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#make your lives extraordinary <3
depressed-linguist · 1 year
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majorblinks · 5 months
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DOWNRIGHT ICONIC (aespa karina)
(smut, male reader, screenwriter you, stranger karina, public sex, rough sex [choking/slapping/biting/spanking/hair-pulling etc], oral, anal, facefucking, titfucking, facial, bondage, degradation, name-calling, other weird stuff, 26k words, it's been 1 million years..., BUT WE'RE SO BACK BABY <3)
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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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Some of the most kind people Ive ever met had had Jupiter conjunct Moon/Venus. Pure, genuine kindness.
Fama(408) conjunct Uranus can indicate overnight fame. This aspect reminds me of the people who are recorded saying something really funny without realizing it and when they wake up in the morning and see the video went viral.
Venus 10th house is common in the charts of people who work with beauty procedures with a more permanent effect like microblading, cosmetic tattoos, laser hair removal etc. People with these placements often like to get these procedures done on themselves too. Since 10th house is ruled by saturn and saturn is time they want something that lasts instead of just going to a makeupartist.
If one of your parents have Venus in the 5th house you probably hot af.
Moon/Venus conjunct Chiron can mean constantly befriending or falling for the wrong women. They are drawn to people who need healing. But what they forget is that misery loves company.
Everytime I like an artist to the point of liking EVERY song they make we had Venus 8th house synastry. There is a deep understanding here when it comes to art.
Fama(408) conjunct Moon = Soccer mom image👩🏻‍🍼⚽️🧸
People with Ceres(1) conjunct personal planets tend to be well liked.
Venus/Saturn aspects might be hated on more by older people than people their own age. Older women might comment on their looks and older men notice them.
Everytime someone throws a fit in my comments its because I said something about their Moon aspect/sign. Which kinda proves what a sensitive planet the Moon is.
Moon can show where you spend so much time to the point of living there. I read about a person in true crime who lived in her car and she had Moon in the 3rd house, Ive seen Moon in the 6th house who are at work all the time, Ive seen Moon in the 11th housers who are always at their friends house.
Mars, Nessus or Lilith in the 11th house can be keyboard warriors. 🤬💻
Part of Fortune in the 5th house makes someone blessed with extraordinary creativity.
Ive seen people with Lilith Square Jupiter might have to suffer a lot because of rebelling against cultural/religious expectations.
Mars Square Uranus are the kind of people to EXPLODE with physical energy. This makes them excellent at martial arts since they move quick. Mike Tyson have Mars Square Uranus and Pluto.
Venus in Leo in the solar return chart can make you more interested in fashion & haircare that year. 💅
Transit Asteroid Destinn(6583) was conjunct my natal Venus and Transit Moon was in my natal 7th house the day I met the love of my life. Transit Juno(3) was conjunct my natal Juno.
Transit Dejanira(157) conjunct my natal Ascendant was hell. Ive never been victimized by others like I was during that year.
Women with Lilith and Pluto aspecting the Ascendant always look so good in bloodred or jetblack hair.
Moon in the 11th house might find a lot of comfort in social media. Social media can be their escape.
Juicy Couture just screams Taurus energy to me. The soft comfy but still so rich and pretty look to the clothes and bags is pure Taurus. (I cant be the only one who relate certain brands to a sign?)🛍️
Be careful with 2nd house synastry bc it can really make you want to buy someone stuff. I dont know if its house or planet who usually wants to buy bc Ive seen both ways around. Sure it can be a positive thing but not if one is a user and the other is naive. Can also make one expect stuff from the other. 💰
Me and my lilsister have 2nd house synastry but we would never use eachother we just love buying eachother stuff and discuss food and shopping together. For us the giving goes both ways. But Ive seen other situations where one just gave and gave without getting anything back.
Most Libra Venus men Ive met made a very big deal out of what their type is. The type to let eeeeverybody know about how they only date redheads. They can become VERY into what they find beautiful.
Venus says a lot about your behaviour bc Venus is what we find attractive and ofc we act as we want to be seen. Capricorn Venuses for example tend to act in a very mature and serious way. Their behaviour really screams ”take me seriously or live to regret it.”
People with Venus/Pluto tends to get a lot of unwanted suggestions on what to do with their looks.
Transit Asteroid Destinn(6583) was conjunct my natal Venus the day I met the love of my life. And transit Juno(3) was conjunct my natal Juno.
Plutonian Moons can always spot eachother. Same with Chiron 1st house and Lilith 11th house. Thats because these placements all bring experiences in someones youth that can be easily seen on the person later in life.
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singmyaubade · 1 year
Text
No Longer Yours
James Potter x Female!Reader
A/N: I am trying a new way of writing these stories, there won't be lots of dialogue in this part, but there will be more; this is just a look into where the story starts.
IB: In The Cold November Rain by @sweetsweetjellybean (Make sure to check it out, it’s amazing and one of the best I’ve ever read !)
Summary: James had disregarded you for multiple years, but when you have an epiphany in your final year, how does it feel to taste his own medicine?
Warning: It may contain swearing and soon-to-be smut.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
You never considered yourself to be a pushover when it came to things. Instead, you would use the word "understanding" and used it the most when it came to James Fleamont Potter.
He meant the absolute world to you since you were nine when you first met him. He lived next to you, both of your rooms being next to each other. You could always see him in his window, not that you were stalking, but you could never quite get your eyes off him.
Every time he would catch you staring, he would give you a wave, never felt weirded out. Then he would ring you up and ask you to come for dinner with your family. You would always accept unless your mother insisted on not intruding on them anymore.
You always caught his look of disappointment when you told him you couldn't come over, seeing him on the phone with you. It would always make your heart flutter, always having to stop the smile from forming on your face.
And then, after dinner, he would always come over, and you two would hang out (of course, with the door open). But you knew James would never try anything.
Your parents had suspicions when you both were fully formed teenagers and had hormones. Again, you knew James wasn't a perv; he respected you.
Even when he would slap your thigh in laughter when you said a joke or when his front pressed against your back when you two joked around, or his touch would linger when he ticked you.
But that was all besides the point; you loved James like no other. You loved the rest of the Marauders, too, but with James, there was no questioning if the love was different.
The only times you weren't sure about that 'love' was when Lily Evans would come around. He never truly knew how to pay attention to or regard you when she came around, but he claimed it was 'love.'
You wondered if he loved Lily the same way you loved him or if it was more complete, passionate, and extraordinary. You could never ask; James wouldn't know what to do. You couldn't blame Lily, it wasn't her fault, and she turned down his advances multiple times.
You were sure that James would move on, but then, during sixth year, Lily confessed that she was starting to have a crush on James.
You tried hiding your disappointment, but it was hard; it nearly broke your heart; you knew James would tell you all about it as soon as you saw him again.
There was no wish to be cruel, but a part of you, maybe the whole, was hoping she would joke. Perhaps she would again realize how immature James was and remember how he bullied Snape.
But that would be selfish and unfair to James; you were supposed to be his best friend, and he deserves this.
And you knew Lily was kind, beautiful, thoughtful, and honest. She deserved James more than he deserved her. You wouldn't break her happiness because it was pure; if you did, it would be evil.
So when she asked you if you were okay with that, constantly questioning your feelings towards James, you said,
"Of course, you should go out with James," You placed a hand on her shoulder, "I think you two would be amazing together." A genuine bright smile passed your face as she embraced you and thanked you for being truthful with her.
While they dated, James would always tell you every time he and Lily did something.
From every kiss, every date, and every cute moment to Lily laughing at a joke he made about crisps in Hogsmeade or the dove they saw randomly, which is a sign that they are genuinely in love.
After telling you every detail, he would embrace you in a tight hug so you could smell his scent entirely. He would thank you for being "such a good friend and say that "he loves you."
You knew he loved you but you wished he loved you in a different way. A way that his heart would scrunch when you were around or a way that made him want to compliment your hair or your smile like he did with Lily.
You wished it pissed you off enough to be mad at him, but every time he hugged you, you forgave him and knew it was just him being happy and wanting to tell a friend.
He still always joked around with you the same and bantered with you, but it was just less, you wanted more, but he could only give you so much time, and you knew that.
Only a few of your friends understood, like Remus and Dorcas. They would comfort you in every moment when you felt unsure of yourself, or you just wanted to talk.
You probably would have been misunderstood if it weren't for them, but they acknowledged and validated your feelings.
That's what got you through that time.
Nonetheless, there was no point in dwelling on past memories. James and Lily broke up at the end of that very year, it being mutual due to the realization of too many things clashing.
He was a bit of a wreck but recognized that it was for the better. It didn't stop him from sometimes crying in your arms, talking about how much he missed Lily.
Eventually, James started to move on, talking to you more, joking with you, and inviting you to sit next to him at dinner. You had missed this for so long and were grateful.
He went back to tickling you and playfighting with you. He would even make you sit with him during potions.
This was until the end of the year Quidditch match, Gryffindor had won, and excitement had raised. You went to congratulate James on the win, having a big jar of Fizzing Whizbees in your hand, his favorite.
You opened the door a crack, overhearing him but not wanting to interrupt his conversation with the rest of the Quidditch team.
"Come on, Potter, don't tell me you aren't going to snog her tonight," A boy you recognized as Matthew Collingwood teased, "She's been over you for years; why not just hit it and quit it?" Your face contorted to disgust after hearing his use of words.
"Don't tell me you are talking about Y/n," James scoffed, "There is no way I would ever think of her like that," A part of your heart broke hearing his words; he didn't even defend his last words.
"I mean, she does have a fat bum," Another boy laughed.
"Oy, she's like a sister to me, don't talk about her like that," James warned, his tone sounding half serious as the boy put his hands up jokingly.
A sister.
"Okay, but come on, Potter, you have to shag her at least once before we graduate," Matthew sneered.
"Listen, boys, I wouldn't touch Y/n if she were the last girl on earth," He belittled, "Besides, she would cling to my cock like crazy after that; I mean, look at her now, can't even take a piss without her peering over my shoulder." He gestured, pretending to take a piss and looking behind him to see if you were around.
The boys hollered, laughing at James’s visual representation of you.
Tears brimmed your eyes as you dropped the glass-made jar, shattering in the process. You let go of the door, turning your heel to run away.
The tears started running down your cheeks as you wiped each of them as they came. You went under a tree, crying your eyes out, wondering why James would be so cruel.
He was your best friend, and you thought he loved you enough to not make fun of you. James could sometimes be thoughtless, but he never was brutal to you.
Did he really think you were clingy, consistently all over him? Did he get annoyed by how much you were around him? Would he never like you even if you were the last girl on the planet?
You were humiliated, embarrassed by his words, his thoughts. Every feeling of James Potter that made you happy and wanted to fall into his arms turned into hate and resentment, his words reiterating in your mind a thousand times.
That night, you vowed never to make James Potter make you feel that way again.
So that night, you didn't join the celebration. You told your friends that your stomach was hurting and you weren't in the mood for festivities.
You didn't know if James had asked where you were during that night, and you didn't want to know after the words he had shared with others.
Since you were allowed to leave Hogwarts the day after summer began, you did. You didn't wait for James to go with you; you left without him, wishing all your friends goodbye, dismissing all questions about why you were leaving early and blaming it on your mother's wishes.
"Okay, well," Lily sighed, "Make sure to ring me over the summer and visit if you can." You embraced her and nodded your head, telling her that you will.
"And don't forget to ring me as well," Dorcas said from behind you as you went over to her and hugged her tightly, "Whatever he did," She whispered in your ear, "Give him hell."
You pulled out of the hug and gave her a smile, "I will."
As she left, you approached the Gryffindor common room to find Remus reading as usual.
"Gonna wish a good friend goodbye?" Remus questioned, looking over at you. You were glad he wasn’t questioning why you were leaving so early in the morning.
"How could I ever not?" You asked, embracing him for a minute.
"So, are you gonna tell me what he did?" He asked, raising an eyebrow.
"How do you and Dorcas know everything?" You said, rolling your eyes.
"How good of friends would we be if we didn't." He smirked, "I can ta-"
You cut him off, "No, this is not your responsibility; I will take care of it." You smiled, "But thank you for caring; it means the most to me."
"Of course," He said as you nodded and turned to leave, "And take care of yourself." You turned back, giving him a reassuring smile.
After saying all your goodbyes for the school year, you sat in a window seat, looking at the school you loved dearly. You never thought you could quite say this, but you were ready for home.
Once you returned home, a letter was waiting for you on your window seal stating,
Dear Y/n,
Give him hell.
Sincerely the only one you need,
Dorcas Meadows.
And what kind of friend would you be if you didn't do what was asked?
5K notes · View notes
arminsumi · 7 months
Text
SAKURA.
𝐆. 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 — 五条悟 ⋅ fem reader
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NOTE: i really liked this idea and merged it with my little daydream of Gojo being in his clan and meeting you in a small village (like before he moved to the city or something) and tweaked it just a lil bit if that's ok!! i hope i delivered, and mwa ty for your request lovely anon i hope i got it all right, enjoyyy 💐
REQUEST: Can you pls write gojo who gets the Hanahaki disease cause of reader and gojos condition worsens so to keep the strongest alive the higher ups set up an arranged marriage with reader (her mission is to love gojo so he doesn’t die but she is defensive and uncooperative at first) but then she warms up to gojo (he does everything to make her happy) and they both live happily ever after 😭💕
SUMMARY — you meet a boy on a Taiko-bashi as a child. Little did you know, he was the prodigal son of the Gojo clan, and you would be married into that family to save his life.
WARNINGS — heavy angst to fluffy fluff, he steals ur first kiss, domestic life with ur kid Megumi at the end <3 😭, unrequited -> requited love, arranged marriage, quite a lot of blood/bloody flower mentions, disease/afflicted with coughing spells (see about the fictional Hanahaki disease here. Basically u cough up flowers and/or throw up full flowers if it gets life-threatening), poor boy almost dies, there’s a scene where it’s insinuated that he throws up a full flower, some teasing/playfulness yk the usual you'd expect from gojo, lmk if i have missed a warning thank u
WORDCOUNT ≈ 4.3k
PLAY ME ♪ bouquet — Ichiko Aoba
🍒 𝐉𝐚𝐲 — サクランボ ⋅ 𝐑𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬/𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐭 !
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When you were seven, a boy a few years older than you – perhaps two or three – passed you by on a Taiko-bashi in a small village. You remember him as the boy with peculiar eyes and white hair who looked back at you on the bridge. In your eyes, it was a very ordinary encounter with a very extraordinary looking stranger.
