needs it - as if fulfilling desire is on the same level as food or air, as if he’ll drop dead in seconds if he doesn’t get her sobbing. He gets his overlarge hands on her face and starts contorting it, pushing her mouth open, her eyes wider, his fingers down her throat until she spits and gags and chokes. Oh, the audience will love this one: it’s reminiscent of those filthy exploitation films with their cult followings, so cleverly referential. Look at her pathetic and pinned down. Look at her helpless and struggling. Think of your favorite on-screen murder scenes, and then think of this.
Anything I want, the stranger reminds her, yanking back her hair as she drools down his wrist. You asked for this, didn’t you? You said anything I want.
Except now the girl can’t say anything at all.
This moment will start rumors, invite horrified scandal the same way some purposefully marketed horror movies are passed off as snuff films - that really went down, they really died like that. This scene’ll get a similar response. Did he actually fuck her? Did he actually hurt her? Did everyone - the writer, the director, the crew, the captive audience - actually just stand by and let that happen?
Sure. Or she might just be a really, really good actress.
There. The stranger’s murmuring to her now, watching her manufactured expression, watching the tears fill her eyes. There you go. There’s my girl. And she is his, she really is - transformed into something all beautiful and new under his clumsy fingertips, molded right into art. The camera will zoom in close on her gorgeous, cadaverous face, a perverse little gift for the audience: here, have this, take a look. She’s all yours now.
There’s something to be said here about the manmade link between sex and violence - inescapable, brutal, primeval; bodies in all shades of red - but he forgets it the second he touches her, and she’s being fucked too hard to remember.
Maybe they’ll get to it next time.)
-
AND WE'RE BACK!!!!!!!!!!! <33333
all my luv ever to @capslocked @worldsover @passingnotions @braaan for beta reading my dumbass shenanigans and also for being the best ever I LOVE U!!!!!! AND ANYONE WHO IS READING THIS I LOVE YALL TOO.................. PART 2 COMING SOON!!!!!!!!!!!
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Alastor and reader's wedding? What did her dress look like? How did Al react to her wallking down the isle?? PLEASE I NEED TO KNOW
I always cry at weddings 😭 😭 😭
Alastor X Reader Headcanons
✅️Romantic
❌️Platonic
TW: Possessive Alastor, FEELINGS
Description: ☝️⬆️
If you two got married when you were alive, then I imagine it was a very small and intimate ceremony
You and Alastor did a lot of the decorating yourselves, even making your own wedding cake because Alastor can BAKE
You two had a blast doing it too, turning everything into a little game and making deals over who could set things up the fastest/nicest
Winner gets a kiss from the loser
You two would likely only invite your closest friends and relatives(if you were close with your family that is)
If Alastor's mother was still alive by the time you guys got engaged then she 110% would be there(I genuinely don't remember when she died soooooo)
She would absolutely be his best man because who else would be worthy of such a position??
Happy tears from her the entire time
This woman will walk you down the aisle if she has to, she won't let you walk alone on your big day
Not Alastor holding back tears at the sight of his mother and soon to be wife walking towards him
Mimzy would also have been there, and she would've fought for her right as maid of honor, like physically fought off her competitors
You're haunted by the memory of it, actually
Absolutely sticks her nose in everything but only because she wants it to be perfect for you two
She will tear up anyone who throws a wrench in the ceremony and will run it better than she did her own club
"These floors better be SPOTLESS! If I see a single speck of dust on that dress-"
She probably insisted on paying for the wedding too
Alastor would probably have a last minute freak out at the thought that this is actually happening, he's getting married
But he wouldn't be nervous about you leaving him at the altar or anything like that, just normal wedding jitters
But he's resolute in the fact that he wants this, he wants to be your husband and share his life with you
And he definitely doesn't want anyone else thinking there's a chance they can take you from him
Alastor is positively radiating warmth and pride by the time you're walking down the aisle, blown away by how stunning you look
Whether the dress is unique, traditional or not even a wedding dress-he's amazed by just how good you look in it
It makes his mouth water
He's lowkey preening for you the entire time
It just makes everything seem more real to him, immediately reaching out to take your hands in order to keep himself grounded in reality
He actually is at a loss for words for once...
"You look really handsome..."
The sight of your happy blush brings him back, and he's pressing his forehead to yours
"And you look nearly as good as I do, my dear~"
Ass
The slight quiver in his smile, glassy eyes and tight grip on your hands gives him away though, you know what he really means
You look heavenly to him
Neither you or Alastor listen to a word the officiant says, too busy gazing lovingly at one another to pay them any mind
And you're definitely not getting distracted at the feeling of his thumbs gently caressing over your hands
When it comes to the vows, Alastor definitely puts his heart and soul into trying to make you cry at words
He's putting on a show for you but you love it ❤️
He looks smug as hell when he finishes
His gaze becomes softer as you say your own vows, smile becoming a little more gooey as you make his heart race
"And if anyone is opposed to this marriage, speak now or forever hold your peace."
Not Alastor and Mimzy giving death glares to anyone who would even dare saying anything
As if you two even invited anybody who would fucking try
"You may now kiss-"
Alastor doesn't even wait for him to finish, tugging you close and kissing you deeply
And once your arms wrap around his neck then maybe the kiss gets a little too intimate
Mimzy is whistling and cheering while Alastor's mother is politely looking away from you two
You two barely pull away to breathe before he kisses you again, seemingly unable to stop
He just can't believe he's kissing his wife
That he's your husband and everyone is going to know that you're not on the market anymore
Not that you ever were before
It's an embarrassingly long time before you two stop, and you're left panting, rosy-cheeked, and weak in the knees
Alastor doesn't move his arm from your waist for the rest of the night, wanting to keep you close
The only time he does let you go is when he goes to dance with his mother or when it's your turn to dance with his mother
Not her giving you both embarrassing advice about the honeymoon and early married couple life
She wants grandkids dammit
When you two are cutting the cake, he does NOT slam a slice into your face but he does put a bit of frosting on your nose
Only to lick it off a moment later
🥵 BOI
If you do it back to him then he will be properly flustered because he was banking on the fact that you would be too shocked to react
He doesn't care about wedding gifts or anything like that but his mother's blessing means everything to him
So her approval of your marriage and you as her daughter in law just solidified how important you'll always be to him
But don't worry because Mimzy definitely made sure to hook you two up with gifts
Alastor literally can't stop kissing you afterwards, your hands, your cheeks, your forehead, your neck, ect
If you return even a smidgen of that affection back to him then it'll only make him more excited for your future together
He's not even thinking of the honeymoon, he's just overwhelmed with the urge to give you affection
He just thinks about how he'll never be tired of being your husband and having you as his wife
Waking up to you, going to bed with you, cooking with you, messing with you, hell even fighting with you sounds appealing because then he can make up with you
Alastor never really thought of himself as the type to get married but you came and completely changed that with your love
Even though he was difficult and fought falling in love with you with everything he had
You fought back harder to love him
Now that he's here with you, looking at the wedding band on your finger, the loving look on your face
Your hand on his cheek gently guiding him to look into your eyes as you lean in towards him
Feeling your lips on his own as you whisper loving things against them before kissing him
He's happy you won that fight
This one was a lot of fun!! I was originally going to do two versions of this! One wedding before you two died and one for after you both were dead but then I included his mom and-
I got very carried away
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daze.
| reader is new in town and goes around with her bestfriend. She meets Onyankopon who is entranced by her at first sight and is set on making her his. |
cw : strangers to lovers. dom! Ony, fem! sub shy awkward reader, reader is black, doggy style, anal play (ony eats her ass), oral sex (f receiving), spit, fluids, dirty talk, teasing, pet names (mamas, princess, lil ‘ma, etc.), praise, biting, pussy slapping, begging, unprotected sex, creampie, cock drunk reader, slight pussy drunk ony, overstimulation, crying, pwp.
word count : hella long bc there’s lots of plot 🥹
sn : wrote this for fun, hopefully y’all will enjoy it 💞
You had been away for college for a long while but now that you graduated with your masters degree and had a break, you came to visit your best friend. You were hesitant about being in a new environment again but you were excited to see your bestfriend because it had been so long since the two of you spent time together.
The two of you were polar opposites, her being loud and charismatic, feisty and unafraid to show off her rambunctious personality. You on the other hand were shy, mostly quiet and meek, only getting out of your shell when you were comfortable with people. You guys suited each other perfectly though, the true definition of opposites attracting.
You squinted your eyes, your car now in a slow stroll along the street as you searched for your friend’s address. You perked up once you found it, pulling into her driveway and parking. Excitement built up inside you as you hopped out the car and approached her front door. You knocked a little too eagerly but you couldn’t help yourself. Nao was excited as well, rushing to open the door and hug you.
You both squealed as you hugged dramatically and spun a bit. “Bitch I missed your ass so much! Oh my god I have so much tea for you!” Nao exclaimed excitedly. You giggled, “I missed you so much too. You always have something going on. I can’t wait to hear all about it though.” You smiled at her. “ugh, my baby is back with me.” Nao sighed dramatically before she kissed your cheeks. You loved the affection, Nao always giving motherly vibes.
Nao helped you get your bags from your car and she didn’t waste any time to start ranting to you as you two began to unpack your things in her guest room. “—He really tried to play in my face like I’m one of his lil hoes. Can’t stand these niggas out here. He keep tryna blow up my phone but I’m ignoring his ass.” Nao expressed while shaking her head. You just took in the info, laughing a little. “Which one was this? Eren?” You asked, trying to keep up.
“Nah, Eren my baby boy. I’m talking about Connie hoe ass. Connie mad now because him and Eren homeboys. I don’t give a fuck though.” Nao said honestly with a cackle. “Oh my god, that’s so messy. I support though. As you should!” You encouraged with a laugh. “What about you though sis? Any dude try to pull up on you at college?” Nao asked.
“Nope. Well I guess some tried but they were all weirdos, I wasn’t interested. Plus you know I need someone who will take care of me.” You said honestly with a hum. “Girl, you need to put yourself out there more. You’re a bad bitch, I’m sure guys will drool over you. You’re just too picky.” She said while shaking her head in disapproval. “I could put you on.” She suggested as she perked up.
“No, no. I refuse to be put on with one of those guys you hang around. You know that’s not my vibe.” You refused immediately. “Ugh, come on! Just give it a chance!. We could literally pull up at Connie’s crib, everyone be over there.” She persuaded with a pout as she pulled on your arm. “Eh, the guys you hang with wouldn’t even be interested in me.” You sighed.
“You don’t know that!. Just come with me, please? Pretty please? Cherry on top? Love and adore you forever?” She begged as she laid her head on your shoulder. You rolled your eyes, laughing “alright, I’ll come. But! I’m not getting put on with no one.” You clarified. “Yay! So exciting!” She cheered in victory. “Isn’t it gonna be awkward for you to be at Connie’s house though?” You asked once you realized.
“Eh, he don’t mind. He too obsessed with me to leave me alone.” She confidently said with a shrug, you laughed. “Y’all are a mess. That’s exactly why I will not partake in that kind of relationship.” You stated. “You will when you find some good dick.” She blurted causing you to gasp and hit her with a pillow, she burst out laughing at your reaction. It was nice spending time with Nao again, the two of you spent the rest of the night catching up and enjoying each other’s company.
*************************************************
You were dreading this gathering now, you hated meeting people. You had Nao by your side though so you figured it wouldn’t be so bad. Nao looked sexy as fuck, dressed in a red corset top, a black jean skirt, and some ‘university red’ dunks with her crinkle curl black lace front, gold jewelry to compliment the outfit.
You differed in style, dressed in a lacy white tank top with a white cardigan, you wore a pink skirt with white leg warmers and pink converse, your hair was in a half up half down look and you had on hoop earrings with a little charm bracelet. “You look so adorbs!” Nao gushed over you. You blushed, “thanks, you look so good. They’re gonna drool over you forreal.” You complimented with a giggle.
“That’s the goal.” She sassily said as she flipped her hair. The two of you walked up to what was apparently Connie’s house and Nao didn’t even bother to knock, just walking on in like she owned the place. Luckily for you it wasn’t overly crowded, just a couple people hanging around. It appeared this house was a true hang out spot. “Yoo, losers. The baddest bitch has arrived.” Nao greeted theatrically.
Everyone greeted her too, she was clearly comfy with everyone here, you just followed behind her like a clueless puppy only uttering ‘hi’s’ and ‘nice to meet you’s’ whenever Nao introduced you to people. Unbeknownst to you, someone had taken a particular interest in you. “Yo, who’s lil mama?” Ony asked Jean as they stood together sharing a blunt. “Uh don’t know but she came with Nao. They’re homegirls” Jean shrugged.
“Mm.” Ony hummed in response to the information, still observing you with his low slightly red eyes. “What? You tryna hit that?” Jean asked with a laugh. “Nah, just curious.” Ony dismissed. It was rare to see a cute thing like you around so it intrigued Ony, he didn’t typically go for girls like you but he wouldn’t mind taking his chances. You caught his stare when you began to mindlessly look around, it caught you off guard seeing the male staring at you so intensely.
It also confused you a bit, you didn’t understand why he was looking at you. You unconsciously pouted a bit and tilted your head as you tried to think of what the reason could be. Ony felt his heart swoon a little at the adorable sight, you were just too cute. “Lying ass. You definitely wanna tap that.” Jean laughed as he peeped the scene. “Shut your ass up.” Ony snapped.
“Is there something on my face?” You asked Nao. She looked at you confused, “No, why do you think that?” She asked as she thoroughly inspected your face. “Because some guy was staring at me so I wanted to make sure. That would’ve been embarrassing.” You said in slight relief. “Which guy?!” She perked up, eager to find out. You subtly pointed to him, standing against the wall with some other guy.
He was dressed in black cargo pants and a white tee, a black durag on his head with some white forces on his feet. He had little diamond stud earrings in his ears and a silver chain around his neck. He had a tattoo on one of his hands and one on his collarbone. “Oo! That’s Ony! Girl that is crazy! Ony doesn’t get interested in many girls. You should go speak!” Nao excitedly encouraged.
You sheepishly shook your head, “Noo, you know I hate approaching people.” You said as you played with your sweater paws. “I know but you need to put yourself out there!. You want me to call him over?” She offered. Your eyes went wide, frantically shaking your head, not liking that idea at all. Nao sighed, “Well I’m not gonna put you in an uncomfortable position but I really think you should feel him out.” She hummed. You chewed on your lip, debating it as you glanced at him.
He was definitely attractive but he seemed way out of your league. You wouldn’t even know how to handle a guy like him. This time he was the one who caught you staring, blowing smoke from his mouth after taking a hit from a blunt. You immediately looked away, flustered that he caught you looking at him. Ony smirked at your shy reaction, “she’s too damn cute.” He mumbled to himself. “Bro just go over and talk to her at this point instead of drooling, damn.” Jean said, annoyed.
Ony rolled his eyes, elbowing Jean in the side before he actually did take the initiative and walked up to you. You didn’t even notice him approaching, turned towards Nao and focused on what she was currently chatting about. Ony cleared his throat once he stood behind you, instantly gaining your attention as you whipped around to see who it was. “What’s up little ‘ma.” Ony greeted once he had your attention. You stared at up him like a deer in headlights, “Uhm..hi~” you replied shyly.
Nao’s eyes flickered between the two of you knowingly with a mischievous grin on her face. She didn’t waste any time slipping away so that you and ony could talk privately. “You new around here?” Ony asked you, starting small talk as he took a sip from his red solo cup. “Yeah, I just got here the other day” You said as you began to nervously play with your hair, you knew you were probably being awkward but you sucked at conversation. Ony didn’t mind your shy awkward demeanor though, finding it adorable.
“Oh my bad, I’m onyankopon by the way but you can call me ony.” He introduced himself with a smile, allowing you to see the silver grill on the bottom row of his teeth. He was definitely not the type of guy to go for a girl like you. “Nice to meet you~” You said your usual textbook reply, smiling back at him politely. Ony fixated on your pretty smile, your little dimples appearing on your cheeks along with your glossy lips. In that moment he felt like he’d do whatever to keep that smile on your face.
“You close with Nao?” He questioned. You nodded, “Mhm, she’s my bestfriend, we’ve been close for a long time and I love her a lot.” You expressed happily as you grinned. “That’s cute.” Ony smiled, enjoying seeing you happily ramble. Ony’s stare was so intense and intimidating as he ate up every detail of your figure with his eyes, it made your heart pound furiously in your chest. That ba-boom ba-boom ba-boom nonstop in your system.
“My homie Jean convinced me to approach you since I kept staring at you, hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.” Ony chuckled as he rubbed at his chin. “Oh!, I wasn’t uncomfortable, just mostly confused..I didn’t understand why you were staring at me.” You admitted honestly with a soft laugh as you shyly fiddled with your charm bracelet.
Ony’s eyes tracked the movement, fully attentive to your every action. “Because you’re beautiful. Cutest thing I’ve ever seen. Can’t keep my eyes off you mama.” Ony’s low sultry voice spoke honestly as he stared into your now wide eyes. “I-I uhm..” You stuttered out, speechless and beyond flustered now. You even let out a faint whine in embarrassment as you shifted from foot to foot.
You weren’t used to such shameless and honest flattery so you didn’t know how to process it and respond. Ony was torn because a part of him loved watching you squirm and crumble because of his words, and the other part of him wanted to ease your turmoil and comfort you. “You can relax mama, it’s alright. I just wanted to clear up your confusion.” His comforting side won, his voice soft and soothing.
“Sorry, I’m not used to accepting compliments, especially from a guy like you..thank you though.” You managed out after awhile, breathing out to calm yourself. “A guy like me? What’s that mean mama?” Ony prodded with a teasing grin. You swore you’d fold and burst at the seams if he called you ‘mama’ one more time. The way it rolled off his tongue just sounded so nice.
“I-I mean..uh..” You stammered out as you smiled shyly. “You know, you’re attractive and intimidating..and you go for girls like Nao” You explained, completely embarrassed. Ony was highly amused as he listened to you try to elaborate, a grin on his face. “Cute. You think I’m attractive sweet girl?” Ony asked, continuing to tease. “Also I don’t go for girls like Nao. I want you.” Ony said honestly.
You felt your heart skip a beat hearing that, getting a little giddy as you bit down on your bottom lip to hold back your huge smile. Ony eyed the action of you biting your lip, his mind drifting to a not so innocent place. “Let me take you out on a date.” He suddenly said. You looked at him in slight shock, his straightforwardness catching you off guard.
You contemplated your answer because you were unsure. You did think Ony was very attractive and you liked talking to him but you were afraid of this not going well. You decided to take Nao’s advice though and take your chances. “okay, I’d love to~” You smiled. Ony felt like he won the lottery. The two of you then exchanged numbers before Ony got pulled away by his friends.