But in his infinitely blue eyes, there was ingrained a more meaningful and vivid memory of that encounter. He held it very close to his heart. When you and he made that brief eye contact as he looked behind his shoulder, slowing at his mother’s side, he felt a windswept, lovestruck feeling come over him. He batted his pretty lashes at you and stopped walking for a fleeting moment, as if captivated, and then went his separate way with the image of your face burned into the forefront of his mind. His kimono fluttered as he tended to walk in a gliding manner.
When you were fourteen, the same encounter happened again. A familiarly pale face with barely grown-in features looked back at you – his whole body felt a twinge of excitement. He only took one small moment to look at you and yet knew you were the same girl he saw as a child on this very same bridge.
Years went by, and the two of you kept encountering each other at peculiar times in your lives at that same bridge. Neither of you spoke to each other once, well, you didn’t say a word – but he uttered a few boyishly desperate greetings and even bowed as he glided past you to try and get your attention. If only you would have stopped for a chat, the poor boy would have given anything for that.
In some way, it felt like the two of you knew each other, though it was only your eyes that ever talked.
Come your eighteenth birthday, you were burdened with awful news. You were to be married to a man you had never met – someone from the Gojo clan. That person was apparently fatally sick with a disease you had scarce knowledge on. You asked your friend at the time, her name you’ve long forgotten by now, about Hanahaki and all she said was;
“Your lover is going to spit flowers in your face.”
You scrunched your nose up in disgust and confusion at this. A very silly image formed in your mind about the disease ever since your old friend had said that – all you could imagine was your future husband spitting saliva-wettened, half-destroyed flowers at your face.
The Gojo family and your family had always distantly known each other, hence all the visits to the village that they resided in. Your marriage to Gojo was long-debated throughout the years – yet neither you nor him knew anything about it. Neither of you prospected marriage, you were just the two strangers that passed each other on the Taiko-bashi every time the Sakura was in bloom.
The first time you and the son of the Gojo clan were introduced, it had already begun with a rocky start. You walked in when he had been overwhelmed with a coughing fit, and you were hushed back outside. The shoji door smacked shut behind you, and you heard sickly coughs piercing through the translucent sheets. When your future husband stopped coughing, and the blood and petals were cleaned up, you were brought back into the room. There were both your families and some important-looking officials in the large room, all formally sat on the tatami mats with mixed expressions. His mother seemed delighted at the sight of your face – but not more than her son.
Gojo Satoru, an eighteen-year-old at the time, with usually such a loud mouth and good joke up his sleeve, was rendered speechless when you had walked into the room. He analysed and absorbed every feature that made up the image of what he thought was the most charming and alluring creature ever to exist. Definitely a creature, he thought as you formally bowed with him, because no human could possess such an ethereal beauty.
Satoru was intrigued by you from your encounter on the Taiko-bashi, but when he was finally introduced to you he was utterly captivated.
The reasons and conditions for your marriage with the Gojo clan’s prodigal son conflicted with your strong beliefs in love and romance. You had rather aggressively told the poor boy your opinions in the days leading up to your wedding.
“I always thought,” you emphasized with a snotty tone, yet he listened to you like one would listen to the tranquil flow of the river under the Taiko-bashi, “that I would marry someone I loved, and not be forced to love…” you seemed so disappointed with how your life was turning out, that he couldn’t help but feel a bit bad for you.
“I’m a positive person, I have faith that you’ll fall in love with me in no time.” He said cheekily and winked at you. You felt very taken aback by such straight-forward flirting – you must understand, no boys in your village ever did that. They were very proper, even reserved.
He was almost charming in that instant, but then he added; “Who wouldn’t fall in love with me?”
At the time he was so full of himself that you could hardly believe there was space for any petals in his body. But there certainly was – when you left him alone in that room and stormed off, appalled by his conceit, he clutched the side of the door frame and coughed up little pink petals – enough to comprise three whole flowers.
It started worrying him, a few days before the wedding, when he started coughing more often. And not just that, but he started coughing up more petals than he had ever in his life. The peculiar disease had started during a time in his childhood that was coincidentally very close to the time he first passed you by on the bridge.
The night before the wedding, he laid in bed and brooded. And he was never the type to brood – he let life happen and moved on relatively easily. But he brooded, and brooded until it felt like he sunk so deep into his futon that he became one with it. The ceiling blurred.
What was going to happen if you didn’t fall in love?
That thought scared him so much that he violently drove it out of his mind and replaced it with an ideal daydream; he envisioned you and him cuddled up, bracing each other’s bodies, and melting into each other like real lovers do. He imagined you would be warmer than him, with that cool touch he had, and you would also stroke his hair. It was very fluffy, he made sure to point that out to you several times – but you never took a hint.
On the day of your wedding, he snuck to meet you just before the ceremony. He was crouched in the garden outside the room that you were preparing in. It’s then when he heard you voice your feelings to whoever it was helping you get ready.
“How can I love a stranger? And anyways, he is so full of himself, I can hardly believe there’s space for any flowers in there. There’s nothing I like about him.”
“Oh, Y/n, you have yet to learn about him. I’m sure you will find he’s rather charming. He is the pride of the Gojo clan, after all – he has the Six Eyes and Limitless. He’s the strongest, he’ll always be able to protect you – ”
It sounded like the woman talking about him was your mother, with how she praised him so much. She was right, Gojo thought; he could protect you from anything.
His expression was grave after hearing your thoughts. But he put on a lightened smile and masked his slight heartbrokenness when the rituals and main ceremony commenced.
It was a very formal, rigid ceremony. Gojo looked up at you sadly a few times, wishing you would spare a glance. He brooded on the idea that you’ll never love him like he loves you, and then a sickening, ticklish feeling spread in his throat and just as the closing ritual ended, he burst into a coughing fit – one of his worst yet. A bit of blood dribbled out his flushed lips, contrasting against his pale skin. Of course you were concerned – and of course you felt the urge to help and comfort him. But those feelings were purely out of the goodness of your heart.
Friends share love. But even when you and Gojo developed something resembling a friendship, it didn’t alleviate his disease. It was embarrassing sometimes, to realize that you were failing at the one thing you had to do; and that was keep him alive.
He was quite genuinely dying for you to love him.
Yet you refused to be in the same room as him for too long. Your mother had to encourage you. Eventually, both his family and your family worked together to make sure you and Gojo spent adequate time with each other. They organized meetups ranging from fancy nights-out to long voyages to weekend sleepovers. It was comical, how your families got along more smoothly than you and Gojo.
It’s the spring of his nineteenth birthday when the thought of kissing you becomes a reality. Well, it doesn’t go as he planned it. See, Gojo envisioned that kissing you would solve all his problems – he thought he could infect you with his love, somehow worm into your heart through a passionate kiss.
So when you and him sat for tea in a spacious room, kneeled side by side on the tatami mats, he went in for a kiss. You were distractedly straightening out your kimono when suddenly a pair of inexperienced, boyish lips crashed onto yours.
“Mmf!” you reacted with sheer shock – why on earth was he kissing you? The audacity, he had just insulted and made a mockery of you with a cheeky, playful attitude.
“Satoru!” you whined into his mouth.
He cupped the back of your neck and partly entangled his hands in your hair. White lashes sat pretty as he closed his eyes and glided his wettened lips over yours. For the briefest moment, you let yourself enjoy his kiss. But suddenly, as if your principles of love kicked back in and stomped on the moment, you shoved him away.
And a hard shove that was, he fell out of balance and landed on the mats with his elbows, a look of shock and surprise twisting into comedy.
“Playing hard to get?” he joked. His heart sunk ever so slightly at your rejection.
“You can’t just kiss a girl!”
“Come on, I’m your husband – if I can’t kiss you, then who is allowed to?” he asked.
You looked furious, like you were about to bite him, so he slowly started backtracking.
“I just wanted to see if kissing you would – ”
“How dare you, that was my first kiss! I thought I would have a cute first kiss, not a hasty one shared over… over a cup of tea!” you complained.
His expression changed and he started sputtering apologies. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know – I – ahuh!” he started lightly coughing.
And now it was your turn to feel apologetic, because all the bad tension between you and him brought on another violent coughing fit for him.
“I’m okay.” He choked out, eyes water and face reddened – some blood pooled at the corners of his lips, he instinctually brought his hand up to his mouth to catch any that dripped.
You rushed and kneeled over him, placing a much-needed soothing hand on his shoulder. “Satoru, I’m sorry.”
He tried to muster up a joke to lighten your worry, “H-hey, since when d’you call me S-Satoru? I thought it was strictly Go-jo.” he was interrupted by more coughing.
You comforted him, until his parents came into the room. They seemed disappointed with you, but masked it.
The night fell heavy all around the Gojo home. The barren Sakura trees’ branches subtly shook in the wind. A storm was approaching.
“Hey, sweetlips.” Gojo slipped into your room as you were in the middle of preparing for bed. “There’s a big storm comin’, if you get scared you can sleep with me.”
“Are you out of your mi-” you shut up when a sudden, extraordinary crack of lightning sounded and shocked you right out of your skin.
Gojo had a little laughing fit at your overreaction. He was completely calm at such a loud noise. Of course he was.
“I’m not sleeping with you!” you muttered angrily, but then you saw the dejection on his face – no, rather, you saw the way he tried to conceal it, and you felt bad.
Maybe tonight is the night you’ll try harder, you thought.
“Okay, well, don’t cry like a wimp if the thunder scares you ‘cause I won’t come running to soothe you.” He said and left you alone.
When he walked down the hall, his fingers grazed over his lips. All he could think about was how blissful it felt to kiss you, even if you did reject him. And he was your first kiss – maybe it was wrong to smile over that, but he couldn’t help himself as he climbed into the comforts of his bed.
A violent rainstorm engulfed the village.
As the lightning got more frequent and more terrifying, Gojo scrunched up his shoulders and half-hid his face under his blanket. He felt like a boy again, as scared of the thunderstorms as he was when he was seven years old. His pretty upturned nose peaked over the blanket, eyes glistening with tears as he recalled the fateful day you and him encountered each other at the Taiko-bashi.
He held onto that memory with a death grip. No one else ever had the honor of being so close to his heart, not even his best friend who he had made at Jujutsu high when he was seventeen. No, that heart of his he kept reserved for you. He thought to himself that night, while curling up on his side in pain, that even if he dies, at least he would die having been able to love you – albeit without reciprocation.
And then it happened. He shot up and let out a violent cough, and began spluttering over his white blanket. The thunderstorm was so violent that it muffled even the violent coughing in his room. His head felt like a dense ball of tension.
Unrequited love for many boys his age was heartbreaking, but not deadly. He morbidly laughed at that fact, observing the flower that he had thrown up onto his blanket, soaked in his blood.
He was dying.
He defeatedly closed his eyes, breathing through his blood-glistening mouth. His chest lightly heaved. “Y/n, you’re really gonna be the death of me… ah, oh well. That’s okay.” He muttered madly to himself and fell back onto his bed, too weak to stay awake any longer.
It was probably the work of the universe, but you floated down the unlit hall and tapped at Gojo’s doorframe. “Are you awake? Satoru?” you called his name in a gentle murmur.
There was an eerie silence. You slid open the door and caught a glimpse of bloodied sheets and a mangled-looking flower.
“Satoru!” you rushed over to him, stirring him awake with a harsh shake on his arm. “Satoru? Are you okay? Can you hear me?”
He groaned weakly – you felt a small relief. He wasn’t dead, though he really looked pale enough to be. His cheeks were flushed, his lips cracked and dry with residual blood.
Not a word you spoke sounded coherent to him though it was, all he heard was the soothing qualities in your voice. Though his vision was blurred, he knew it was you, because he felt the familiar air and scent of you.
He felt a strange sort of alleviation when you cupped his cheeks, murmuring something. Oh, when did he end up in a doctor’s room, laid on a patient’s cot? Weren’t you and him just in his bedroom at night, during a loud thunderstorm?
All he recalled was that you held his hand and squeezed it for a long time, while you were travelling somewhere. He remembered feeling your comforting presence each time his consciousness stirred.
“Have I died and gone to heaven?” he chuckled jokingly, feeling your lips press to his forehead.
“Huh?”
“Probably dreaming…” he muttered to himself.
“Satoru, you’re not in heaven you’re at Doctor Tanaka’s home.” You told him.
He pinched his eyes shut, overwhelmed by his afflicting sickness and Six Eyes.
“I’m so sorry…” he heard you speaking in a more tender voice to him than you ever had before. He felt the pressure in his chest lessen as you spoke, “… I was going to come to you because the thunderstorm scared me… no, actually, because I wanted to be with you. I felt this overwhelming urge to be at your side, and I don’t know why. Satoru, I’ve been such a fool. I’ve been such a scared fool, fearful of loving a stranger. Or, no, I guess I’ve feared loving someone I’m not supposed to be loving. You’re so special I feel driven away by it. But I promise I won’t flee from your love anymore, Satoru – I love you, and I’ll express it as much as I can in this feeble human form. The rest of our love will happen in the stars, after we die, I guess.”
He opened his eyes. It felt like the burdening fog that had been plaguing him since he was a little boy on the Taiko-bashi finally cleared. Everything felt fresh and sharp, and good and properly comforting. It felt like he had woken up from a long dream or arrived home from a harrowing journey through the landscapes of his mind.
“So you can be good with your words.” Was the first thing he said, and that was such a Gojo response that you knew he was okay.
“How do you feel?” you asked him, peering down at him.
He groaned and stretched and shifted around, fussing dramatically.
“I feel…” he began, and looked over at your lips. “Like I deserve to be kissed.”
“Oh, shut up you…”
He pouted. “Okay, ‘guess the kissing can wai- mmf!”
You kissed him very quickly and recoiled from shyness. His lips were divine.
He shot up out of the bed like he couldn’t just believe what happened.
“Wow.” He blinked at you. “So gutsy, you know you’re not allowed to kiss your husband!” he joked.
“You are such a – ”
“ – good kisser?”
“An idiot!” you giggled, genuinely enjoying his company.
The two of you bantered, basking in the newfound feeling of shared love. When the doctor came back in, he was preparing to witness the worst – but he was utterly surprised and at a loss for words when he walked in on you two smiling and laughing.
And it was the talk of the village. Neighbors gossiped, “Did you hear that Gojo Satoru is cured?” they spoke amongst themselves, “I heard! Apparently it’s a very romantic love story, did you read the newspaper article?”