“I’ll text you later mamas.” Ony told you before y’all parted ways. You were giddy to tell Nao all the details about your interaction with Ony. He stayed true to his word too, texting you sooner than you expected. You texted him on your way back home with Nao. “This is soo exciting! Do you know where he’s taking you yet?” Nao questioned excitedly as she drove.
“A restaurant, I think it’s fancy.” You informed her. “Oo can I dress you up? Pretty please, I wanna make you all sexy. Make him lose his shit.” Nao laughed. “Of course that’s what you wanna do.” You laughed too while shaking your head. “You can dress me up though, I want the sexy bad bitch vibes.” You agreed, thinking it’d be nice to switch it up for this occasion.
“Yessuh!, You’re gonna get dicked down real good.” Nao cackled evilly. You gasped, “You’re nasty! Horny ass.” You laughed in disbelief. “Girl you know damn well you’re not miss innocent, with your kinky ass.” Nao called you out as the two of you laughed together. “Hush, I still have class~” You huffed with a grin.
Throughout the night you and Ony texted nonstop, him constantly flattering you and giving you butterflies with his sweet words. Despite you being really shy in person you were more bold through text, saying things you’d never say directly to his face but it was fun to play around. Little did you know though, Ony was gonna make you stand on your words.
onyanbear 😫🧸: why you keep playing with me ma? you think I won’t put you in your place?
you : bc it’s funnn, you’re not gonna do anything. You’re scaryyy, all talk, no action
onyanbear 😫🧸 : ight, keep talking that big girl shit. We’ll see.
You were giggling and kicking your feet reading his responses, you knew you were probably digging yourself a hole but it was too fun to tease and provoke him. You honestly didn’t think he’d actually act on his words. You’d learn soon enough though that he was not playing.
*************************************************
You were honestly a nervous wreck as you prepared for your date with Ony. You hadn’t been on a date in awhile and you’d say you had a crush on Ony at this point so it was exciting and nerve-racking all at the same time. Nao provided you with a little silk black dress that shaped your curves in all the right ways and showed off your figure. You paired the dress with black heels that wrapped up your ankles.
You curled your hair, doing a natural makeup beat and putting on red lipstick. This was definitely different from your usual cutesy style but you looked good. You put on jewelry, just some stud earrings and a bracelet, along with an anklet. “You look good as fuck! I’m so proud.” Nao exclaimed before she began taking pictures of you like a proud mom.
“Thank you” You laughed and posed for some of the pictures. “When’s he pulling up?” Nao asked. “Uhm in about 10 minutes or so I think.” You hummed as you checked your phone, seeing his text saying that he was on his way. “You excited? You like him so far?” Nao prodded teasingly and eagerly. You giggled, “I am excited but I also feel like throwing up from nerves. I do like him so far..he’s nice.” You admitted with a shy smitten grin.
“Oo, this is so adorable. I’m happy you’re giving him a chance.” Nao smiled. Soon Ony pulled up, calling you to let you know he was outside. “Okay I’ll be out soon!~” You told him. You quickly got up, spraying on your favorite perfume and grabbing your purse before you walked out to see Ony standing outside his car waiting for you. His attention was on you the second you stepped out, eyes eating up your figure.
“You look so sexy ‘ma. breathtaking.” Ony hummed, not being able to take his eyes off you as his hands found their way to your waist. Your face flushed, growing shy as your stomach swarmed with flutters at his words and the feel of his hands on your body. “Thank you” You said with a smile. “You look good too, really good.” You returned the flattery as you eyed him as well.
He was dressed in a black and grey hockey jersey and some black jeans, ‘panda’ dunks on his feet. He had on the same chain and he had rings adorning his fingers this time. He smelled so good too, his intoxicating scent so yummy in your nostrils. “thanks mama.” Ony grinned before he pecked your cheek. He was being extra touchy this time around but you didn’t mind it at all, you were soaking it up actually.
“Let’s go.” Ony said as he opened the car door for you, allowing you to slide into the passenger seat. He closed the door after you and then rounded around the car and sat in the driver’s seat. He adjusted the air and the radio before he began to drive. You just watched him the whole time, completely infatuated with him and his whole aura. Your inner thoughts screaming about how he was ‘fine as fuck’. You wouldn’t say it out loud though, too shy to do so.
“You staring real hard lil mama, see something you want?” Ony asked in that smooth low voice of his that made you melt, his eyes still focused on the road but his attention completely on you. ‘slow down’ by bobby valentino played lowly on the radio, creating a mood in the car and further adding to the building tension. You didn’t know how to respond, mouth parting but no words coming out, flustered by his question.
You did see something you wanted, you wanted him, really badly too. You weren’t gonna admit that though. “N-No..just like staring at you..” You partially confessed sheepishly as you played with the hem of your dress. Ony chuckled, the sound filling your ears and consuming you, so pleasing to your senses. “That’s cute baby. You’re so shy now, what happened to big girl in my messages? Talking all big about how I can’t handle you, you gon’ make me nut in my pants, how I ain’t gon’ do shit, I’m not daddy material, Hm? Where’s that energy at ‘ma?” Ony called you out, making your eyes blow wide.
You didn’t think he’d make you eat your words, it was embarrassing hearing your own words repeated back to you. “I-I..I was playing!” You defended, not wanting to bury yourself further. “Ah, so you’re the one that’s scary then? All talk, no action? Ain’t that what you said?. After you said I wouldn’t bend you over my lap and spank your little ass.” Ony continued, loving seeing you fall apart from being called out.
You were pouting now, “I’m not scary, I did say that and I was right. You still ain’t do shit.” You huffed, now standing on your words because you weren’t gonna let him doubt you and call you ‘scary’. “Mm.” was all Ony said in response as he grinned, he was glad you were still being a brat, just so he could turn you right back out. The two of you arrived at the restaurant and once Ony parked he was quick to snatch you up by your neck.
You let out a choked gasp, staring at him wide eyed as he pulled your face towards his, his large hard squeezing around your throat making you whine. “I love that attitude shit ‘ma. It makes my day. You keep fucking with me because you want me to fuck that attitude out of you, don’t you?” Ony uttered against your lips, your breaths mingling together, the proximity and his words putting you in a daze.
“You want daddy to fuck you stupid? Turn you into my good girl?” Ony hummed, you let out another whine. You wanted to kiss him so bad, your lips parted, tongue practically about to fall out from how desperately you wanted it. Right when you tried to lean in, Ony pulled away and let you go. “Come on, we’re gonna be late for our reservation.” He said as he got out of the car.
You were bewildered, stuck processing what just happened as Ony opened the passenger side door for you. Ony was completely amused at the lost look on your face, it was priceless. He contained his nonchalant appearance though. “Come back to me mama, let’s go.” Ony hummed, trying to snap you out of your trance.
It worked, you immediately got out of the car and began to follow him into the restaurant, a slight embarrassed flush on your face as you realized how desperate you must’ve looked moments ago. Ony led the two of you to your table once you entered the restaurant. Being the gentleman he was he pulled your seat out for you, “thank you” you said softly with a smile as you sat down.
He hummed in response and pushed your seat in. The two of you got settled and ordered. “You gonna act like a good girl now?” Ony asked you after the waiter left, slightly joking as he looked at you. You pouted, “No” you huffed softly. You were gonna stand your ground, plus you were still disappointed that he didn’t actually kiss you. Ony chuckled at your response.
“You’re lucky you’re cute as fuck.” He expressed with a grin. You were flattered, folding again at his sweet words as you smiled and grew shy again. “I tried to look sexy today though” You muttered as you adjusted your dress a bit. “You do look sexy, very sexy. You also look cute though, cutest thing ever. You have a nice mix of both.” He told you honestly, only flattering you more as you grinned giddily.
“Not cute enough for you to kiss me though..” you mumbled, you intended to say that in your head and not out loud but it slipped. Ony couldn’t help but to laugh, he was satisfied with getting you all sulky. “don’t laugh~ it’s embarrassing.” You whined as you covered your face with your hands. “My bad baby, you don’t have to be embarrassed, it’s adorable you want me to kiss you so bad.” He comforted with a soft laugh as he pulled your hands away from your face, kissing your hands as he did.
You felt those now familiar butterflies swarm in your system at his soft plump lips against your hands. You could only imagine feeling his lips elsewhere..the thought giving you shivers. “You happy now?” He asked as he now held your hand, interlocking your fingers with his. You loved it so much, his hand in yours, it was so comforting and intimate. You wished he’d kiss your lips but you were happy with what was given to you. “I am, very happy” You giggled.
“that’s good mamas.” He smiled before he kissed your hand again, kissing down to your wrist. “You smell good as fuck..got me wanting to eat you ‘ma..” he sighed as he looked into your eyes. You stared back, silent now but your heart pounding loudly in your ears. That ravenous look in his eyes had you stuck, your breathing slowing as anticipation began to build inside you.
Ony constantly kept you on edge but you loved it, and sometimes you felt the urge to go over that edge. “Why don’t you then?” You uttered out, not backing down from his stare. Ony smiled at your words, “You’d like that wouldn’t you mamas? My head between your legs? That sweet pussy suffocating me?” He teased. If you weren’t wet already, you definitely were now. His words effecting you and making your pussy ache to be touched.
“I would like that, soo much, please” You hadn’t intended to beg but it seemed Ony made you desperate with ease. He chuckled, “We’re gonna eat first babe and have our date, you can be a good girl and wait.” He stated before he kissed your cheek. You pouted but agreed, wanting to be good and also wanting to finish your date since you’d been excited for this date.
Soon the food arrived and the two of you began to eat, the food was heavenly. You two talked and got to know each other even more. “—So you’re beautiful and smart as hell, I hit the jackpot.” Ony grinned. You had just finished telling him about your college accomplishments, “oh hush, you probably have had plenty of smart beautiful women.” You giggled.
“Nah, none like you at least. You’re a gem mamas.” He said genuinely. His sweet words always made you swoon, falling for him more and more by the second. “You’re so sweet to me.” You said softly as you smiled. “You deserve it and I’m tryna make you mine so I have to be sweet to you.” He smiled as he finished off the dessert you ordered. You gasped, “You ate the last bite!” You whined in disappointment stomping your feet in your heels.
Ony couldn’t help but to laugh, cackling as you pouted and sulked like a baby. “You’re not sweet anymore.” You huffed as you crossed your arms. “God, you’re so cute it makes me sick.” He said with a grin while shaking his head as his laughter died down. “Here ‘ma, you can taste the last bite too.” He said before he grabbed you by your jaw and kissed you deeply.
It caught you off guard, you took a minute to process what was happening before you began to kiss him back. Your eyes fluttered closed as you melted into the feeling of his lips against yours, his tongue pushing through the seam of your lips to fill your mouth, allowing you to taste the residual of the dessert. He dominated the kiss easily, his tongue tangling messily with yours and pushing against the insides of your cheeks. He began to suck on your tongue, making you moan into the kiss.
“shit..” he groaned lowly as he broke the kiss, a string of saliva connecting your lips still. Your head was fuzzy from the kiss, your breathing heavier as your now low lust filled eyes stared into Ony’s pretty brown eyes. He licked his lips, breaking the saliva string between your lips. Your eyes fixated on the movement, completely entranced by the man.
Ony was just as enamored by you, your red lipstick now slightly smudged on your plush lips. That needy look in your eyes that seemed eager to be satiated. You were just so beautiful and he couldn’t get enough of it. “Mm, you taste better than the dessert mama” he said, it was kinda a cheesy line but he meant it. “Should’ve kiss you sooner..” he mumbled before he pecked your lips again repeatedly.
You loved every second of it, kissing him back as much as you could, smiling into the kisses. You felt completely head over heels at this point. ���Let’s head out mama” he hummed as he pulled away. He paid for the meal and held your hand as you two exited the restaurant, getting back into his car. You were in a relaxed state on the night drive, ony’s hand resting on your thigh and your head leaned against the window, shamelessly watching him as he drove.
“You wanna go back to my place baby?” Ony asked as he gave your thigh a small squeeze. “Yes please” you said, a little too eagerly causing ony to chuckle. You couldn’t help it though, you wanted to spend as much time with him as possible, be completely consumed by him. It wasn’t long before you guys arrived at his house.
You observed the place with curiosity, “You live alone?” You questioned as the two of you got out of the car. “Mhm, roommates aren’t my style. Too much of a hassle. I like having my own shit.” He said as he unlocked his front door. You nodded in understanding, “Makes sense.” You hummed before letting out a squeak in surprise when Ony suddenly picked you up.
You didn’t get a chance to get a word out before Ony started eating your face, kissing you with desperation as he gripped your ass. Truth be told Ony couldn’t wait to get his hands on you, being tempted the whole time as you provoked him and he snapped after he kissed you, wanting to devour you whole after that. You moaned into the kiss, your arms wrapped tightly around his neck as you pulled him closer.
Ony began to carry you upstairs to his bedroom as the two of you continued kissing. He sucked on your bottom lip, tugging it between his teeth and making you whine out. He loved all the cute noises you made, wanting to pull more of them out of you. He left opened mouthed kisses down your neck prior to running his tongue up your neck all the way to your ear, pulling your earlobe into his mouth. He wanted to taste every inch of you.
You shivered at the feeling of his mouth on your sensitive ear, your nails beginning to dig into his neck as you whined pathetically. He threw you onto the bed once you guys made it to his bedroom, making you gasp. “Mhm, I ain’t forget about all that big girl shit you talked. You gon’ learn not to play in my face.” He reminded you as he pulled his shirt off, allowing you to see his bare upper body, his chest covered in tattoos.
You gawked at him, your eyes eating up every detail of his body. Ony pulled you by your legs, treating you like a rag doll as he parted your thighs causing your little dress to rise up. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful ‘ma” Ony sighed in delight as he began to kiss from your calf up to your inner thighs, goosebumps following the trail of his kisses. You flushed at his compliment, you loved the nonstop flattery.
You wanted him so badly, watching him as he took his time getting to the place that ached so desperately to be touched. Ony paused once he reached your wet cunt, his breath ghosting against your clothed cunt in an agonizingly teasing way. You quickly grew impatient as you began to whine and squirm, “stop teasing me” you huffed as you whined. He chuckled, “So fuckin’ needy” he tsked as he slapped your thigh to get you to stop squirming.
You whimpered and pouted but ceased your movement, “you’re taking too long. still no action…” you muttered as you rolled your eyes. “You ain’t getting shit from me unless you start actin’ right mama” he stated as he stared up at you. You stared back at him, huffing once you realized you weren’t gonna win in this situation. “fine, I’ll act right..” you obliged. “good girl.” He praised and placed a kiss on your clothed clit.
You swooned at the praise, soaking it up more than you thought you would. Ony didn’t waste anymore time, pulling your panties off and tossing them aside before he delve into your sweet pussy, dragging his tongue through your slick folds. You moaned out in satisfaction at finally getting what you had been craving since you saw ony standing outside his car waiting for you.
He suckled on your throbbing bud, his fingers spreading your lips apart as he focused on the sensitive ball of nerves. You gripped the bedsheets as you whined and moaned out shamelessly in pleasure. You were a dripping mess, ony making sure to lick up all of your fluids, the lewd slurping and sucking sounds filling the room as he did.
“such a pretty fuckin’ pussy” he awed as he pulled away and stared at your messy cunt, glistening with your slick. Ony spit on your pussy, adding to the filthy mess before he pushed his tongue into your entrance. “oh fuck” you moaned as you threw your head back, falling apart at the feeling of ony’s tongue fucking into you. Ony hummed as he devoured you with ease, enjoying every second of it and loving the sight of you becoming an incoherent mess.
His eyes fixated on you and your every reaction. Your dress bunched up around your waist, your hair sprawled out on his bedsheets, mouth parted in bliss and your eyes fluttered shut, cheeks flushed and nipples hard. You looked so beautiful, Ony felt like he was looking at a work of art. Ony licked up the fluids that ran down to your ass, you gasped and instinctively tried to close your legs when you felt his tongue prod at that hole that hadn’t been touched before.
“nah, none of that shit. stop playin’ with me.” He said as he pulled your legs back apart, gripping them in place so you couldn’t move them. You whined, shaking your head and squirming when you felt Ony’s thumb pressing on your ass hole. “n-not there..” you whimpered, not used to being touched there. “relax mama, let me take care of you. You can handle it.” He soothed as he placed kisses on tummy.
Ony used the mixture of his saliva and your juices as lubricant to ease his thumb into your tight hole, “onyy~” you cried out at the feeling as you clawed at the bedsheets. “You’re doing so good mamas” he praised before he started to eat you out again while his thumb continued to stimulate your sensitive hole. Tears brimmed your eyes at the overwhelming pleasure, your senses on overdrive at the combined feeling of ony’s tongue on your achy pussy and his thumb stretching your backside.
Ony stretched the tight ring until he was satisfied and then he pushed his tongue into your puckered hole, making you squeal as your back arched. He groaned as he fucked his tongue into you, starting this pattern of licking from your ass all the way back up to your throbbing clit, messily eating you out as drool pooled from his mouth onto your cunt down to your ass crack. You were a moaning mess underneath him, never experiencing such immense pleasure before.
The lower half of ony’s face was soaked in your juices, wetting his pretty beard that adorned his face. He loved every second of being buried between your legs, drowning in your essence. “sweet fuckin’ pussy, so good mamas. fuck.” He groaned as he ate you out like you were the best meal he’d ever had. You were a mess, makeup runny from your tears, eyes rolled back, legs trembling as your orgasm approached you like a truck.
“m’ gonna—ah fuck gonna cum mmph!” you cried out in bliss as that knot in your stomach bubbled to burst. “cum for me princess” he rasped, pulling your clit between his teeth and tugging at it. You screamed as you came, gushing all over ony and soiling his bedsheets in your fluids. Ony licked up all of your mess, moaning as he swallowed up your sweet juices like it was his favorite treat.
You sniffled and whined in sensitivity as he continued to lap at your cunt, feebly pushing at his head only for him to slap your hands away. “s’ too much” you whimpered with a pout, head still fuzzy from your orgasm. “Nah, I’m not done with you yet. Shut that shit up.” He said and he slapped your twitching pussy causing you to let out a sob. “You a big girl, right?” He taunted as he grabbed your hips, flipping you over and pulling your hips up into the air, pushing your back into a painful arch.
“Mm, my pretty girl” He cooed, rubbing his hand soothingly over your ass as he admired you in this position. You relished in the adoration, loving it and its contrast to his mean attitude. Ony took off his jeans, releasing his hard cock that was painfully hard and pearling precum at the tip. He sighed in delight as he stroked his cock and placed kisses down your spine, using his free hand to pull your dress off the rest of the way, you assisting him and throwing the dress aside.