You and Gojo drifted down the Taiko-bashi, together. He squeezed your hand when you set foot on the bridge, the cool skin of his wrist tickling your inner wrist as they pressed together.
“What are we doing here?” you asked him confusedly.
“Don’t you know this place? It’s the place we met.”
“Ooh, you’re romantic, huh?” you smirked.
A small blush crowned his cheeks.
“I’ve been romantic since the start.” He defended.
“What d’you mean! You were so cheeky!” you kicked his leg.
“I was quite a menace, I’m sorry – not sorry – kidding, kidding, I am sorry.”
He looked at you with a cheeky smirk, knowing damn well what you were talking about.
“You know…” he began, looking over the bridge at the river flowing beneath and admiring how the stream carried the Sakura blossoms. “Whenever I used to get coughing fits – bad ones – I would soothe myself with the memory of when we first met here. I can still recall the kimono you wore, and the Sakura that got tangled in your hair – and I thought about…” he came closer to you, speaking with a charming allure, “How badly I wanted to pluck that flower from your hair.”
You blinked up at him. How could such romantic words come out of him? You didn’t know how to respond.
“Ooh, did I make you shy?” he teased.
“No…”
“I totally made you shy. That’s so sweet. Are you blushing?” he giggled, putting his cool palm up to your cheek to feel the heat, “Oh, you’re blushing blushing. You could burn my hand right off.”
“Satoru!” you giggled.
“Ah!” he clutched his chest dramatically when you said his name, “Don’t say my name like that! I have a wife.” He joked.
“You are ridiculous!”
He gave you a big, toothy smile. “But you love me for it.”
“I do.” You tell him, and though he’s heard it many times after that day, each time feels like the first time you’re saying you love him.
“Gimme a kiss.” He asks.
“Come get it.” You tease, slowly backing away off the bridge.
“Seriously? You’re gonna make me chase you for a kiss? I’ve coughed up petals because of you, ‘n you’re gonna do me like this – heyyy! Get back here!”
Running into the petal-littered streets like carefree kids felt so freeing and exhilarating. He felt like he was catching up on all the fun he missed, if only you would have lived in his village as a child or visited more often.
“Got you!”
“Ah! Jesus, you scared – mmmf!”
He didn’t hesitate to take a much-needed kiss from your quivering lips. He kissed you so hard that you felt dizzied, lost for breath, rendered speechless. And he relished the love pouring out from you.
You stood there being kissed by your husband in a quaint alley, standing tiptoed on the Sakura blossom-littered ground to meet him halfway. Gojo’s heart thumped at the smallest things, like the fact you were standing on your tiptoes – that was the cutest thing in the world to him.
The two of you took a break for breath, and silently admired the Sakura blossoms as they drifted, being swept away by the wind.
Gojo looked at them, and looked at you, and thought of everything that had happened up until now. He was about to say something lovey-dovey but blurted out a dumb joke instead just to hear your laugh.
“Damn, I used to cough up those things.”
You laughed, “Your jokes aren’t good, Satoru.”
“But you laughed.” He said cockily.
“Shut up or I will never kiss you again.” You playfully threatened.
“You don’t mean it.” He tilted his head at you. You cracked a smile.
On the walk home, he kept calling you various nicknames – all flowers.
That day became a cherished memory of the past as the two of you weaved your way into proper adulthood. And the nicknames followed; he went through the whole flower alphabet, even the bizarrely named ones, even the Latin root names. When he wanted to annoy you, he’d call you prunus subgenus cerasus.
Now Gojo fusses around the living room of his tiny Tokyo apartment, preparing food for a little boy of the name Megumi. The day is full and busy, but any second he can get with you, he relishes.
“My tulip, 'gimme a kiss.” He asks.
“Come get it.” You tease.
“Ew.” Megumi grimaces, hearing this exchange right as he walks into the kitchen. He walks right back out.
“Gumi, get back here, food is almost ready.” Gojo calls after him, then leans down to try and kiss you but you playfully dodge him.
It always happens like that – he asks for a kiss, you refuse jokingly, he chases after you for a kiss and you scamper away. Like a running joke that’s a callback to your past.
“C’mere, you – ” he finally snatches you up, too needy for a kiss to play around anymore. “Stay right there and let me kiss you.”
He enjoys every second of kissing you, embracing you tight like he’s never letting go. Just like when he first kissed you, Gojo cups the back of your neck and tilts his head to deepen the kiss. It has you breathless, gasping – he’s so alluring that you shudder.
“Satoru!” you scold, “The food will get cold…” you excuse.
“Okay, okay. But you owe me extra kisses tonight.” He winks.
“You’ll have to get them out of me yourself.” You tease.
“Oh, I will, don’t you worry. I’ll take every little kiss I can.” He says determinedly.
He pecks at your lips, savoring the sound and feeling of the act.
“Ew!” Megumi grimaces, and walks out the kitchen just as he walks in like earlier.
“Gumi! Food! Sit-your-silly-butt-and-eat! You rascal you.” Gojo lifts him by the armpits, and tickles him like a real dad.
Megumi is poker-faced at the tickling.
“Y/n, tell Gojo he’s being annoying.”
“Husband, you’re being annoying.” You murmur up at Gojo.
“Am I?” he smiles down at you, giving you another cheeky peck.
Megumi sighs.
“Stop spyin’ and start eating, little lotus.” Gojo threatens playfully.
“Dad. Save the flower nicknames for Y/n.” Megumi scrunches his nose up.
Gojo's face lit up. “Okay, okay. Enjoy eating, I'm gonna go see where she went off to.”
He hurried into the bedroom where you had wandered into and excitedly whisper-shouted “He called me dad!” he gushed like he was the happiest man alive.
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© 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐢 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈'𝐕𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐄.
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pierregazly · 7 months
Text
to live for the hope of it all (part 3) ꨄ charles leclerc smau
charles leclerc x fem!reader / mick schumacher x fem!reader
pic credits: pinterest
link to part 1 | link to part 2
charles wins big (in 2 ways), mick soft launches, and y/n's just there to have a good time. thank you for all the love on this series! someone made a suggestion of having an alt au for the driver y/n didn't end up with so if there's interest in that let me know!! also this is NOT an accurate representation of monza 2023
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yourusername
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liked by pierregasly, arthur_leclerc, mickschumacher, and 959,052 others
yourusername no one show this to my boss lol... but monza you were the most wonderful experience... as always. congratulations to everyone, but a special congratulations to someone who means the most to me even when things are hard.
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username mother are u gonna get fired over this
username mother we like u too much at mercedes for this pls delete
arthur_leclerc forza ferrari!!!
username no charles like or comment??? this man better know how to fight
username relax he's probably celebrating jeez
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yourusername has followed charles_leclerc
mickschumacher has posted a story
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liked by yourusername, username, username and others
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username omg y/n??? username mick with the soft launch omf yourusername 2 lucky girls (and then there's mick) in this soft launch
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charles_leclerc has followed yourusername
charles_leclerc
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liked by carlossainz55, pierregasly, yourusername and 2,546,116 others
charles_leclerc could not have done this without the team, the tifosi faithful and the extraordinary people who are always by my side. this one is for you 🇮🇹
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pierregasly congrats mr leclerc 😉 hope you got your prize
username forza ferrari!!!
yourusername so proud of you always 💗
username y/n commenting on his last post is the obvious reason why he won lets be real rn
username war is over... y/n and charles follow each other again and she's regularly commenting
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yourusername has posted a story
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username shut up is that CHARLES is this a soft soft soft launch charles_leclerc 💗
mickschumacher
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liked by yourusername, lance_stroll, username, and 202,406 others
mickschumacher my personal photographer has really outdone herself these past 2 weeks
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yourusername lets all say thank you y/n (for the photos and for encouraging laila that the backstreet boys look was a vibe)
mickschumacher i knew it
username omg username on twitter was acc right???
username we were all delulu for weeks, i cant believe y/n and mick are just friends 😭
username thank u yourusername for taking the best photos of our boy!!
liked by yourusername and 200 others
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yourusername
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liked by charles_leclerc, mickschumacher, pierregasly and 687,843 others
yourusername mama always said if a man tells you he loves you, make him prove it. i think he's proving it mama.
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pierregasly red roses seems more logical but i guess this works
yourusername shut up pierre they're lovely
username are they from CHARLES
arthur_leclerc daisies for the prettiest flower in the room
yourusername you texted me 45 seconds after posting this and told me they were 'the ugliest fucking flowers you've ever seen and you're not surprised he'd pick them' arthur_leclerc i stand by what i said here and there
charles_leclerc 🤍
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taglist
@leclerces @needtokeepfeelingsincheck @sassyheroneckgiant @sillyfreakfanparty @leclercdream @allywthsr @bladestark @adoxra @electrobutterfly @powerfulmess @katcontrreras @livster @vellicora @meadhbhcavanagh @tsukishitm-a @f1pandrea @incoherenciass @sltwins @sunny44 @myescapefromthislife @janeholt3 @hwienv @raizelchrysanderoctavius @msliz @karina-v20 @crlsummer @gaslysainz @p4st3lst4rs @lazybot @tagteamedbitch @ravisinghs-wife @thomaslefteyebrow @smoothopz @willowpains @justdreamersdream @elijahslover @pampeop @driveswiftly13 @leclercdream @glow-ish @hheartbreakhotell @notleclerc @f1wintermoon13 @ironmaiden1313 @peachiicherries @christianpulisic10 @elowynnlane @needtokeepfeelingsincheck @treehillheda @stevesworld9 @laneyspaulding19 @nmw-am @iloveyou3000morgan
if your name is bolded/struct through, i wasn't able to tag you for some reason. thank you all for the love!
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enkaiuminos · 3 months
Note
hello!!!! i love your recent fics and i want to request one for you 🥹 one where reader does happy dances every time she eats sanji’s food? and it’s so natural for her that she makes him shy ((in a good way for doing it
Happy Times
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Pairing: Vinsmoke Sanji x Y/N
Content: Starvation, fluff, Sanji's shy (my favourite part) and Y/N's sad past.
A/n: I hope you enjoy this as much as I did writing this! <3
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First of all, thank you for requesting! This is my first time making a request so I hope this story is to your expectations!
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After the Strawhat crew saved your poor country from its terrible leader, you were unexpectedly welcomed aboard as a new addition to the crew.
Despite your lack of devil fruit powers, Luffy saw potential in you and believed that your unique skills and determination would make you a valuable member of the crew. He admired your bravery during the fight and knew that together, you could accomplish even greater things.
He also might have gotten some persuading from a certain cook.
"Cheers to our new nakama, Y/N!" Luffy exclaimed, raising his cup in a toast.
"Cheers!" the crew chorused in unison, their cups clinking together. Each member of the Strawhat crew expressed their excitement for having you on board, promising to support and protect you as one of their own.
From Nami's approving nod to Zoro's subtle smirk, it was clear that you had earned their trust and had become an integral part of their pirate family.
As the celebration continued, you looked around the room and realized that the cook was nowhere to be found. Curiosity piqued, you excused yourself from the crew and made your way to the kitchen, where you found Sanji preparing a feast fit for a king.
You admired Sanji's culinary skills for a while, marveling at how effortlessly he would slice through vegetables and handle the sizzling oil without hesitation. As you watched him prepare the feast, you couldn't help but be in awe of his culinary prowess.
It was no wonder that he was known as the "Black Leg" and hailed as one of the greatest chefs on the Grand Line.
You decided to slip away quietly, not wanting to interrupt Sanji's cooking or draw attention to yourself.
Finding a peaceful spot on the ship, you took a moment to reflect on the incredible turn of events that led you to become a member of the Strawhat crew.
The memories of your past struggles and the newfound sense of belonging filled your heart with gratitude and determination for the adventures that lay ahead.
.⋆。⋆☂˚。⋆。˚☽˚。⋆..⋆。⋆☂˚。⋆。˚☽˚。⋆..⋆。⋆☂˚。⋆。˚☽˚。⋆..⋆。⋆☂˚。⋆。˚☽˚。⋆.
It was hard to believe that just a few days ago, you were living in a country oppressed by an unjust ruler. The people had been stripped of their wealth, forced to give all of their money as a gift to the ruler on the 10th anniversary of their reign.
You were once a part of an orphanage that suffered greatly under the ruler's oppressive regime. The orphanage struggled to provide basic necessities for the children, and you witnessed firsthand the hardships faced by the people.
As one of the oldest children in the orphanage, you were burdened with responsibilities beyond your years. From the age of 10, you were expected to take care of the younger children, ensuring they were fed, clothed, and safe. It was a heavy weight to bear, but it taught you resilience and compassion at a young age.
You often found yourself questioning the quality and safety of the food made from the meager rations provided by the adults. However, you had no other choice but to eat it yourself and feed it to the younger children, hoping it would sustain them.
Surviving each day became a delicate balance between fulfilling your responsibilities and ensuring everyone's survival.
But one day, the Straw Hat crew, led by the fearless Monkey D. Luffy, arrived in the country with a mission to liberate the oppressed people. With their extraordinary abilities and unwavering determination, they fought against the unjust ruler and his forces, bringing hope and freedom to the once-struggling nation.
As they defeated the ruler and his regime, the people rejoiced, and a new era of peace and prosperity began to unfold.
Everyone thought it was the right decision for you to go with them. . .
.⋆。⋆☂˚。⋆。˚☽˚。⋆..⋆。⋆☂˚。⋆。˚☽˚。⋆..⋆。⋆☂˚。⋆。˚☽˚。⋆..⋆。⋆☂˚。⋆。˚☽˚。⋆.
"Y/N?" A voice called you from behind, belonging to Nami.
You turned around to face Nami, a wide smile spreading across your face. "Yes, Nami?" you replied, gratitude filling your voice.
"Sanji said that the food is ready," Nami informed you, her eyes sparkling with excitement. The aroma of the freshly cooked meal wafted through the air, a stark contrast to the meager rations you were accustomed to.
Your stomach growled in response to Nami's news, reminding you of the constant hunger you had endured in the orphanage. The thought of a properly cooked meal filled with nourishment made your mouth water.
As you followed Nami into the kitchen, you noticed that everyone was there, engaged in lively conversation, yet no one touched their food. It seemed as if they were waiting for someone, and curiosity piqued within you.
"Finally! There you are, Y/N!" Luffy exclaimed, his mouth drooling as he resisted from touching the meat in front of him.
You sat beside Nami, a sense of guilt washing over you as you apologized for being gone for so long.
"Now Y/N-san, why don't you taste the food first?" Sanji asked from the kitchen, prepping the last pieces of dessert.