Ony ran his cock through your puffy wet folds, his tip nudging your clit as he teased you making you whine. “Such a whiny slut.” He remarked in a mocking tone. “I wan’ it, please.” You begged shamelessly with a sob, you were so desperate and craved him so badly, you couldn’t care less about how pathetic you were acting at the moment. He grinned at your begging, “I thought it was too much?” He teased.
He pushed into you, throwing his head back as the two of you moaned in unison at the feeling. “shitt” he groaned out as he got lost in the feel of your tight walls swallowing up his cock. “feels so fuckin’ good mama” he grunted as he began to pound into you, not wasting a second as his gripped your hips tight enough to bruise. You became a babbling mess as he fucked you mercilessly, pulling your hips back hard against his each time he thrusted into you.
“love this pussy, so fuckin pretty and wet and warm..shit princess.” Ony rambled as he got fixated on how good you felt around him, your cunt gushing around him with every thrust. “s’ soo g-good daddy~” you babbled incoherently into the mattress, mouth parted, drool dripping from the corners of your mouth and your head in the clouds as ony used you like his own personal fleshlight. “Mhm, you like it ‘ma? Love daddy’s dick rearranging your guts?” He said as he wrapped a hand around your throat, leaning over you as his cock drilled deeper into you.
All you could do is nod in response, unable to form words as your body was consumed in pleasure, ony’s dick hitting that sweet spot that made you see stars. “you’re so fuckin’ cute. so fuckin’ pretty. wanna ruin you sweet girl.” He couldn’t get over how pretty you were, especially in this state. Your hair a mess, sticking to your sweaty body, back arched and ass up, pretty brown skin glowing under the moonlight shinning through ony’s window, inner thighs covered in your slick, lips swollen and red, cheeks squished in ony’s grip on your face, eyeliner and mascara runny underneath your eyes and down your cheeks, hands trembling as you struggled to hold yourself up.
Ony couldn’t get enough of the sight, wanting it engrained in his mind forever. He pulled your face towards his, kissing you passionately and messily as he continued to pound into you, the filthy mixture of your slick and his precum coating his pubic hairs and his happy trail. You moaned into the kiss, kissing back with just as much passion as you sucked on ony’s tongue making him groan. You loved it everytime he kissed you, the intimacy of it making your heart stutter.
Ony let his spit pool into your mouth as he broke the kiss, his opened mouth hovering over yours as you stuck your tongue out like a greedy pet, swallowing up every string of his thick saliva. “fuck..nasty fuckin’ girl. Gon’ make me nut mama” He groaned as he pounded into you incessantly. By now you were fucked dumb, not a single thought behind your dilated rolled back eyes.
All you knew at the moment was ony ony ony, his scent, the feel of his muscular framed body pressed against yours, the taste of him lingering on your tongue, the grip of his large rough hands manhandling your body as he pleased, the way his cock filled up your plush wet walls and satiated every ache, itch, and burning desire inside you. He overtook your entire being, bringing you to pure ecstasy.
Your climax hit you before you could even prepare for it, letting out a high pitched moan and sobbing into the mattress as you creamed all over ony’s cock. “that’s it mama, oh fuck- good fuckin’ girl. making a mess on my dick” he talked you through it as he continued to fuck you through your orgasm. Your body trembling as you fell apart completely, no longer able to hold yourself up as you whined in overstimulation.
Ony felt his head go fuzzy at the way your pussy pulsed and clenched around his dick, the lewd squelch echoing with every thrust as ony chased his own orgasm. “c-cum’n me please wan’ it” you manage to babble out, your words slurred and muffled into the bed. It took ony a moment to process your words, his brain muddled as he became pussy drunk, obsessed with your filthy warm walls sucking up every inch of his dick.
“You want it baby? Ah shit- want daddy to fill up your greedy cunt?. I’ll give you whatever you want pretty girl.” He moaned as his pace got desperate and sloppy as he felt that sensation build up inside him. “fuckk fuck!” He moaned out, throwing his head back as he finally came, his cum spurting out in loads and coating your walls, filling you up to the brim. You whined at the warm feeling as your cunt milked him dry.
Ony breathed heavily as his thrust slowed to a stop, “you okay sweet girl?” he asked softly as he placed a kiss on your bare shoulder. You only hummed and nodded in response, half passed out at this point. You were completely fucked out, body relaxed and exhausted from the overwhelming pleasure. Satisfied with your response, ony slowly pulled out, the mixture of your fluids pouring out messily and bubbling as he did. Ony loved the mess, the sight of his cum dripping down your thighs and his dick covered in the filth.
You snuggled deeper into the bed as ony got up and began to clean you up gently, not wanting to add more stress to your already spent body. He cleaned up himself as well before he tucked you in and climbed into bed with you. He admired your peaceful state, looking so beautiful and claimed by him. “I like you..onya~” you mumbled out in your half conscious state.
It caught Ony completely off guard but it made him smile, his heart swelling at your adorable confession. “I like you too sweetheart” he replied softly before he placed a kiss on your cheek. You smiled drowsily, happy to have met ony and taken a chance on him.
[thank you to everyone who read this, I appreciate it sm 🥹]
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between blurred lines
best friend's dad!/dad's best friend!joel miller x f!reader
(pre-outbreak)
↳ warnings: this is rated for 18+ only! minors, please do not interact. smut, unprotected pinv, fingering f! receiving, cockwarming (!?!?!?) uhh dom!joel, significant age gap, dad's best friend mixed with some best friends dad (?!!?!?!?). i think that's it, let me know if i forgot anything.
↳ a/n: I LOOK PRETTY GOOD FOR A DEAD BITCH (she's alive!). im back from my tumblr break bearing a gift! i missed you all like crazy. gonna spend finals week catching up (procrastinating) on all the reading ive missed out on for the last month. i hope you guys like this one.
AND a very special thanks to @joelsversion for beta reading this in it's very early rough, rough stages. my ride or die fr 🤞
↳ summary: joel miller has always been...there. never different, always sporting a brooding scowl etched into his handsome face. he's your best friend sarah miller's dad, arguably worse, your dad's long time buddy. things are never different. not until this summer. not until now.
↳ follow @livingemkaydenotifs if you would like to be notified about more fics like this. love ya'll big time
↳ if you would like to read more of mine: masterlist
“You shouldn’t be in here.”
“No,” you agree breathlessly. “I shouldn’t.”
He slots himself against you, his other hand grips your hip and pushes you back into him. You gasp softly.
“Let it go.” You realize he’s talking about your dress. You squeeze your eyes shut. His lips skate against your neck in a way that makes you dip your head to the side in a silent surrender.
“Let it go,” he repeats.
You grew up with Sarah Miller.
Soccer teams, high school football pep rallies, prom, homecoming, college acceptance season. Even though it turned into long distance facetime calls, and text chains nine messages long once college hit, Sarah Miller will forever and always be your best friend.
It’s good to be back in Texas. Both you and Sarah moved back into your childhood homes the second after graduation hit. It’s good to be back, good to see her, your parents, and…Joel.
You hadn’t seen him in a while. The last time you remember spending more than five minutes in his passing presence was when you and Sarah decided on that Chinese place for a post-high school graduation ceremony meal. He’s close with your dad. In an old school kind of way. In a lets raise our kids together kind of way and a the wives can go shopping together kind of way — before Sarah’s mom split, that is.
Joel Miller, always brooding, always gruff and quiet. He’s never different. Though, you can’t help but think things might be different now—
No. You almost have to remind yourself out loud. He’s not different. He never is. He’s Joel Miller and you’re — you’re just a kid. You’re as old as his kid.
Sarah, despite your hardened efforts, managed to drag you out of bed and into the shortest dress you own for a night at some club halfway across town.
“Sarah, are the shot glasses still in the top cabinet?”
You reach for the knob, barely getting onto the balls of your feet before slipping on the cold laminate tiles in the kitchen. Your open palm balls into a fist and makes the cabinets shutter. Sarah responds with something from her room equally as unintelligible as your question was to her. You can feel your dress starting to ride up a little in your efforts, but you rifle through the Miller’s cabinets like it’s your own home. In some ways it is.
“Hey, kid.”
You spin around, and quickly shuffle the hem of your dress back down. He nods his head in a lazy greeting.
“Hey.” You’re breathless for some reason. It’s not because of the shot glasses.
“Been a while,” Joel says, shuffling into the kitchen and setting a mug in the sink. He looks the same. Tousled hair and a beard just beginning to tinge gray. He’s always — always the same.
You clear your throat. “Yeah. Been a while.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
“Good to have you back,” he mumbles, settling back against the kitchen counter. You can see his arms flex when his palms settle onto the countertop. He’s strong, so much bigger than you. You never really noticed the big broadness of him until now. You’re not used to guys like him. All the boys you ever really experienced were clean shaven, soft in a way that told you they’ve never hauled ass through a day’s work. A lifetime of work.
“Good to be back.” He clocks your outfit. You try to change the subject. “How are things?”
“Same ol’ same ol’.” He grabs a beer from the fridge. “Your dad’s gettin’ into golf. Tryna make me go out with him.”
You laugh. “Not your scene?”
“No, not quite.” He shakes his head, sipping on his beer with a smirk that almost makes your knees weak. “What’d you study again?”
You scoff playfully. “Like you remembered in the first place.”
“Play along.” He smirks.
A knot sticks to your stomach, just below your navel. His voice is sickly sweet. Syrupy and Texan. His voice is like medicine.
“Education. Just applied for jobs in the fall.”
“You teachin’?”
“That’s the plan,” you let out with a breathless kind of laugh.
“Smart girl.”
His head cocks, and tilts it to the side. Your breath catches in your throat, palms sweaty against the black fabric of your dress. “Hardly.”
He pauses, eyes you. It’s fleeting—you might think you dream it. You pick at the skin of your own thumb.
“Your dad know you’re goin’ out?”
You scoff. “I’m an adult. Don’t need my dad’s permission.”
“Don’t be a smart ass.”
You eye him, a smirk plays on his lips.
“I’m not—just…grown up, I guess.”
Something unreadable spreads across his face. “I guess.”
You hitch a tough breath.
“What’d you need?” He swigs at his beer.
“Oh.” You look back towards the cabinets, then. “Shot glasses.”
“Moved ‘em,” he nods and stalks forward, backing you against the counter. He’s got a dark swirl of something warming behind his gaze. You don’t try to scoot away. Even when he reaches up next to your head and you hear the clink of two shot glasses brush up against each other in his fingers.
“Don’t have too much fun,” he whispers while he pushes the glasses into your hands and leaves the kitchen.
__
You desperately, for your life, cannot keep up with Sarah Miller.
She drinks entirely too quickly, efficiently, and practiced for your poor alcohol tolerance to keep up with. She’s a machine, and after three shots in, you’re already wasted. It wasn’t even midnight when your vision started to pull in a sideways direction and everything seemed a little slow. You knew things were taking a turn for the worst when the blonde quaffed frat guy with a Texas A&M polo shirt started sounding a little too funny. He was glued to your hip the entire night, though you aren’t sure you even remember his name correctly. You have your bets set on Colter, but then again, after your second shot, everything started to sound a little fuzzy to your rosied ears.
And when Colter called you and Sarah an Uber at three a.m., you didn’t have the guts to ask him his name, only shooting him a half hearted thanks over your shoulder—your liquid courage having sobered up by the time the Uber rounded the corner to the Miller’s house.
Even though Sarah Miller can throw back shots like it’s her day job, she passed out onto her bed as quickly as you both left her childhood bedroom while running late for your driver to the club.
Before she promptly fell asleep, she mumbled something almost unintelligible into the pink sheets of her twin sized bed. But you could make it out enough to spring back from her words while your heart skipped a beat.
“Get a shirt from my dads room.”
So you knock, quietly, almost too quietly, and when you rap your knuckles against the wood of Joel Miller’s bedroom door a little harder, it pushes open slightly. The crack of it floods black, you can’t see inside, only the dim night sky illuminating the window sill and curtains in its wake.
When you push it open a little further, the door creaks so loud you push your eyebrows together with worry and freeze in your timely steps. But it’s empty. The bed isn’t entirely made, the covers a little rumpled and haphazard. You spot his dresser and make a quick beeline for it, itching to get out of your uncomfortable dress.
The drawer slides open with a shift of wood on wood and you snatch up the first black t-shirt you find sitting neatly on top of the pile. Subconsciously, you bring it to your nose—sunlight, and evergreens, and a little hint of musk that peaks through the laundry detergent. The worn, soft cotton of it makes you sigh deep into the dark bedroom. You close your eyes, ball your fist up around the collar and lean into the dresser with your palm fitting against the edge of wood. Just as you turn around and move to close the drawer in your exit, a voice pulls your eyes up from the darkness.
“What’re you doin’?”
You jump, almost instinctively bringing his shirt to your chest. A sinking, uneasy feeling settles right under your throat. It’s almost like you’ve been caught red handed—you most definitely were.
You don’t say anything. The light pouring in from the hallway surely illuminates you enough. Joel’s eyes trail down to your bare legs, then to his shirt you have clutched in your hands.
“That my shirt?” He points to your chest with a vague gesture of his hands. You look down at the material balled up in between your shaky fingers, then back to his eyes.
“I don’t—” You shake your head even though you know your efforts are fruitless. The least you can do is tell the truth.
“Sarah—she’s—she’s sleeping. Told me to get clothes in here.” You make a slight nod of your head towards his open dresser. He doesn’t say anything, but he takes a step towards you.
“Sorry, I can just—” You point towards the door behind him, and move to leave.
“‘S fine,” he mumbles in that deepened, soaked drawl. All honey, and velvet, wrapping you up into something warm and inviting. It tugs at something just beneath your belly.
When he gets closer, your breath punches out in a staggered rise and fall of your chest. Your fingers don’t move from clutching his shirt. When he nears, he slips a hand past you, brushing your waist, and shuts the drawer closed with a soft thunk.
Your breath catches in your throat, his eyes trail your figure.
“Fun night?”
You clear your throat, nod, slowly, still studying his darkened gaze. “Yeah.”
You clock how close he is when you put your weight on one hip and his jeans brush up against your bare thigh. His breath swirls on your eyelashes. He tugs on his shirt in your hands and lets out a hearty sigh. Shifting from one foot to the other, then again. It seems like you both stay like that for years.
Brown. His eyes are brown—maybe a little darker than they normally are. His eyes try not to roam, but that hint of something is gone before you can blink.
He backs away then, towards the door. Most likely seeing you out. He settles near the entrance and looks back at you. Your bare feet shuffle through the carpet. He nudges the door open with a rough palm on the doorknob, leaning against the frame as you approach.
You’re about to leave, but he catches your elbow, and you spin back to him in a desperate kind of way.
“You look pretty,” he whispers to your surprise. “Forgot t’mention it earlier.”
Pretty.
He thinks you’re pretty. You didn’t even think pretty was in his vocabulary.
You didn’t think he would notice.
You don’t say anything. Your eyebrows furrow with want. You study him, eye his brown stare and the way his chest rises and falls under the navy blue t-shirt he’s wearing. And you slowly—slowly push the door shut. You both watch it close. It clicks, the sound of it deafening to your ears.
He would never, ever make the first move. You’re smart enough to know that for certain, but—pretty. He thinks you’re pretty, and after all this time, it’s still always Joel.
So you turn your back to him, swipe your hair over one shoulder and turn your head to the side. You can hear him silently swear under his breath.
“You mind?” you say, gesturing to the zipper of your dress. His soft steps pads on the floor. You can almost feel his chest against your shoulder blades.
His fingers toy with the zipper, hot and rough but—hesitant. He pulls it down slowly anyways, exposing your back to the crisp air conditioned air, and the heat of his gaze. The straps fall as the zipper does, he curses again, succumbing to your decided fate.
You hold the front of your dress to your body on instinct, even though the only thing you want to do right now involves him ripping it off you.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t do anything else—doesn’t back away or come closer or leave. So you reach your hand backward to find him and gasp softly when his fingers tangle with yours. You pull his hand to your body. He locks onto your waist like a leech.
“What’re you doin’?” He rasps against the shell of your ear, almost like he’s pleading with you. He sounds like he’s in pain. Maybe he’s torn between pleasure and good judgment. You want him to forget about the latter entirely.
Your stomach drops, you glance to the side again.
“I thought—”
“You thought, what?”
Your face goes hot, stare at your feet instead. His hand doesn’t leave you.
“I don’t…”
“You thought this was a good idea?”
You don’t say anything. For some reason you didn’t think it was a bad idea. Not when his hand reaches around to grab your hip.
“What would your daddy think?”
“I don’t really care what he thinks.” An admission more than anything.
He sucks in a breath. A quiet contemplation. The look on his face doesn't read pissed, but it's a far cry from happy. You don't know what is behind his gaze.
“Nothin’ but trouble.” He breathes out in a heavy sigh. “Ain’t ya?”
His voice is so much deeper now. His accent shows through, silken and so southern it makes you grip your dress a little harder on instinct. You’ve lost count of how many times your breath has gotten caught up in the tightness of your throat.
“‘S one word for it.”
He almost growls, his hand skits down to the hem of your dress and pushes his fingers under it, trailing upward, but stopping before he meets lace.
“You shouldn’t be in here.”
“No,” you agree breathlessly. “I shouldn’t.”
He slots himself against you, his other hand grips your hip and pushes you back into him. You gasp softly.
“Let it go.” You realize he’s talking about your dress. You squeeze your eyes shut. His lips skate against your neck in a way that makes you dip your head to the side in a silent surrender.
“Let it go,” he repeats.
You drop the hand on your chest and his t-shirt with it. Your dress falls to the floor in a black blanket of smoke. You gasp when his hands are on you, inching slowly from the hem of your underwear to grasp your breast in a rough, teasing palm.
A small sound escapes past your lips. His other hand, quick to respond, slots over your mouth, silencing you and your whiny moans.
It’s — rough. The way he pushes his palm into your face to quiet your whimpering, forcing your head back to rest against his shoulder. The way he pushes your underwear down your thighs to rest with his forgotten t-shirt, and your all too tight, too short dress. It’s rough, but so, so gentle.
It feels like heaven.
You pitch your back, arching into him in a desperate way. Writhing against him when he finally pushes a calloused finger in between your dripping folds.
“Jesus.” He shakes his head. You can feel the scratch of his beard against your temple. You wonder what that scruff might feel like between your thighs. “Been wantin’ it all night, huh?”
It’s a question, but not one he needs an answer to. The mess between your thighs is evidence enough.
Joel. You try to plead, but he’s relentless in his quieting attempts. The pad of his finger brushes against your clit and you’re keening against him. You can feel him smile.
“Quiet,” he whispers into your ear, then lifts his hand from your mouth, hovering, waiting until the inevitable moan to escape past your lips. But you try your hardest, bite at the skin on the inside of your lip, and he rewards you. He’s a gentleman like that. He sinks his middle finger into your cunt, rubbing tight circles on your swollen clit with his thumb. Everything about him is just so, just right.