You hesitated for a moment, unsure of whether you deserved to be the first one to taste the food.
Usually you were the last unless you had to taste if it was edible or not.
Everyone looked at you as you scooped a spoonful of one of the dishes, but you paused. The memory of the starving children back in the orphanage flashed in your mind, and you couldn't help but feel that they deserved this meal more than you did.
"It's alright," Sanji's voice said as he was now behind you, his warm hand resting on your shoulder.
It was as if he could read your mind and understand the guilt that was consuming you.
You nodded before placing the spoon inside your mouth and swallowing it. The flavors exploded on your taste buds, a symphony of perfectly balanced spices and textures.
It was a moment of pure bliss, and as you savored each bite, you couldn't help but feel grateful that you were able to experience such a meal after years of deprivation.
The taste of the food was so exquisite that you couldn't help but let out a little dance, your body moving to the rhythm of the flavors. It was as if the nourishment had not only satisfied your hunger but also awakened a dormant joy within you.
As you twirled and swayed, the room erupted in laughter and applause, everyone delighting in your infectious happiness.
"Y/N is doing a happy dance!" Luffy exclaimed, laughing.
The meal had not only filled your stomach but also filled your soul with a newfound appreciation for the simple joys of life.
With the biggest smile on your face, you turned to Sanji, gratitude shining in your eyes, and whispered, "Thank you, Sanji. This meal is beyond anything I could have imagined."
Sanji's cheeks went from a light tint of pink to his whole face being red, dropping his cigarette in the process. He couldn't help but feel a surge of pride and happiness at seeing you enjoy his food so much.
It was moments like these that reminded him why he loved cooking and why he put so much passion into every dish.
"I'm glad that you like it Y/N-san," Sanji answered, his eyes filled with pure love. Shyly, he added, "I put my heart and soul into creating this meal, and seeing you enjoy it brings me immeasurable joy."
You smiled in return, completely unaware of the effect you had on Sanji. The genuine happiness that radiated from you was enough to make his heart skip a beat, and he couldn't help but feel a newfound sense of purpose in his culinary endeavors.
Though it didn't go unnoticed.
"Looks like Love Cook can get shy around women," Zoro teased.
Sanji's face turned even redder as Zoro's teasing words reached his ears.
"Shut up, Mosshead!" Sanji fired back, trying to hide his embarrassment. But deep down, he couldn't deny that there was some truth to Zoro's words.
Your presence had ignited a spark within him, and he couldn't wait to continue creating culinary masterpieces that would bring joy to your heart. . . .
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Continue?
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christianborle · 10 months
Text
this shot makes me insane. yes there’s lots of feelings about whether he should have gone home or not, but seeing this man finally look happy and content after 3 seasons of his ups and downs gives me an emotional gut punch in the best way
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and the real thing about this is that he also looks like Just Some Guy. here in kansas, he isn’t some Big Premier League Football Coach that all of english football fans know about. here in kansas, he looks like every run-of-the-mill yeehaw dad you’d see everywhere around town. this is the guy you’d expect to show up at in your parent-teacher conferences. but that’s the point. if someone had gone up to meet ted for the first time in that moment, he would have looked like Just Some Guy, but that person wouldn’t have known his whole lore. that he’s actually a hero to someone somewhere, that he made a gigantic impact in so many people’s lives for the better. you can look at someone ordinary and have no idea about the extraordinary things they have done for others. we all look ordinary on the outside, but there is a whole world inside of us. it’s like we just read a whole book (trent’s book) about how it only takes One Guy to leave a positive ripple effect for everyone he’s met and you wouldn’t even know it!!! and he is starting a new journey of all of this with his son’s team.
does this make ANY sense i am sleep deprived
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tetzoro · 3 months
Text
STRAWBERRY FRECKLES — ༉‧₊˚.
ft. portgas d. ace
꒰ SYNOPSIS ꒱ : feeding ace strawberries during some down time &lt;3
꒰ CONTENTS ꒱ : fluff ! a little suggestive at one point — WC : 1k
꒰ NOTES ꒱ : i haven’t really written anything in almost a month but i enjoyed writing this so, so much !! i hope you enjoy ^_^ divider by @/cafekitsune ᰔ
reblogs and interactions are always appreciated ! (*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ᰔ*.゚
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ace had an aura like no other. the light, the warmth that he exuded was easy to fall into. a pool of molten lava that you think should burn you alive but ends up delicately caressing your skin, leaving gentle kisses in its wake.
a man the world sees as someone to be afraid of, someone that should be captured and answered for his crimes beams up at you with a smile that seeps through your skin, filling you with a warm glow that you couldn’t get anywhere else, shooing away any coolness left in your body.
times like these with ace were like no other. the two of you lived busy — extraordinary lives, ones that kept you at just out of arms reach from one another far too often. but the times you could steal a moment alone together was the very thing you both treasured most in this great big world.
the moby was busy, per usual, but today you had the luxury to hang back and relax. you and ace returning from a mission that left you both exhausted yet happy to be safely back in each other's arms.
earlier, you had the bright idea to sweeten the day a little, a reward for your heroics. sneaking into the kitchen, narrowly avoiding thatch and grabbing a small bowl full of the ripest strawberries you’d ever see.
a fruit that always brought your mind back to ace, the seeds resembling each little freckle on his face. the pinkish red color matching his skin whenever you caught him staring at you for a moment too long or anything that left him a little bashful.
nestled in a more private spot on the main deck, ace lays his head in your lap, looking up at you like he’s found the secret that ties this world together — or at least the one that ties his. you were his saving grace, his anchor, the one he was able to call home.
no matter how stormy his seas got, he always knew he’d have a safe place to rest his head — literally. in his favorite spot, he soaks up all of the love you have to give him like little rays of sun directly washing over him.
and the fact that you were feeding him definitely helped make him feel it all the more. gently reaching down with a strawberry for him to eat out of the palm of your hand, spoiling him as richly as he deserves.
“careful!” you warn him again, with absolutely no bite in your voice as his teeth stray dangerously close to the tips of your fingers. he would’ve taken you more seriously if you weren’t fighting for your life trying to choke back a giggle.
“‘m always careful!” he smiles, encircling your wrist with his hand, the muted heat from his palm warming you up from the inside out. he finishes chewing, bringing your fingers to his lips and placing a delicate, albeit sticky kiss on each one. “thank you for taking care of me.”
“of course.” you smile as he lets go of your hand. your softly caress his freckled cheek, freshly kissed fingertips running over each one as you map out the endless constellations, prettier than the night sky could ever show you. “it’s my most favorite thing in the world.”
his brown eyes glaze over, something inside of him dragging him back into the depths of his mind. the gears in his head turning as he tries to figure out how lucky he was to be loved by someone like you, before morphing into something darker, if he even deserved your love.
something you find yourself easily reassuring him, as simple as breathing. loving ace was the thing you were put on this world to do and you’d do it again and again every day, for the rest of your life.
“what would i do without ya?” ace’s smile pops back up on his face before he opens it up, eagerly waiting for another berry.
“the real question is what would i do without you?” you boop his nose and he playfully scowls, closing his mouth when he realizes another berry isn’t coming yet. he had already eaten more than half of the ones you stole.
“you’ll never have to know.” he sits up, facing you now so your knees are touching, plucking a strawberry from its dish. “your turn.”
ace places the end of the berry in his mouth before leaning forward, waiting for you to take the other end. he watches as your lips wrap around the vibrant fruit before biting down, the juice gushing between your joined lips, coating you both in its sweet nectar.
you can’t help but suppress a giggle as you lean back, chewing your half of the strawberry. you watch as he eats his share, practically inhaling it.
ace makes a show of swallowing it down, an audible yet satisfied gulp that shows that berry was the best one yet.
strawberry coated lips meet yours as he presses them against you. moving and gliding in sync as you’ve done a thousand times before. warm palms run up your thighs before finding purchase in your lower back — effectively pulling you into his lap.
gone were the sweet moments with the strawberries, something else taking its place as ace’s tongue slips into your mouth and drowns out any rational thought you had left.
whisked away by his passion for you, getting lost in the love ace so easily basks you in, you didn’t hear the angry footsteps stomping your way.
“there you two are!” thatch’s voice rings out, breaking you two apart. you both jolt back, the evidence of strawberries coating your mouths. “i knew it was you guys who took those berries.”
“uh oh, look at the time! we better go!” ace yells, fiercely grabbing your hand. you all but trip as he pulls you up before dashing away with you in tow. thatch was still scolding you from where he stayed put, a playful smile on his face as he watched the two of you make your great escape.
but you couldn’t hear him — the only noise that filled your head was ace’s sweet laugh dancing in the air, swirling with the love you held for each other.
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thank you so much for reading ᰔ
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slut-for-evans-stan · 4 months
Text
Mission Accomplished
Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader
Word count: 3.4k+
Summary: Ben and you can't stay in the same room without wanting to rip each other's hearts out. The Boys, tired of dealing with you, decide to take matters into their own hands by tricking you two into completing your most crucial mission yet— resolving your problems. One thing leads to another and you discover that there was an easier, much more enjoyable method to resolve everything between you all along. (I'm sorry I suck at summaries.)
Warnings: SMUT!!!! (18+), Enemies to Lovers, Soldier Boy being Soldier Boy, Dirty talk, oral (m+f rec), fingering, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it fellas), hate fucking!? (kind of), rough sex, swearing, choking, squirting, creampie.
a/n: this is my very first time writing smut. Not proofread, please pardon me for errors if any! I tried my best :')
I'd really appreciate if you could like, comment and/or reblog, it'll make me really happy <3
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Being a Supe with extraordinary powers didn't mean you were ready to exploit people for clout, with how things were at Vought. So when Starlight and Hughie learnt that you declined Ashley's offer to have you join the Seven, they convinced you to join hands with The Boys to ensure that the arrogant liars claiming to be "Saviours of the World" got what they deserved. Despite feeling a bit unwelcome at first due to Butcher's distant behaviour, you quickly settled in and felt accepted, and connected to everyone in the team, everyone except the newest member to join forces with you all to help in taking down Homelander and others; Soldier Boy.
In the dimly lit room, stood Soldier Boy in his silk robe, a cigarette in one hand, one leg on the bed, the other supporting his weight on the floor; his back facing the door. Upon hearing a soft knock, he turned around with a smug grin on his face. He began,
"Well, hello there gorgeous! You've sure kept me waiting long enough for someone who made eager promises to choke on my dick."
Unamused, and somewhat disgusted by his comment, you shot him a stern look,
"I'm not here for your entertainment, I need to run a few tests on you. So it'll be nice if you'll please spare a few minutes before you run off to get your dick wet. We need to be sure that you're not going to explode and kill us all."
Soldier Boy's smirk echoed through his room as he eyed you with an amazed expression. Undeterred, he sauntered over to you, leaning in and mistaking your seriousness for a mere challenge.
"Sure. Whatever it is, let's get it over with. Maybe after this, you and I could-"
You cut him off with an icy glare
"Save the charm for someone who cares. I don't have time for this bullshit, we've a mission coming up."
From your very first meeting that started with a misunderstanding, it would've been an understatement to say that Soldier Boy annoyed every living cell in your body. You were both constantly arguing and bickering about something or the other, always at each other's throats.
Soldier Boy's deep, intimidating voice echoed through the room, your comment having hit a nerve.
"You know what, you're insufferable."
"At least I'm not stuck up." he shot back.
What should've been a meeting to discuss the upcoming mission, turned into yet another baseless argument between the two of you. Making your teammates uncomfortable with every passing moment. Hughie, Frankie, Kimiko and others exchanged uneasy glances as the tension thickened. You continued,
"I can't believe I've to be stuck with an unbearable asshole as you. Butcher I think I'm gonna skip this mission. Don't want us to end up in another mess like the last time."
At this point, it seemed like you were both minutes away from strangling each other. Soldier boy chuckled,
"Why, you're so intimidated by a real hero you want to hide away like a pussy?"
Eyebrows raised, you retorted, "Real hero!? More like a reckless liability. I've seen toddlers with better impulse control."
Sensing a storm brewing, Hughie spoke with a shaky voice, attempting to intervene and diffuse the situation. "Can we focus, guys? We have a mission-"
Your gaze never wavered from the supe. "I'll focus when he stops acting like he's better than everyone else. He is not the only one with superpowers here, he might be strong but he doesn't scare or intimidate me in the slightest."
Rolling his eyes, Soldier Boy muttered, "I wouldn't need to if you could follow a plan for once in your life."
Butcher commented shutting you all up "Oi. Enough! No one is backing out. You two should go fuck it out or something, whatever issues you stupid cunts have with each other. Don't need any fuck ups in the mission."
The tension spilled into the supposed battlefield, your bickering a dangerous undertone to the chaos around you. Clashing on missions, your mutual disdain fielding your actions, each vying to outdo the other. Yet beneath the surface, a spark lingered, an undeniable attraction that you both, despised and desired, but neither of you wanted to acknowledge.
On a particularly precarious mission, your incessant bickering almost jeopardized the entire operation.
Amidst the mayhem, you found yourself pinned down by one of the opponents, wounded and unable to use your powers, and Soldier boy reluctantly came to your rescue.
You grunted, "I didn't need your help."
He shot back, "Don't get used to it. I'm saving the mission, not your sorry ass."
Watching the scene unfold from a distance, your teammates exchanged knowing looks. After the mission, they decided they'd have enough, and decided to take matters into their own hands, realising that the unresolved tension between you two threatened not just personal dynamics but the success of missions itself.
On Butcher's suggestion, the team tricked the two of you into thinking there was another mission but instead locking you up in a safe house together,
"Sort this out, or we'll all end up as collateral damage."
warned Hughie before haphazardly shutting the door and leaving, forcing you to confront your issues, facing a choice: either talk and resolve the conflict or risk tearing each other apart. Silence filled the room. However, it was short lived.
Taking a deep breath, you plopped on the sofa across from where he sat and spoke as calmly as you could.
"Great, those little shits tricked us."
Soldier Boy scowled, "This is ridiculous. I don't need couple's therapy, I need a way out of here. I'm gonna beat the shit out of these fucknuts."
This made you roll your eyes and cross your arms. "Maybe if you weren't so intolerable, we wouldn't be stuck in this situation in the first place."
As another argument filled the space, the air in the small living room of the safe house shifted. Soldier Boy's tone somewhat softened, revealing a vulnerability he rarely showed.