Maybe, usually, with other guys, you’d be disappointed if they’re stingy with the foreplay. But you walked throughout the bar all night with slick dripping through soaked lace just at his words in the kitchen. Smart girl. So you push back into him and beg him—
“Joel.” You’re breathless. You plead at him with your body, with everything you have. “Please,” you whisper simply.
Something like desperation and want and a little twinge of anxiety settles in your stomach when he releases you. He walks you back to the edge of the bed. It smells like him when you lay down and the softness of the blankets kiss the edges of your face. You can hear the clink of his belt buckle and you suck in a tiny breath.
“How do you want it, baby?”
You push him back, and his eyes go wide. It’s the first reaction you’ve gotten out of him the whole night. A peak behind his brooding mask. And when you settle each leg on either side of his hips, he groans. It makes you a little more brave.
“Like this,” you whisper, placing your hands on his chest. He grabs at your wrists, and pushes them under his wide palm to his stomach so you lean forward down to him. He pushes his boxers down and you try not to look, but you make a small sound at the sight.
“Look good—” he grunts. You take his tip and notch it at your entrance. “Always look so pretty.”
Your heart pounds in your chest. Everything is different. Everything is new.
Pretty.
“Fuck,” you whisper, glancing down at just the sight of him. The size of him.
“You’re okay, angel.”
Your gaze snaps to his face. He nods. You believe him.
“I—ah—” you whimper. “I can take it.”
“I know you can,” he grunts when you sink down an inch and take the tip of him. Your hips cant at the feeling, taking more of him through groans and pressing whines. He lets you set the pace. Let's you take your time. Even when he’s panting through his gritted teeth and tight lips.
You sink down on him until there’s nothing left to take. It’s almost painful. But he’s right there, playing with the pearl of your clit, massaging your hips. He knows how much you can take and when you can take it. He seems to know alot about you while knowing very little.
“Shit,” you groan. “Oh my — god.”
You can hear him muttering something along the lines of perfect.
It feels that way—perfect. He fits inside you with a tight stretch but nothing compares to the feeling of his throbbing length resting inside you. You would die here with your wanton moans and you would wake to find nothing less.
“Joel,” you whine, clenching around him, the stretch starts to sweeten.
“That’s—fuck—yeah, good girl,” he whispers. He sounds like something sweet and dark and rough. You fist at his t-shirt. Just like the one left forgotten by the door. You don’t remember what you came in here for anymore. Not when you’re dangerously close from his thumb rubbing slow circles on your clit.
“Fuck. Yeah?” He can feel it. From the inside. “Y’gonna come, baby?”
It’s embarrassing. That you could come like this, with him waiting patiently inside you. You don’t have it in you to lie, you don’t have it in you to bounce up and down or move at all. He turned your legs to jello.
“I-I don’t—”
“C’mon,” he grunts and grips your hips to keep him flush to your body. “Know ya want it.”
It only takes one swift rock of your hips. His hands, broad and sprawled out across the plushness of your sides. Your body stalls out on top of him. He sits up to wrap his arms around you and brings you close on instinct. If your brain wasn’t so hazy and you weren’t so lightheaded your heart might swell at the thought. You bite out something sounding somewhat like his name—it’s a garbled whisper and cut of words but you think he gets the gist.
“I—Ngh—fuck,” he whispers into the crown of your hair. You can feel him throbbing inside you. You chuckle something halfway coherent and let him flip you over, settled on your stomach with your face in the sheets. His fingers skip over your backside.
“Joel,” you breathe. “I—”
“Relax,” he says behind you, spreading your folds and staring at the way your cunt clenches around nothing. “Just relax, angel.”
So you do, you sink boneless into the mattress and let him press you down into the sheets. He feels so broad. He feels so good. You tell him quite as much, in not so many words. You feel the weight of him settle behind you, his hand coming up to brace himself by your head.
“God, you feel so fuckin’ good.” He sinks in, inch by inch. It’s not so much of a stretch anymore. Carving a place for himself inside you. It feels like he belongs there. You think to yourself that he probably does. You’re squirming beneath him, wringing your fists in dark blue sheets.
You clamp your eyes shut when he bottoms out. Even more so when he finds a pace he likes and sets it. You don’t have to beg him anymore. Your legs shake beneath his hips, even more so when he hikes your leg up on the bed so he can push deeper.
Something deep rolls through you again. It shocks you. Most of the guys you’ve been with haven’t made you come once, let alone twice.
“I can’t—” you whine. “I—fuck.”
He picks up the pace.
“Y’can,” he grunts. “Know y’can, c’mon, baby.”
You nuzzle your face in cotton. His hips chase his release and you know you’re close when he nudges against your g-spot.
“Don’t stop,” you whine. “Please don’t fucking stop, Joel, please, it—ah."
When you come, he grunts through ragged breaths. White hot pools in your stomach and you whine so loudly you’re worried about the neighbors. His hand comes to brace against the back of your neck. You’re so fucking soaked he slides through you easily.
“Jesus, fuck,” he growls. He bears down on you and your hips and sinks to his elbows when he can’t keep himself up anymore. You feel the cotton of his t-shirt brush against your back. It sends a shiver up your spine. He comes, pulling out and spilling over your back. You try to hide your disappointment.
He lays beside you for a minute, you barely reach your hand up from the bedsheets to brush against his bicep. He studies your face and pants through a slack jaw. He’s scruffy and broad and — perfect.
Your gaze flick to his mouth, then his eyes. You silently realize he never kissed you.
“Gonna get me killed,” he whispers. It’s almost weirdly affectionate in a way only Joel Miller could say. Still stuck in a limbo between pleasure and reality. You smile, softly.
He climbs off you, and slinks to the bathroom. You wait with baited breath until you hear the water run. He emerges with a soft looking towel, damp with water, clinging to his fingers. You watch him and shiver when the towel touches your back.
“Okay?” he whispers when you sit up and turn to look at him.
“Yeah, okay.”
It feels like something is supposed to happen now. You’re not used to this. Everything slowly comes back as the pleasure ebbs and you blink back to reality. You open your mouth, then close it. He does the same.
You can hear Sarah’s door open and you both freeze. His brown eyes search yours through a furrowed brow. Your heart goes back into normal rhythm when you hear the bathroom door shut. Then nothing.
He snags a new shirt from his dresser and tugs it over your body.
The Texans.
“Cute,” you gesture to the shirt. It’s soft underneath your fingers, worn. A gentle kind of faded navy blue. Joel picks up your dress off the floor and folds it into your chest while scoffing.
“Shut up,” He shakes his head, but he can’t hide the smirk on his face. “Get outta here.”
It’s all oddly playful. Like you both can’t believe it and are giddy at that fact.
“Same time next week?”
Something deeper flicks across his gaze at the doorway. “Is that a promise?”
“You can’t answer a question with another question.”
You turn when you leave the doorway and settle into the hallway. He’s got his hand on the doorframe, leaning into it—towering over you and already burning something hot through you. Again.
“I just did,” he grumbles with a smug look, and then shuts the door.
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the crooked kind
▹ — joel miller x platonic!f!reader
▹ — summary: you were sarah’s best friend, and you reunite with joel years after outbreak day.
▹ — a/n: erm. i love him. again not my best writing but i love this concept sm. also yes now i know there is an audience for father figure joel u will be getting so much of him
▹ — warnings: reader had major family troubles, pre-outbreak & post-outbreak, father figure joel, reader is injured, stab wound, referenced raiders/hunters, bill being hostile as usual, frank being a sweetie
masterlist
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25th September, 2003.
After a long shower at the Miller’s house, you got changed and went downstairs to face them, the same anxiety you always felt when this happened arose in your chest. They were in the kitchen waiting for you, matching frowns on both Sarah and her dad’s face. You smiled tightly at them, grabbing the box of food Sarah held out for you.
“Guys, it’s fine! I can’t stay here forever.” You told them lightly, trying to lift the heavy mood that always fell over the three of you when you had to go back to your own house.
“You could! Couldn’t she, dad?” Sarah asked, turning to her dad and knowing the answer before he even said it.
“‘Course you could, kid. You know you’re a part of the family.” Joel supplied, making it even harder to maintain the certain and confident front you always put on when it was time to leave.
You heard the tires of the truck pulling up outside their house, and the truck door slamming shut as Tommy stepped out, his frown matching Sarah and Joel’s, too. He grabbed the box of food from your hand and put it in the bag on your back, clapping a gentle hand on your shoulder and squeezing as you smiled at him.
“Time to go,” you said, and rolled your eyes with a watery smile as you looked at the sulking expression Sarah wore, “C’mon, Sar. I’ll see you at school tomorrow!”
Nobody responded to your words, and their silence clearly conveyed their thoughts, but what about tonight? You were all aware of how much your family disliked when you stayed at the Miller’s but sometimes, you’d rather face their anger when you returned than any extra time at your own house. Aside from the people who lived there, you also never knew if there would be any water, which is why you always took a shower before leaving the Miller’s. You’d likely be back by this time next week, but it never made leaving easier.
You had once tried to stay at your best friend’s for longer, going on a few weeks, but when you had returned to your house to grab some more clothes, your parents had kicked off. Shouting, screaming, throwing things, the likes. They had yelled in your face that they would call the police on Joel, say he had kidnapped you, was keeping you away from home.