"You think I enjoy being like this? Constantly on edge, wondering if I'll turn into a goddamn weapon."
You sighed, your defenses momentarily crumbling.
"I didn't sign up for this either, you know. Being a supe's babysitter wasn't in my job description."
As you bickered, underlying desire simmered beneath the surface. Soldier Boy's gaze lingered a moment too long, making a very visible flush rise in your cheeks.
A smug grin playing on his lips, as he said,
"You can't resist me, can you? Admit it, there's something between us, more serious than all this bickering. You know, I think you want me-"
You cut him off, but your voice wavered. "Keep dreaming, I still can't stand you." This remark gave rise to another banter.
"Don't get over yourself. I was only pulling your leg. You're insufferable."
Accusations started flying like daggers, each word cutting deeper than the last. You walked into the kitchen, grabbing a beer from the fridge, making your way back into the living room, catching him intently staring at you. Frustration morphed into a heated exchange of longing glances.
Tension crackled in the air, and just when it seemed the room might implode, his expression shifted.
He got up from the sofa, walking over to you, cornering you till your back hit the wall. He leaned in, his eyes darkening with a growing desire, his voice dropping to a low, almost conspiratorial tone.
"You know what? Maybe you're right. I can't stand you, because everytime I look at you, this is all I want to do."
You arched an eyebrow, caught off guard. "Wait, what?" But before you could process what was happening, his lips crashed against yours in a passionate kiss, making the beer bottle fall from your hands, effectively silencing any protests. You caught hold of the shirt he was wearing, kissing him back with equal fervour, savoring the moment as if it was a dream that would end all too soon. All your pent up anger and frustration showed up as the two of you desperately tore at each other clothes, never once breaking the kiss. A battle of tongues. He only pulled back for a second, with a sly grin on his face, his eyes dark, pupils dilated with glimmers of lust.
"There, no need to argue when we can do this instead. We should've figured this out sooner." Rubbing you over your panties with two of his fingers, he groaned.
"You're such a slut. So wet already and I haven't even touched you. You want to get railed till you can't walk, don't you?"
Before you had a chance to say anything, he reclaimed your lips in a hunger fuelled kiss. The room once filled with tension, now crackled with a different kind of energy. Pieces of both your clothings flew across the room. Soldier boy lifted you up and carried you to the small table in the kitchen and set you down hurriedly. The two of you continued to kiss while he rid you both of the remaining pieces of clothing. He kissed you like a mad man, biting and marking every inch of your skin he could in his desperate need to be close to you. Starting from your neck, moving to your tits, taking one nipple in his mouth, sucking and biting it while palming and squeezing the other roughly, then switching and doing the same to the other one. He moved back up to place another rough kiss to your lips, both of you moaning and biting each other's tongues and lips, intoxicated with the feeling of being so close. With an animalistic growl he parted, giving you a look so intense, it could scare the bravest of people.
"When you feel the need to scream, moan my name. Scream it as loud as you can."
With that he roughly nudged your legs apart as wide as they could go and dived right in, eating you out like man starved, licking and sucking your most sensitive parts like it was his last meal. You pulled his hair, legs shaking and trembling with pleasure. His gruff beard giving you a delicious burn, that would heal in no time. He started flicking your clit with his tongue and entered two of his fingers inside you, moving them in and out rapidly. When he added two more fingers, you lost it. Screaming his name and cumming all over his face, your legs wrapped around his head, making it impossible for him to move away.
"Fuck. Ben. I can't-"
you tried pulling away but he didn't stop even then, holding you down with his arms, making you cum two more times before finally deciding to let go. You were dazed in pleasure, but still wanted more. Jumping down the table, and on your knees, you made eye contact with him as you slowly took his long, thick and veiny cock in your hand, stroking him and giving a few kitten licks from the base to the tip and sucking off the beads of precum, moaning at the salty taste, making him groan. You then looked up at him, taking him as far as you could before pulling back again and asking him to fuck your face. He hesitated for a second but his resolve crumbled as soon as you opened your mouth, showing him you were waiting for him. He grabbed your head with both his hands and pushed himself into your mouth, roughly thrusting in and out again and again, moaning your name, cussing like a maniac. You could tell he was close, and then he held your head as close as possible, making you gag a little, his eyes closing, his head thrown back, as ropes of his cum shot down your throat.
In ragged breaths, he said "Be a good little slut and swallow it all."
As you did, you opened your mouth with your tongue out, showing no remnants of his release. He chuckled, pulling you up by your arms, surprising you with a softness in his gaze as he asked
"You sure you want to go further? If you don't, we'll stop right here and pretend this never happened-" you cut him off with an aggressive kiss "Fuck me as hard as you can. I won't break. Take all your frustrations out on me."
With that he smirked and rapidly turned you around, bending your back and shoving your face on the table with his hand, setting it for support right by your head. He entered you with one brutal thrust, making the both of you moan and groan loudly, not giving you a second to adjust as he started ramming his cock into you, hard and deep, his hips moving at an inhuman speed.
"That's it. This is what you wanted right? Now take it. I don't think I'm ever going to let you go after this. You feel so good. Gonna make you my personal little fuck toy. Such a perfect fit."
Hearing all the filth leave his mouth made you clench around him, making him throw his head back in pleasure, never once letting his pace falter.
"Ah you love this. I can tell by the way your tight pussy's choking my dick."
At this point, all rational thoughts had left your brain and all you could do was moan and revel in the pleasure he was giving you. One thing you knew for sure was that he had ruined everyone else for you. After a few moments he moved the hand on your back between your legs to rub your clit and you started screaming in pleasure, feeling yourself flying close to the edge. As soon as Ben realised how close you were, he pulled out and turned you around, lifting you on the table and onto your back, swiftly entering you again.
"I know you're close. I wanna see your face when you cum all over me."
He moved his hand back between your legs to rub your clit in circles, while his other hand moved to your neck, choking you, as he went back to thrusting at his original, rough pace. This new angle somehow making him go deeper than before, hitting that one spot that made you see stars.
"Fuck. I don't think I can last long either."
To that, you finally managed to say
"Cum with me."
which sounded more like a moan than a sentence. You both looked into each other's eyes, moaning, grabbing each other, raking your nails all over his gorgeous, broad shoulders, not breaking the eye contact once. After a particularly hard thrust, you felt a funny sensation, one that you have rarely ever felt, only while pleasing yourself and before you knew, you screamed and started squirting your release, coming undone while Ben kept thrusting into you.
"Oh yes. Fuck. That's so hot baby. Cum all over me. I don't think I'll ever get enough of the look on your face right now. I think I've finally managed to shut you up, fucked your brains out. Fuck I'm cumming."
His thrusts grew frantic, and much harder than before, kissing you roughly, your teeth clashing, and he finally slammed his hips into yours one last time, holding your hips so tight, you were sure you would bruise for atleast a few hours, despite your super healing abilities. Groaning and grunting in his deep voice as thick ropes of his cum filled you to the brim, triggering yet another release out of you, making you squirt even more. He collapsed on top of you, careful that he wasn't crushing you with his weight.
The two of you stayed like that, entangled with each other for a few minutes, trying to catch your breath, before he slowly pulled out of you, making you both wince at the sudden loss. As he walked to the living room, "That was it" you thought, a one time rendezvous with Soldier Boy that might have either helped you two or made things worse. He sauntered back in with a towel in hand, towards the sink to wet it, also filling up a glass of water and quietly walking to you, cleaning you up without a word, handing the glass for you to drink. Taking it from him, you looked at him mumbled a soft "thank you", getting down the table, you nudged him to walk out with you, sitting down on the couch and covering yourself with a blanket, while he picked up his surprisingly untorn boxers, putting them on and sitting next to you, making you turn to face him. You both understood you needed to talk about what had just happened.
The shared realisation that the animosity between you two that had led to this impulsively passionate encounter, had somewhere blurred the lines between desire and hate.
Ben began to say "Look, about earlier... I didn't mean half the things I said."
You replied "What? You didn't mean it when you said you want to kiss me and do other filthy things to me everytime you see me?"
Taken aback, with a raised eyebrow and confused express Ben said, "Oh no, no lies there. I've wanted you from the moment I saw you."
You cut him off saying "I know, I was just pulling your leg. I've felt the same way about you. Your reputation preceded you and it made me crazy knowing I still wanted you."
He replied, "I think we let our tempers get the best of us." sighing, he continued "I care about you more than I let on."
Which made you sigh in response. "Then why do you never act like it? Making me think of you as a douche who loves berating me?"
Ben ran his fingers through his hair. "I guess I feel scared. Scared of how much of a hold you have had on me from the very beginning. It made me feel like a fool at times, I thought the only way I could supress these feelings were by acting like an asshole towards you. I'm really sorry."
Your gaze softened, "I'm really sorry too, my behaviour towards you hasn't been any better either." You continued, "I thought we were destined to be enemies. I don't hate you, I never did. I just wanted you to see the person I am beyond the righteous supe everyone else sees."
Ben slowly took your hands in his, making you look into his eyes. "Now I see you more than I ever thought I would. Maybe.. maybe there's something more here."
You replied, "Maybe there is. What happens now?"
To which he said "We talk. Like normal people. No more running away or avoiding things and arguing for no reason. We figure out where we stand, one step at a time, together."
You smiled, nodding your head. "Agreed. No more hiding how we feel. Besides, I guess I like this way of solving our issues much more." Which made him chuckle and pull you into his arms, staring at you intently, pressing his lips to yours.
Back at the Flatiron building, Hughie sat at his table across from Frenchie, fidgeting with his cup. "I'm worried. What do you think? Will they make up or kill each other?"
Butcher entered the room, a smirk plastered over his face "I'm pretty sure they are fucking like rabbits back there." And boy, was he right.
The two of you went multiple rounds, thanks to your super stamina, christening every possible surface of the safe house. From the couch, to the bedroom and the floor, and the shower too. You had both awoken a hunger, only the other could satiate.
"Now that we're not at each other's throats for the wrong reasons, I think maybe, we'd make a good team after all."
Said Ben, holding you close, running smooth circles on along your arms, with the two of you lying on the bed, tired and basking in the afterglow. You smiled, turning to face him. "We'll have to see about that, you might just be right. For now, I can't believe I'm saying this but I need sleep, we both do. You've worn me out completely."
He chuckled, tightening his arms around you, placing a soft kiss to your forehead and lips, and the two of you drifted off to sleep, feeling content in each other's embrace.
It was a start of a connection and understanding that arose from the most unexpected places, even amidst the chaos of a world filled with superhumans and the fight for good. Fiery exchanges and whispered confessions bringing in an unexpected depth to your dynamic, proving that there can be a fragile, pure connection between two polar opposites. Serendipity, often painted as an unusual force, interweaves with fate, guiding people towards love where they're least expecting to find it.
Your story a testament to the unpredicted twists of the heart, proving that even the fiercest adversaries can find redemption in each other's arms.
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a/n: Finished watching Season 3 of 'The Boys' just a few days ago and let me just put this out here, Jensen as Soldier Boy is one of the best things to ever happen to this world. Oh! the things I'd let this man do to me-
Been planning this fic for a week now, I really hope y'all enjoyed reading as much as I did writing this.
I'd really appreciate if you'd comment any thoughts, improvements, suggestions or requests that you have! Thank you ^_^
Credits: Banner by @mykento
post divider by @saradika
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autumn-hiraeth · 11 months
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omg i love your adam warlock writings soo much 💓💓 do you mind doing a clingy/protective!adam x guardian!reader? i wasn't 100% sure if your request were open or not, but if they aren't ignore this!! have a great day love <3
aww, i'm so glad that you like my writings <33 it means a lot, sweetie❤‍🔥
thank u for requesting, I hope you like it! <33
have a beautiful day!
“ Adam's masterlist”
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Adam looked at you attentively repairing one of the buildings that had been destroyed, the golden boy had learned that you were an extraordinary being and capable of taking care of yourself, but it had been you who had smiled at him for the first time when Groot saved him and after that you helped him adapt to his new life. So it should come as no surprise that Adam wanted to protect the one thing that he can't live without, that was you.
At first, it was weird that the golden boy would follow you and try to help you so you wouldn't get hurt, which made Drax bother you 'cause he said Adam was your babysitter, but then you understood his situation, so you let him stay by your side most of the time.
His company was nice, he used to be around you making sure you were out of danger and for some reason it comforted you to have him around; Adam was kind, nice and sweet, he was also strong and pretty handsome...
pretty handsome?
The thought made you distracted, and consequently you dropped some structures of the building under construction, you were waiting for the hit , but it never came, in a blink you were in Adam's arms.
You gasped in amazement at his reflexes, but he seemed too concerned "I'm fine Adam" you tried to calm him down, then his hand caressed your face looking for injuries
"I have to take you to the nursing wing y/n" he said, ready to start his journey towards Nebula with you in his arms, bridal style.
"I assure you that's not necessary Adam, I'm fine, you saved me" you replied feeling his heart race at your words, you leaned your head on his chest enjoying the feeling.
Adam looked at you, his pretty eyes looking into yours as he held you "I'd never let anything bad happen to you y/n" he whispered seeing you blush and that was the most beautiful sight for his eyes.
You sighed wrapping your arms around his neck "I know, Adam" the boy hummed happily and just stayed with you in his arms, leaving a kiss on your head, not caring that certain guardians seemed to be enjoying the show.
Now Drax would no longer say that Adam was your babysitter but your boyfriend... and that thought didn't bother you.
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The Pumpkin Patch.
masterlist || ask me anything <3
my blurb masterlist is here, huns!
authors note - in honour of finally approaching october, enjoy this little mess that my brain magically comes up with when i’m bored…and lhh as a dad because that is simply girl dinner.
word count - 2k
in which, you and harry decide to take your son teddy to the pumpkin patch in honour of it finally hitting october, the three of you decide to make a day of things, and let’s just say the day doesn’t exactly turn out how you all expected it, a series of unfortunate events occur and that all starts out with your fiancé getting annoyed that the sat nav isn’t helping him very much.
trope: fiancé!harry x reader
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October holds a special place in your heart, like no other month ever could. It was the month when you first embarked on a life-changing journey, leaving your homeland to pursue higher education in the United States. It was a time of excitement and trepidation, but little did you know that it would mark the beginning of countless beautiful memories.
During those university years, October became a symbol of friendship and camaraderie. It was when you met your lifelong friends, people who would stand by your side through thick and thin. Together, you navigated the challenges of academia, celebrated achievements, and forged bonds that would last a lifetime.
One particular October stands out vividly in your memory. It was the month of your graduation, a momentous occasion that your family didn't want to miss. They flew out to share in your joy and celebrate your accomplishments. Their presence made the milestone even more meaningful, filling your heart with warmth and love.
But the most extraordinary chapter of your life was written in the pages of an October. It was in Los Angeles, while browsing through a record shop, that you first laid eyes on Harry Styles. The connection was instant, as if fate had brought you together. In the midst of music and conversation, your love story began to unfold.
It was in October when he first whispered those three magical words, "I love you," after a night of watching a scary movie that left you clinging to his chest, finding comfort in his embrace. That moment of vulnerability deepened your bond and solidified your love for each other.
During a serene picnic in the park, surrounded by the beauty of autumn, Harry surprised you with a question that would change your lives forever. He asked you to move in with him, a gesture that symbolized commitment and a future together.
The circle of life continued to expand in October when your son, Theodore, affectionately known as Teddy, was born. The joy of parenthood brought immeasurable happiness and completeness to your lives, and the autumn leaves seemed to dance in celebration.
And then, in an enchanting October evening, Harry knelt down on one knee and proposed to you. Under the starry sky, he presented you with a ring, promising a lifetime of love, happiness, and adventures together. Tears of joy welled up in your eyes as you said yes, feeling like the luckiest person in the world.
October, with its vibrant colors and meaningful milestones, had become more than just a month on the calendar; it was a testament to the beauty of life, love, and the incredible journey you had embarked upon. It was safe to say that October had etched its place as your favorite month, forever holding the key to cherished memories and boundless love.
As you, Harry, and your almost two-year-old son Teddy set out for the pumpkin patch in Harry's sleek black Range Rover, there was an air of excitement in the car. The vibrant colours of autumn and the promise of pumpkin picking had everyone in high spirits. However, it didn't take long for things to take an unexpected turn.
Teddy, safely strapped into his car seat, began to cry, his little arms reaching out for his father. Seeing as Harry had been up all night comforting his baby boy who appeared to be getting his molars growing, he had tried everything, and the only thing that seemed to help the poor boy was to be cuddled up with both parents in their bed, with a teething toy in his grasp.
So, when the two of you woke up this morning, you had decided to take everyone’s tired minds off of things and have a fun little day out, but that didn’t seem to be going the way you had originally planned.
Harry couldn't easily comfort him, as he was engrossed in a battle with the aggravating sat nav system that seemed determined to make the journey anything but smooth.
You turned round in your seat and leaned over to Teddy, offering him a soothing voice, "Hey, ted. Daddy's driving right now, but he'll be with you soon. Look out the window, see the pretty leaves?"
Harry, growing increasingly frustrated, muttered, "S’thing is driving m’nuts. S’like a maze."
Teddy's cries persisted, and you rummaged in the bag for a toy to distract him. "Teddy, how about this colourful toy? Can you play with it?"
Harry let out another exasperated sigh, his eyes fixed on the sat nav screen. "All I want is t’find that pumpkin patch."
The journey went on like that for about another ten minutes before Harry finally got the hang of where the sat nav was trying to take him, and Theodore succumbed to silent sniffles when your fiancé reached his hand back and let his son hold onto his finger like he was a newborn all over again.
Theodore Styles was born just a year into the two of you officially dating, on October 18th, 2013. You and Harry were only nineteen. Although both of you were only young, you both had support from your family and friends and even though Harry’s job was a very demanding one, he always made sure to put the two of you first, so fast forward to October 2016 you were the perfect family unit and you were one step closer to becoming a Styles just like your other two boys.
As you, Harry, and Teddy finally pulled into the sprawling pumpkin patch, a sense of excitement filled the air. The fields were covered in a sea of vibrant orange, and the prospect of a fun-filled day lay ahead.
Driving through the muddy terrain, Teddy was securely strapped into his car seat, but his little face was pressed against the window. His bright eyes were wide with curiosity, and he couldn't contain his delight as he pointed at everything in his limited vocabulary, his baby talk filling the car.
"Look, Teddy," you exclaimed with enthusiasm, "those pumpkins are huge, aren't they?"
Teddy responded with bursts of infectious laughter, his tiny finger continuing to point at the pumpkins, each one seemingly more fascinating than the last. His joy was like a contagious wave that washed over the car.
Harry, his long hair falling in front of his eyes, expertly navigated the muddy path. He drove with one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting on your thigh, occasionally glancing at Teddy's adorable antics.
"That's right, Teddy-Bear," Harry chimed in, his voice filled with affection, "those pumpkins are as big as y’are!"
The car rolled on, winding through the pumpkin-filled fields. Teddy's laughter and baby talk were a constant source of amusement, brightening the atmosphere in the car.
You couldn't help but join in the excitement. "Teddy, do you see those scarecrows over there? They're guarding the pumpkins!"
Teddy's laughter escalated as he looked at the scarecrows, his tiny hands reaching out toward them. His innocent joy made the entire journey worthwhile.
Harry put the car into park and turned to you. "Alrigh’ m’love,"
As you worked on getting Teddy out of his car seat, Harry made his way to the trunk. He looked at you, holding the baby bag, and asked, "Do y’think we'll need t’stroller?"
You considered for a moment, remembering that Teddy hadn't slept well during the night. You nodded, knowing that he might get tired later. "Yeah, H, I think it's a good idea. Just in case."
Harry nodded in agreement and began setting up the stroller while you gently unstrapped Teddy from his car seat. He wriggled out of your arms, his little welly boots and beanie adding to his adorable appearance.
With Teddy on the ground, you smiled down at him. "Look at you, ready for some pumpkin picking, little man!"
Harry, now with his hair tied into a man bun to keep it out of his face, locked up the car. He glanced at Teddy and then at you. "Alrigh’, s’make some pumpkin memories."
As the three of you approached the entrance to the patch, The stroller stood empty as Harry navigated it through the muddy pumpkin fields.
Teddy, in his infectious excitement, was far too eager to explore on his own. Instead, you held onto his tiny hands, and he practically pulled you along, his chubby legs wading through the mud, creating tiny boot imprints with each step.
The pumpkin patch sprawled before you, a vast sea of orange and green. Teddy's eyes danced with wonder as he darted from one pumpkin to another, each one seemingly more fascinating than the last. His little voice bubbled with delight, even though his words were a jumble of baby talk and giggles.
Harry manoeuvred the stroller skillfully, occasionally glancing over to check on Teddy's progress. Teddy's tiny boots splashed through puddles, his beanie bobbing atop his head as he explored this pumpkin wonderland.
You marvelled at the sheer joy radiating from your son. Holding his hands, you let him lead the way, following his excited tugs and twirls. The mud-splattered boots and the occasional stumble didn't dampen Teddy's enthusiasm in the slightest.
About fifteen minutes into your visit to the pumpkin patch, you found yourselves standing in front of a scarecrow, admiring its rustic charm. Teddy, so far, had been on a mission to pick up every pumpkin he walked by, not quite grasping the concept of a pumpkin patch and getting upset when you told him that you needed to find the perfect pumpkin before heading home.
As you were enjoying this quaint moment, a friendly woman from another family who was passing by noticed your trio. She offered with a warm smile, "Would you like a photo of the three of you by the scarecrow?"
Harry didn't hesitate for a moment. He beamed and said,
"Yes, please!" as he quickly handed the woman his phone, which was already open on the camera. He gently scooped Teddy into his arms, holding him on his hip, and then wrapped his free arm around your shoulder.
The woman skillfully captured the moment, ensuring you were all framed by the scarecrow and the vibrant pumpkin patch behind you. Teddy, still clutching a small pumpkin in his chubby hand, looked at the camera with curiosity, and his innocent smile added an extra layer of charm to the photo.
After the picture was taken, you thanked the kind stranger, and Harry, still holding Teddy, shared a grateful smile with her.
Ten minutes after Teddy's encounter with the scarecrow, the pumpkin patch adventure continued, with Teddy now running ahead of you and Harry. His tiny legs carried him with an uncontainable exuberance as he darted between pumpkins, each one a new discovery in his eyes.
You pushed the stroller, its wheels rolling through the earthy paths, while Harry walked beside you, holding your hand. Both of you watched Teddy with hearts full of fondness as he explored this autumn wonderland. His laughter was a symphony of joy, filling the air and brightening your day even more.
The pumpkin patch seemed to be Teddy's playground, a place where he could express his boundless curiosity and energy.
About five meters ahead of both you and Harry, Teddy suddenly stopped in his tracks, captivated by a rather large pumpkin. It seemed to be the biggest one he had seen so far, and his little hands eagerly reached out to try and pick it up. However, it was a challenge even for his determined efforts.
Harry and you shared a chuckle at Teddy's determined endeavour. He didn't give up, though, and instead, he called out to Harry in his adorable baby talk, "Dada, hep! Hep, Dada!"
Harry couldn't resist the plea, and with a playful grin, he made his way over to Teddy. Together, father and son wrestled with the pumpkin, their laughter filling the crisp autumn air.
While they worked on the perfect pumpkin, you put the brakes on the stroller and crouched down in front of your little boy. You asked in a sweet baby talk, "Is this the pumpkin you definitely want, Teddy?"
Teddy nodded his head vigorously, a bright smile on his face. He wrapped his little arm around your neck, expressing his delight and contentment with the choice
“S’settled then,” Harry grinned up at you, holding the pumpkin in his tattooed arms. “Fancy grabbing a coffee at the lil’hut before heading off? God knows we need it.”
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improbable-outset · 6 months
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📂 𝐑𝐞𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧 𝐎𝐥𝐝 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞
↳ 📂 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈𝐈: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 "𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡"
{{Part 2}}
Miguel O’Hara x Fem!Reader
𝐀𝐎3 | 𝐌𝐲 𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬 | 𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭��𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.4k (that wasn’t supposed to happen icl)
𝐓𝐖 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐖: Kissing, PIV sex, unprotected sex, hair pulling, virginal fingering, cum eating, oral (m and f receiving), prone bone position (sorry bruh, very self indulgent here 💀), Olfactophilia, slight jealous Miguel (if you squint), Spanish pet names. MINORS DNI🔞🔞
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Miguel unveils more about his enhanced abilities with you and the air is quickly charged with desire. Yet lurking beneath your connection, there is a sense of uncertainty about the implications of Miguel’s extraordinary powers.
𝐀/𝐍: The chapter title sounded more amusing in my head. I didn’t think this one would turn out this long, I went a little overboard. I had to break down the paragraphs bc I got carried away ;-; anyways hope you enjoy this filth <3
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You turned the key and pushed open the door to your apartment with a mix of anticipation and thrill erupting inside your gut. Tonight had been a rollercoaster of emotions, and was very eventful. Despite Miguel’s huge confession that came crashing down on you like a bolder, the night still ended well.
Though, the thought of him being Spider-Man still lingered at the back of your mind and you couldn’t shake off the feeling of your ex-husband being a human mutate the entire time. Yet you still welcomed him inside the familiar confines of your home with a warm gracious smile, the door closing with a soft click behind. In the warm glow of your apartment, you made your way to the walk-in kitchen.
“Can I get you something to drink?” You asked, glancing back at Miguel as you placed your purse on the countertop.
“A glass of water would be perfect.” He replied, taking in the surroundings of your home. You were amused by the awe in his expression as you filled two glasses with cold water from your tap.
“Here,” you handed him one of the glasses.
“Thanks” he took slow sips while his gaze explored the connected living room. Your talent for interior design hadn’t gone unnoticed, even during your early days of your marriage when you both moved in together. You would always have a plan on how things would be arranged, and with a bit of trial and error, it usually turned out beautifully. Miguel, on the other hand, left the planning all to you while he would make sure you were still fed after your hard work.
It was a distinctive dynamic you had. Miguel would always make the best dishes from back home and you adored and savoured every bite. You even tried to make empanadas for him once as a surprise anniversary gift back when your relationship was still filled with warmth and closure before you grew distant from each other with him always coming home late at night, probably from his heroic duties that you were clueless about at the time. After you went your separate ways, you would try to replicate his dishes but it would only bring you pain of what you had lost. Speaking of food…
“That baked ziti was amazing.” You commented as you took another sip. It’s been a while since you went out to eat in a high end restaurant. There was never a special occasion or an excuse for you to go.
“Was the food the only thing you enjoyed tonight?” Miguel replied in a teasing tone. You watched his face over the rim of your own glass as he said that.
“The night hasn’t ended just yet.”
“Oh? Care to elaborate on that?” He responded, clearly intrigued. You didn’t give him a verbal answer, instead you put your empty glass down on the counter and took his hand, leading him down the hall and to your bedroom. The anticipation settled in the air as you settled yourself on the bed and gestured for Miguel to follow.
“We’ve got all night. So you might as well tell me everything about Spider-Man, all the details.” You purred, your gaze locked into his with excitement.
“What do you want to know?” He lied beside you in amusement and willingness.
“First of all, what was the first thing you noticed when your genes were altered?”
“You want to get to those details hm? Well, the first thing I noticed was my vision was enhanced, a lot. Along with my strength and stamina. Oh, and the spinnerets in my forearm.”
You hummed in amusement as you soaked in every word he uttered. You couldn’t believe this was where things had ended up between the two of you but you also couldn’t help but marvel at how far you’ve come. “Well, look at you. Brawn and brains. What else is there?” You noticed he was hesitant for a moment before he spoke again.
“I'm sure you’ve seen my fangs at one point.” Your body stiffened as you recalled those awful memories of your heated arguments. What you saw from his mouth was real. A hint of relief washed over you knowing that you haven’t lost your mind and Miguel had confirmed it himself.
“I have…and I thought I was just hallucinating.” Your voice trailed off.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t blame you. I should’ve been honest from the start.”
“It’s alright, we’re starting something new now.”— you paused— “So what else haven’t you shown me.” You watched as he lifted his hand and you noticed something unusual emerging from his fingers. You audibly gasped at the sight of his talons. He brought his hand closer to your face so you could get a closer look. It didn’t occur to you how intimately close you were until now, yet there was an undeniable thrill in his proximity. Maybe it was a default habit in your mind that was convincing you that you were still comfortable with Miguel being this close.
With agonising anticipation, he lightly trailed your jaw with the tip of his talons, leaving a tingling feeling in its wake. Your breath hitched, feeling how sharp and pointy they were on your soft skin. If he were to press any harder, he would surely pierce your jaw. Not that you were entirely against that; but you didn’t want to raise any suspicions at work the following Monday, especially in a facility like Alchemax. His face was mere inches from yours and you knew where he was heading with this. The air in the room thickened with each passing second.