The last thing you wanted was the man who was essentially your own dad going to jail because of you.
It’s better this way, you had decided, because there was no other way. You were lucky your parents let you out of the house at all at this point. Every time you took a bundle of clothes stuffed into the bottom of your school bag you were chancing your luck, but you just couldn’t help it. Staying at Sarah’s gave you the experience of a loving family that you so badly wanted. A warm house, cooked food, and working water didn’t hurt, either.
“Let’s go, kid.” Tommy said, giving you a tight lipped smile. He didn’t want you to go back, either, but neither Miller men were willing to let you walk there. Tommy took you home every time, all of you knowing that Joel was much more likely to snap if your parents showed their faces.
“See you guys later! Happy birthday for tomorrow, Joel!” You waved at Sarah and Joel as you headed out of the front door, throwing a wave behind you and hearing them call out their own goodbyes.
You and Tommy sat in silence for the first few minutes of the drive, before he glanced in your direction, saying, “Listen, if you need anything, give us a call. I’m gonna be out tomorrow but Joel will be about. But hey, you need a bit of extra muscle? I’ll be there.”
You smiled at him, thankful to have such a supportive family who had your back at every turn.
∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘
Joel sighed as he gripped the steering wheel in his hand, waiting for his brother to finish up the paperwork he had to sign. When Tommy finally approached the truck, Joel turned to him with a dark look, annoyance clear in the curve of his eyebrows.
“Listen, Joel, I’m sorry!” Tommy told him immediately, reluctantly pulling his seatbelt over his chest and holding his hands up as if he was surrendering. “That fucker said her name and I just snapped, man.”
Tommy must have seen the way Joel’s face dropped, because he felt anxiety warm up in his chest as Joel said your name, his expression telling them both that something was very wrong. He remembered the crease to Sarah’s eyebrows when he had finally gotten home, the way she’d told him that you hadn’t been in school, and she felt like something was off.
“She wasn’t at school today.” said Joel, his eyes almost unfocused as all the possibilities for the why flashed in his mind, he completely missed the way Tommy’s jaw set.
The sound of guns going off in the police station sent both of their heads whirling around in alarm, with Tommy reaching back for the box that was kept under the driver’s seat. “What the…” he mumbled, eyes flashing with the fire that had started across the road. It was when they started hearing the helicopters and dozens of military and coppers swarming the street that the two Miller’s realised something was very wrong. “Shit, Sarah!”
∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘
23rd May, 2013.
Your arm was throbbing with pain, and you were sure something was fractured at the least. Not to mention the warm red blood that was dripping down from your shoulder, basically the only thing providing you with any heat in the all-encompassing cold. Or maybe all the blood leaving you was what was making you feel so cold. You weren’t sure.
It was the first time in a while that you had left your QZ, and you were ambitious, aiming to travel all the way to the Boston QZ with as little trouble as you could manage. Of course, you hadn’t counted on the people, the raiders and hunters who tried to kill you to steal all the supplies you didn’t have. You were lucky to make it out alive, really. You hadn’t felt very lucky for a long time.
It had been at least thirteen hours since you were attacked, and you knew you wouldn’t make it much further. Already, you were feeling lightheaded, woozy, like the ground was reaching up for you, but you powered on, seeing the glint of a metal fence up ahead.
The wiring at the top told you that it was electric, which you wouldn’t have been worried about if the buzzing didn’t echo in your ears, meaning it actually had electricity.
You pushed lightly against where there was a gate, a keypad there to unlock it. These days, you wouldn’t be able to bet on it being a simple 1, 2, 3, 4. Clearly, this was somebody’s home, and they didn’t take lightly to intruders. Your head dropped against the metal, the metal warm from the sun, and you were glad that only the barbed wire at the top was electric.
Your luck clearly hadn't lasted very long, as you heard the sounds of two guns clicking, the safety turning off.
“Who are you?” A man’s gruff voice asked, and you moved your head from the fence to look at the man stood at the front, “What do you want?” His striking blue eyes tore through you, looking for any sign of a threat, but you didn’t pose much of one in your current state.
“Jesus, Bill, let the girl in, she’s gonna die out there!” A friendlier voice called out, approaching the two men already stood in front of you.
“Or, she could kill us in here.” Bill said, eyes not moving from where you stood, narrowing as you put your hands up in a motion of surrendering.
Your eyes fluttered for a second, and you nodded at the man, understanding of his caution. “I—I’m just looking to get to the QZ. Boston.” You spoke, voice dry and cracking, having only been used when you had yelled out at the people who had attacked you, and that was hours ago. You were dehydrated, tired, and hurt. “Could you point me in the direction?”
“She’s not gonna make it that far.” A woman, who you hadn't noticed approaching, said, eyebrows raised as she looked from the other newcomer to Bill. A part of you knew she was right, knew that you probably wouldn’t make it another fifty steps of the way, but god, you’d come this far, and you really didn’t want to die.
“Bill.” The man prompted, eyebrows raised as he gestured toward the gate. “Just let her in, you can always… shoot her if she tries anything.”
“And I will.” Bill threatened, glaring at you even as you nodded in agreement.
“I’m not infected,” You supplied, because it was the best you could do, “Got a nasty stab wound, little while ago.”
Bill grumbled, sending the man who was trying to help you back into the town for something, and he continued his annoyed mumbling even as he opened the gate, tapping in a code and holding his gun up to your head as you took a step forward. You stilled, eyes following him as he approached, gun still raised, and held a tester to your neck, only huffing as it flashed green.
“Come on in, honey.” The kind man said, approaching your side and helping you stumble your way into their safe haven. You swayed, even with his help, and he frowned at you.
“You sure about this, Bill?” asked the other man, who hadnt spoken before now. You hadn’t really taken much notice of him, too focused on the people speaking to you in hopes that the world might show you a bit of kindness.
“Joel?” You croaked out, eyes going wide and your legs becoming numb as you stared at the man in shock. The guns immediately rose back up to your face, and they glared at you suspiciously, with the man who had been helping you stepping aside with one look from Bill, even if it was with some reluctance. “Joel— It’s you, I can’t believe it’s really you.”
They all stared at you, none of them daring to speak for a few moments. The woman stared at Joel, trying to communicate with him through eye contact alone.
“She—she fixed it. Didn’t she?” You said numbly, feeling like you were going to pass out, but unable to take your eyes off of the cracked watch that sat on his wrist. Sarah had told you her plan for his birthday, even if you’d never gotten to see it in action, but it was broken again.
Recognition seemed to seep into Joel’s eyes, and his gun lowered slightly. He said your name like a question, like your face was an answer he couldn’t work out.
In a single moment, his gun was dropped to his side, and he surged forward, pulling you into his arms. You held onto him just as tightly, or as tightly as you could manage with your fucked up arm, and blinked away tears as you squeezed your hands together behind his back.
His hand held the back of your head, keeping you close to him as he let out a breath. “Fuck.” He said, the words watery with tears you were sure he refused to let out. “I was sure you were dead. The houses on your street were on fire, I—…” He trailed off, pulling away to hold your face in his rough hands.
You forgot all your pain for a moment, eyes full of tears from something else, something like relief, “I got away, my—my dad was arrested and my mom went to get him. When I got to yours, you were all gone.”
He swallowed guiltily, eyes looking over your grown face. You looked so different, so… you looked like an adult.
You looked around at the town, wondering which one belonged to the Miller’s, “Where— where’s Sarah?”
Joel flinched, hands squeezing your cheeks once more, before he shook his head, looking away before he pulled you back to him once again.
“Oh.” You gulped, swallowing down the grief you had already felt for the Miller’s that rose back up, trying to sweep you away.
“Can somebody explain what the fuck is going on?” The woman asked, the first of Joel’s group to speak up since your unexpected reunion. She looked between you and Joel and the two men, as if one of you could answer all of her questions.
You looked up at Joel, and he felt like he was going to be sick, the memories of you doing that before the world had gone to shit hitting him like a brick to the face. He remembered the way you would smile at him, a grin that matched Sarah’s, like the two of you were born as sisters, and not just chosen sisters.
“I…” You began, stepping out of Joel’s arms to face the group and explain, but that wave of nausea hit you, the adrenaline from finding Joel seeping from your body, leaving you feeling like you were about to step into death’s doorway. “Okay, um, let me—”
Joel stepped forward, and you fell into him, with him picking you up like he used to do with you and Sarah before. It hit him then, with how you were heavier, and how he hadn’t done this for anyone in years, but he still managed.
“I—I’ll explain, after.” He said, the words echoing in your ears as your eyes fluttered, the last of your long-winded fight or flight leaving you as you rested in your dad’s arms, feeling like perhaps you’d wake up in the bed beside Sarah’s, and everything that had happened in the past decade would have been nothing but a dream. “Frank?” He prompted, letting the man lead him to wherever he thought would be best suitable to patch you up.
That sickening feeling crept up on Joel again, the situation being horribly reminiscent of outbreak day, almost like your weight was Sarah’s own, and his shaking fingers being from fear and not shock. He hated it, that the feeling of regaining a daughter was so similar to the loss of his other.
He felt a hand on his shoulder as he followed Frank, and glanced to his side to see Tess, and allowed himself to feel the slightest comfort at the nod she gave him.
Your eyes blinked open, and you looked at him through bleary eyes, “I’ve missed you, dad.” You told him, not missing the heartache in his eyes as he looked at you, but he smiled. It was thin, watery, and barely there, but you saw it.
“Kid, you got no idea.” He sighed out, focusing on getting you fixed up before he could start crying.
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