“You want to see more?” He asked, his voice lowered to a sultry tone. You nodded, unable to form any words.
Miguel leaned in and closed the remaining gap between the two of you. Finally, you managed to seal your longing with an electrifying connection and a scorching kiss. His lips moved against yours passionately making your heart pound in your chest. Miguel must’ve retracted his talons because now he was cradling your face as your mouth moved in sync. However, you pulled away abruptly when you felt a sudden shift in the air.
“My God…” you mumbled, feeling the familiar bugle in his pants.
“I’m sorry, I don’t want to get ahead of myself.” He said, though the strained desire in his voice was palpable. “I mean, you’re not on birth control, right?” He held his gaze at you. You could practically feel the desperation in his tone.
“No…” You leaned closer, “but I might’ve got myself the morning after pill from the drug store before this.” You were planning for this moment the day you asked him out and the way his expression dropped, you could tell he picked up on that too. You got them prior to this date and the rest of the night you spend trying to please yourself before your date while imagining yourself with Miguel in bed together. But you knew no matter how much you touched yourself, you’d never reach the sensation that Miguel could give you.
A sly smile played on your lips before you leaned in for another kiss. His arm snaked around your waist and pulled down the zipper at the back of your dress. Once it reached all the way he let the dress pool around you before tossing it to the side. He left trails of wet kisses around your jaw and down your neck, however you had other things in mind. You attempted to reach for his clothed cock as he kept kissing you and gave it a desperate squeeze, making him pull away immediately from your neck.
“That needy, huh?” He retreated off of you and removed his shirt before his pants along with his boxers— his cock springing out in its full glory. You didn’t expect him to stay at the edge of your bed and lean back slightly with his cock still standing on its end. You shifted yourself so you were now on your knees. Suddenly, you felt his hand combed your scalp before grabbing a fistful of your hair, pulling you close. “Don't just stare at it, cariño,” he tugged at you and brought your face closer to his crotch.
“Since when were you in charge?” You quipped, wrapping your hand around the length and swiped your thumb over the pre-cum that was already leaking from the tip.
“The second I realised how bad you want this by getting yourself the morning after pill. Now get to work.” You didn’t expect him to catch you off guard like that, let alone even give you an answer to your rhetorical question but now you could feel your mouth getting dry. Did he know how much of an impact he had on you with his words?
“You better not make a mess on my bed.” You joked but there was a hint of seriousness in your tone. Though you wanted Miguel to leave a mark in your bedroom the morning after, the last thing you wanted was a stained sheet to deal with.
“You realise that means you’re gonna have to swallow, right?” He cocked his brow. You knew he was right and you didn’t have anything against that. If it were anyone else you wouldn’t agree to do it at all, you wouldn’t even let them touch your hair like this; they could just fuck you and leave. But you wanted the night to last with Miguel so you’d do anything it’ll take.
The strong scent coming from his crotch mixed with the faint smell of his sweat was dizzying and ignited a fire deep in your gut. That might be the pheromones doing that. You planted small kisses on the surface as his cock twitched with anticipation and desperate to be squeezed. The stifled groan you heard from his throat made your cunt throb a little and coaxed you to keep at it.
Slowly, you wrapped your lips around the tip and took his length in his mouth. You tried to avoid scraping your teeth on the skin so you wouldn’t cause him any discomfort— given the fact that his girth was taking up a lot of space in your mouth, it was difficult. You still remember the first time you sucked him off on your wedding night and he specifically told you not to do that. His length rubbed against your upper palate while your tongue wrapped around its surface. It was taking up your whole mouth and you struggled to maintain a steady rhythm while giving it some friction. It wasn’t the most pleasurable experience having your mouth full to the point where he was almost touching your gullet, but watching his reaction made it all worth it. You kept your focus on his moans and the pleasurable sound of your name on his lips. His lascivious noises were for you and only you and encouraged you to keep your pace.
That’s it, that’s it. Let me hear you.
You noticed the muscles on his thighs clenching now. It was all familiar to you, the way his body would react when he was close to his peak. Before you knew it, you could taste the ropes of his warm jizz spilling from his cock. However, you forgot how much this man could come and you bit off more than you could chew, throwing you completely off guard. Your mouth was starting to fill up more as he released and his cum was beginning to leak down your chin— your eyes watered from the intensity and you had to pull away so you wouldn’t choke. His cock was now slick from a mix of your saliva and his remaining cum. You felt his thumb wiping your mouth before he lifted your head up to look at him.
“You okay?” His voice was still hazy and eyes still half-lidded.
“Yeah…just forgot how intense you can be.” You answered, still trying to stabilise yourself.
“Let me make you feel good then.” He gestured for you to lay down on the bed. You complied and you watched how his hands reached for your panties. His thick fingers hooked on the loop before pulling them off completely. The feeling of the open air hitting your drenched cunt, that was trapped in your panties for so long, made you shiver. His index finger rubbed against the folds first. You could hear the slick sound of yourself as he kept rubbing you. Without warning he inserted his finger in your gaping hole leaving you squirming under him. His fingers were big, so big, and though you have felt them before, your body was still not prepared for the sensation.
You gulped when his finger was fully inserted with the heel of his palm pressed against the sensitive bud. He pulled out and started pumping his digit while curling them inside you. Your breathing became more shallow as he continued finger-fucking you. Part of you wondered how it would feel if he used his talons inside you. But you didn’t want to risk anything. Things were getting so good. You tensed when you felt another one of his thick fingers being pushed inside you and you couldn’t control the whine that came out of your mouth and the way your body convulsed.
The knot inside your stomach snapped as your walls clenched hard before spilling everything. He pulled out his fingers and stuck them near your mouth, his eyes instructing you to open. You did and started sucking on his coated digit, the mix of his salty cum mixed with yours on your taste buds. You released his fingers and he plunged them back in your hole. Even with them being coated in your spit, it was still dizzying taking in his fingers, especially now that your cunt was swollen from your release— it felt a little sore this time around but the pain was easy to subside with his palm nudging on your clit.
“Come on cariño, I know you can come on my finger again.” You knew there was no point protesting. Once he had his mind fixed on doing something, he would do everything in his power to get it done. It was another thing you loved about this man. “Can those other men you had flings with make you come with just their fingers?” Ah, of course he remembered you saying that. You wondered what was going through his head when you told him. Was he jealous? Maybe he wanted to claim you again? “Tell me, cariño” You didn’t say anything to him directly but it didn’t take long for your body to spasm again and your cunt gushed with another orgasm. That was all he needed to satisfy his query. You were a panting mess by the time he pulled his fingers out of you again.
You still had enough strength to register and watch what he was doing next. He left wet kisses around your stomach and licked the exposed skin. He lowered himself around your crotch and sent trails of kisses around your inner thigh before getting to your swollen core, still dripping from your last release.
“Miguel…” you breathed, still trying to maintain your composure.
“You thought I was going to give you my cock after that?” His breath brushed against your eager cunt that was still clenching onto nothing. He was definitely doing that on purpose. “You scratched my back so I’ll scratch yours. That’s how it’s always been with us, remember? I saw how you were struggling so I thought I’d reward you for your work.” Sweet fuck, you loved this man. You chewed on your lower lip to suppress your pathetic moan. The look he was giving you between your legs only made your cunt pulsate more and your walls desperate for some friction.
All those other men you had flings with were never too focused on getting you to come. They only used the sex as a stress reliever and just wanted to reach their own climax so they could fill you up. But you never complained though, in truth, you just wanted to feel another man’s touch. Since there were no strings attached and you weren’t committing to any of them, you felt like they didn’t owe you anything like that. You thought to yourself that things will be easier for your heart to handle this way since you weren’t expected to get hurt. Your mind was so fogged with that idea, you forgot what it felt like having someone care for your needs too.
He started off with licking your folds in aching slow motion, getting you riled up. Your hands immediately reached for his hair and laced your fingers through the locks, letting out a shaking breath of approval when you felt him sucking on your sensitive bud. His mouth was giving you a better sensation on your clit than his palm, that only just barely brushed against it. He pulled away momentarily and you could see your mess glistening around his lips.
Then you saw it, his fangs emerging making your heart quicken in your chest before he dived in again, fully connecting his mouth onto your core. The sudden contact made your legs enclose around him in reflex. He lapped his tongue over the folds all while gently scraping his fangs over the sensitive areas. He was careful with his movements not to dig his canines too deep to cause any pain. It was a new feeling you’ve never felt before and you knew you’d never experience it with anyone else. Every juice leaked from your core was eagerly licked by him.
You attempted to grind your sex against his face to get some sort of friction from his tongue but his strong grip on your hips planted you on the mattress. That still didn’t stop you from squirming under him though. Your mind started to cloud with bliss and all you could focus on was his tongue movement and the feeling of his fangs grazing on your skin. He watched your reaction between your thighs as your mouth hung open. You couldn’t see his full face but through the looks of his eyes, you could tell he was giving you a smug expression as he ate up your reaction to his touches like a famished man.
You could feel your senses firing again as the heat was building up in your core. His tongue started lapping faster and flickering deeper into your cunt and you couldn’t take it anymore. Your back arched against the bed and with a desperate cry, you finally unraveled again, everything that squirted from your pussy was quickly licked off from his tongue. As he pulled away, there was a line of saliva that connected your folds with his lips that he wiped away with the back of his hand. He lapped over his fangs too that were also coated from your fresh release. He leaned into your face again and kissed you lightly. You tasted and smelled the bittersweet of yourself from his mouth as he went to suck on your lower lip.
Next thing you knew, you were gently pushing and flipped over on the bed, ass up. He had better access to your hair now and it’ll be easier to take him in this position. He held onto your back, guiding his cock through your rear. He braced himself before he made his entrance slowly. You could still taste him and yourself on the base of your tongue and you knew his cock was still coated in your saliva making it easier to squeeze between your folds. Your walls caressed every inch of him as he pushed further and further into you.
You could hear and feel the suction from yourself that gripped around his length as he pulled back only to shove himself back in again. As he did, you could feel your clit rubbing against the sheets beneath you with each force from his thrusts. The bed screeched in protest as he rolled his hips into you, forcing it to move up and down. His rhythm became more sporadic like all that pent up energy was poured into one night while your head was buried into the pillow, muffling the noise building up in your throat. You were truly helpless under him, his frame was completely enclosing over you so you were rooted on the bed being shoved into the mattress over and over again from his thrusts. Blood could be heard rushing in your ear and every pulse in your system was throbbing.
Miguel, what have you done to me? What the fuck have you done to me?!
Each thrust was more intense than the last, forcing you deeper into the sheets. You couldn’t control the noises that were coming out of your mouth now as he was desperately trying to chase the high he could only get from you and the way you were squeezing him in all the right places. You felt his fingers combing through your hair again before he tugged gently, but firmly enough to force you head up from the pillow to look at him. The red hue on his eyes were glowing against the low lighting in your bedroom as he continued to plunge himself into you.
“Talk to me…who fucks you good?” He spoke over your shoulder and over the sound of the bed creaking, his breath fanning over your ear. You caught a glimpse of his fangs as he grinned at you and you allowed yourself to be drowned by the richness of his voice. He must’ve recognised that you couldn’t form anything coherent from your mouth so he slowed down his pace to give you a chance to talk.
“You…” Was all you could muster before you slipped out another moan from your lips. You couldn’t bring yourself to speak, let alone form a cognitive thought in your head.
“Say my name, querida.” He commanded, giving one strong thrust that caught you by surprise.
“You, Miguel. It’s you-!” You gasped, the sound of your own voice was sounding foreign to you. No one had ever managed that out of you. He released your hair and your head dropped back on the pillow, no longer having the strength to hold yourself up. Out of all the times you’ve been fucked on your bed, this was by far the loudest you’ve been. The walls weren’t thin but you knew you’d still be getting noise complaints by the neighbours not just from your moans but with the repeated sounds of the headboard knocking against the wall. But that wasn’t in your mind right now. Every thought was slowly melting away from your brain, even your consciousness of your surroundings as he kept fucking you. It was like every other room in the building and everyone else in the apartment didn’t exist anymore— just you and him. You couldn’t see him but the sweat building up on his skin was giving off a subtle distinguishable smell and was causing his body to stick to yours as he kept on going.
He’s close, he’s close, he’s close.
Through your teary vision, you noticed him gripping onto your headboard as leverage before going deeper inside you. There it was, you could feel his release reaching every crevice and surface area inside as his body trembled from his strong climax. The rush of his hot release made you cry out his name before he took his time to pull out. Even with him releasing his cum deep inside you, there was still some leaking out through your folds.
You felt Miguel’s torso and your back sticking together with your sweat as he took his time to lift himself off of you. Lifting your head up from the pillow, you turned to see him leaving the room, his footsteps echoed in your, now, quiet apartment. You took this time to shift and turn your body around, the sheets were slightly damp under you. Your legs were still shaking from his rough thrusts and climax. Your senses were slowly coming back to you and the pulse in your ear was slowing down. The sound of the faucet could be heard from your kitchen as Miguel filled up a glass before his footsteps could be heard again as he approached you with a glass of water.
“Thought you might need this…” He handed you the glass. With shaking hands, you took the cold glass.
“Thank you.” You downed the water in one go, feeling the coolness down your throat before placing the empty glass on the nightstand.
“Do you want to get cleaned up?” Miguel asked. Your legs were still sticky from his cum and your sweat but you weren’t worried about that.
“In a bit, let me just hold you for a second, please.” Miguel climbed into bed and lied beside you. He wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you closer. His warmth enveloped you and you through us swirled in a mixture of emotions. The passion you've just shared with him is still palpable with the smell of sweat and fresh sex woven in the air. Your finger fiddled with Miguel’s collar bone before you cradled his jaw. Your heart was still going haywire even as the intimacy was starting to settle down between the two of you. Your gaze shifted to his own and your mind started to wander. You thought about the future and even started a family you’ve longed for with Miguel but didn’t dare to dream about until now.
“Miguel…do you ever think about having children?” You whispered, too afraid to break the peaceful silence.
“I do…is that what you want mi amor?” He murmured. Mi amor? You gulped.
“Yes but…with your Spider DNA, what if our children inherit them too. I want them to live a normal life but what if they face the same dangers you do? What if I won’t be able to handle it?” You confessed. Miguel caressed your cheek and tucked a lock of hair behind your ear before he spoke.
“I understand your worries, but we can’t let fear hold us back. I promise to protect you and them and I’ll try to be the best father and possibly the best husband too.” He reassured you. Amidst the doubts and uncertainty, there was still an undeniable warmth. The idea of raising a family with him felt like a second chance at happiness. You’ve both faced so much and you’ve overcome them. Perhaps you could both navigate the challenges of parenthood too. One step at a time.
“Thank you, Miguel. I think we should get in the shower to clean up now, don’t you?”
He smiled.
“You’re right. But first, don’t forget to take the pill…”
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Part 4 🔞🔞
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bitchy-craft · 8 months
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Let's Get You Hyped Up | Pick A Pile
Hello and welcome to this Pick A Pile! In here you'll find a few things that'll hype you up. I hope you guys enjoy and find this useful. Do make sure to leave comments down below on your experience! I do want to remind you all that this is a General Pick A Pile which means this is for a lot of people; therefore keep what resonates and leave what doesn't.
Masterlist > Questions > Paid Readings
Pick A Pile!
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Pile 1:
You're a force to be reckoned with, a spark of potential waiting to ignite the world with your brilliance. Each day is a canvas, and you hold the brush. The universe has bestowed you with unique talents and dreams, and it's time to unleash them with unbridled passion. Remember, challenges are just stepping stones on the path to your success. Embrace them, conquer them, and let them mold you into the unstoppable individual you are meant to be.
You've already overcome obstacles that once seemed insurmountable, proving your resilience and determination. Your journey is a testament to your unwavering spirit. Visualize your goals, for that's the first step in manifesting them into reality. The world eagerly awaits the mark you'll leave upon it. Your story is one of inspiration, growth, and triumph. Believe in yourself, as others believe in you too. The energy you radiate is infectious, and your impact is boundless.
So go forth with confidence, head held high, and a heart full of determination. Every effort you put forth, every leap you take, is a leap towards greatness. You've got this!
Pile 2:
You're a dynamo of potential, a powerhouse of creativity just waiting to explode onto the scene. Every sunrise brings a fresh chance to seize the day and make it your own. Embrace the challenges that come your way, for they're the secret ingredients that shape your success story.
Life's journey is a rollercoaster of experiences, and you're fearlessly riding every twist and turn. Your ability to adapt and thrive in the face of uncertainty is awe-inspiring. Remember, you're not just a participant in life – you're the director, crafting your narrative with every decision you make.
Dream big and dream often, because those dreams are the blueprints of your destiny. As you forge your path, know that your enthusiasm is contagious and your potential limitless. Your actions have a ripple effect that extend far beyond your awareness, touching lives and igniting the flames of possibility in others.
So march ahead with unwavering confidence, a trailblazer towards your goals. With every stride you take, you're paving the way to the extraordinary. Believe in yourself, as others believe in you too. You're a beacon of light, illuminating the world with your radiance!
Pile 3:
You are a constellation of infinite possibilities, a symphony of potential waiting to be composed. Your uniqueness is a gift to the world, a mosaic of experiences that only you can bring to life. Every day is an opportunity to add a new chapter to your story, and you hold the pen. Embrace the unknown with excitement, for within it lies your next adventure.
Life's challenges are like the weights that sculpt a strong and resilient spirit. With each trial you face, you're refining your character and gaining the tools to conquer even greater feats. You've already shown your capability to adapt and overcome, proving time and again that you're not just a passenger in this journey – you're the driver.
Visualize your aspirations vividly, for the mind is a powerful magnet that attracts the future you desire. As you walk your path, remember that your enthusiasm is contagious, and your potential knows no bounds. The ripples of your actions extend far beyond what you can see, touching lives and inspiring others to chase their dreams.
So stride forward with courage, a trailblazer on the path to your aspirations. Every step you take, every dream you chase, brings you closer to the extraordinary life you're crafting. Believe in yourself, as others believe in you too. You're a shooting star, lighting up the universe with your brilliance!
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tarotwithavi · 8 months
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What sets you apart from the crowd?
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How to choose a pile?
Take a deep breath and gently close your eyes. Politely request your spirit guides to reveal the appropriate pile meant for you, then open your eyes. Whichever pile captures your attention is the one meant for you.
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Pile 1
The way you fearlessly confront the shadows sets you apart in a unique manner. You possess the exceptional ability to embrace even the darkest aspects of yourself and others, those that many people might try to hide or avoid discussing. Your fearlessness extends to being misunderstood, as you are unafraid to stand alone in the shadows, while others are held back by the fear of being misunderstood and fail to be their authentic selves. I can see that you have gone through a phase where you felt isolated, believing that nobody would understand you. However, that experience has only made you stronger. You have emerged from it with resilience, and now, you are committed to being a dependable presence for others, understanding what it feels like to be left alone without anyone to turn to. Your love is truly unique, as you offer it unconditionally, without reservations or restrictions. This genuine and boundless love that you emanate sets you apart from others.
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Pile 2
Your perspective on the world is truly distinctive, and it captivates those around you. People can't help but be drawn in by your unique way of seeing things. Your innocence has a magnetic quality that makes others fall for you, and it adds to the aura of mystery surrounding you. Despite appearing innocent and angelic, you still hold an air of secrecy that intrigues many. The way you effortlessly blend innocence, mystery, and cunningness is truly enchanting and mesmerizing. There's an inexplicable and irresistible charm to your deadly angelic vibe that people can't quite put into words, but they can't help but feel and experience its impact. Your constant growth and evolution only add to your allure. You have a way of always changing and developing that sets you apart and keeps people intrigued. Your dynamic nature is a source of fascination and admiration for those fortunate enough to know you.
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Pile 3
You have a remarkable ability to make people feel truly protected and at ease when they are around you. Your caring and nurturing energy has a way of making others feel pleasantly relaxed, almost like drifting into a state of contentment. It's as if they become addicted to the sense of peace you bring into their lives. Moreover, you have this extraordinary quality of recognizing and appreciating the small efforts that often go unnoticed by others. You acknowledge people's talents and skills, and you're not afraid to give them credit where it's due. This makes you stand out in a crowd. Another aspect that sets you apart is your capacity to hold no grudges and your willingness to always forgive others. This quality of compassion and understanding is truly exceptional and something not everyone possesses. The way you carry yourself with Grace is extremely attractive. It makes you captivating and alluring. The way you honor friendships and relationships is exceptional.
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euaphoric · 7 months
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MAKE A WISH ✨
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♡ ♡ ♡ all jungkook wishes for on his birthday is you ♡ ♡ ♡
✩‧₊˚ pairing — jungkook x f!reader, best friends to lovers
✩‧₊˚ warnings — mostly fluff but i sprinkled in a *tiny* bit of smutty action towards the end hehe, the cliche (but cute) dynamic of being total opposites, koo wants you sooo bad omg, jk shoots his shot in such a cute & smooth way, food play (kinda?), unedited for rn but i’ll edit it later at some point !
words ⥂ 2.3k
made a lil post for jk’s birfdayyy, even tho he’s 26 he’s still like 21 in my eyes hjsjfjfds. i haven’t posted in a while so this is the least i can do for now lol hope y’all like it 😵‍💫
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it’s your favorite person in the whole world’s birthday today ! you woke up in the wee hours of the morning to get everything ready for your best friend’s big day. you texted him straight away at midnight, sending the sweetest birthday message along with a gif of my melody holding a cake. you could never express into words enough how much jungkook means to you but your actions do most of the talking anyway. since he was turning 26 you got 26 pink and white balloons to scatter all over your living room, you also work at a bakery so it was obvious you had to make one for his special day. it was a single tier cake in the shape of a heart with a cute minimalistic design of a bunny and pink/white stars surrounding the edges. though the cake itself looked fairly simple, you worked really hard on it and took about 4-5 hours perfecting it. there was a lot of time and effort well spent into all this but was very worth it— only the best for the most amazing person you love and cherish. <3
the sheer excitement within you couldn’t be contained, feeling so giddy about him being on his way over to your place to come celebrate. you’ve known jungkook for years but this was the first time celebrating his birthday with just the two of you. a couple weeks ago, you asked him what he wanted for his birthday, to which he simply replied, “i don’t need anything, i just wanna hang out with you all day.” it was an odd request to you since he had so many other friends but you didn’t go against his demands, who are you to question the birthday boy’s request? to dress for this special occasion you wore a pretty pink flowy dress with a satin bow barrette in your hair, pairing it with white frilly lace socks and mary jane platforms. you looked super cute and jungkook will definitely think the same, it’s too bad he doesn’t wear much colorful stuff anymore, he’d look great in pink!
you get a call from jungkook saying he’s at your place and you immediately sprint to the door, going in for a hug as he steps inside. “happy birthday to the bestest boy in existence!” you cheer, gleefully smiling up at him. “thanks sweetie pie— wait, did you really decorate your whole house for this? there’s so much pink everywhere!” his glassy eyes soared around the room, taking in all the pretty decorations. jungkook’s outfit completely contradicted the theme, he was wearing a black fitted CK tee with black distressed jeans, very much on brand of him. “i thought it’d be cute! but that’s not all, i made you a cake, come look!” you grab his hand, leading the way for him to follow you into the kitchen, “tadaaa!”
he couldn’t stop smiling at how cute you were being, flailing your arms out towards the cake like it was some extraordinary discovery. he only chuckles in response, staring at you instead of the cake. “do you like it?” you hesitantly ask, second guessing if the cake design was a bit too simple. jungkook indefinitely snaps out his trance to respond, “oh i love it y/n, it’s adorable and i can’t wait to eat it!” well thank goodness, a weights now been lifted from your very tense shoulders. “phew.. okay good. you better have or else, i didn’t break my back doing all this for nothing!” you jokingly tease, pinching the side of his face to squish his adorably round cheeks. “can’t believe my boy has turned 26 today, you don’t look a day over 20, no wonder you still get ID’d at the bars!” it was too easy to keep teasing him, you have way too much fun doing it over the years.
“is this why you were so eager to spend my birthday with me? just so you can bully me all day?” he pouts like a child who’s about to throw a tantrum, “better be lucky you’re so darn cute..” that last comment made your face grow hot, attempting to cover your face so he doesn’t see you blushing. it’s weird how you’re getting so worked up over your best friend complimenting you, he always does it, there wasn’t much of a difference now. “you know you didn’t have to do all this for me right? celebrating this day with you is already a gift in itself.” jungkook really was a simple guy, all he needed was the people he loved most around him, that’s the best birthday gift in his eyes. “oh please, you’re my best friend so obviously i’m gonna go all out for this! plus i literally do this kinda thing for a living.. i had this prepared days in advance for you. also, quit being so sweet, you’re gonna make me cry on your own birthday!” you don’t know what’s in the air today but you can’t shake this feeling of butterflies in your stomach. “nooo, don’t do that you’ll ruin all the gorgeous makeup you’re wearing, i’m sure you spent a lot of time on that too!”
you’re not sure if it’s because it was his birthday but jungkook was acting extra cute towards you. the way he was paying more attention to you than anything else around him built an inexplicable tension between you. “i’ll go get the candles and something to cut the cake with, then after that we can do whatever you want!” you squeal from excitement, grabbing the box of colorful pastel candles and a cake knife that you actually stole from your job. placing the tiny candles around the rim to make it look aesthetically pleasing, you take the lighter from the table to light the candles. “turn off the lights!” you shout to him behind you, he hurries to find the switch to flip it off, making the room completely dark except for the tiny orange flames. you gesture for him to come closer, “ok now sit here!” sliding the chair out to let him sit down. the omitting light from the candles illuminated his face so beautifully, making your heart burst when he looks up at you with star-filled eyes. you’ll never understand how this man can be single, he’s so damn breathtaking.
it isn’t a birthday without any singing involved so you began chanting the happy birthday song to him in a cutesy high pitched tone, being the annoyingly loud best friend you always are. you had your hands rested on his broad shoulders, swaying side to side as you sang your little heart out, it probably wasn’t the best singing he’s ever heard but it’s the thought that counts! “you’re so freaking cute, stop ittt.” jungkook says after you finished singing, “it hasn’t even been a full hour yet but this is already my best birthday, thanks y/n, you made me feel special today.” he couldn’t help but express thorough gratitude for all this, you went so above and beyond for him. “oh it’s nothing really kookie, i’m just happy i get to spend this day with you.” you know he can’t see it but you smile anyway, hugging him from behind, the intoxicating scent of his cologne on his shirt made you feel dizzy.
“ok, now it’s time to make a wish. wish for anything in your wildest dreams, the world’s your oyster!” “hmm, alright.. will it come true though?” he asks in a hopeful tone, “of course it will! and if by chance it doesn’t, then i’ll make it happen.” you’d practically do anything for him, your friendship meant the world to you. “okay, here goes nothing i guess.” he shrugs, closing his eyes for a minute to think of his undying wish, once he opens them again he blows out the array of candles. “yayyy, it’s official now!” you ferociously clap, turning around to go find the light again but jungkook stops you in your tracks. “wait, please don’t turn the lights back on.” his voice sounding a bit more serious than usual. you listen and turn back to face him again, “wanna know what i ended up wishing for?” he gets up from the chair to walk towards you, pulling your hand to hold you in close to him. here comes the butterflies again… “what? you aren’t supposed to tell me your wish silly, then it won’t come true!” you playfully argue, thanking the heavens above that it’s too dark for him to see how flustered you looked. “but this wish is important, i really need it. you even said so yourself that you’ll help make it happen, right?”
just what the hell could he be up to right now ? you’re so clueless about what’s going on but you decide to humor him anyway. “hmm, yeah i guess i do remember saying that.. what was your wish that’s so important then?” pressing your body further into his chest, the atmosphere felt much different than it usually did, you couldn’t seem to put your finger on why though. without any hesitation he reveals his only wish, “i want you to be my girlfriend.” your body felt frozen, you were sure this had to be a dream at this point, there’s no way your best friend is asking you out.. no freaking way. “w-what?” the dry lump in your throat made it impossible to talk, you were so overwhelmed with emotions it seemed like you were rejecting him, but in reality you were just too stunned to speak. “i don’t care if this ruins our friendship anymore, i can’t keep holding this in… i’m in love with you y/n. ever since you broke things off with that loser i couldn’t stop thinking about you being my girlfriend. i can treat you so much better baby, i promise, just give me a chance. that’s all i want for my birthday, just wanna make you finally mines.” he gravely confessed everything, laying out all the thoughts he had building up over time.
you were still in shock but you had to say something before you mess up, clearing your throat to voice what you had to say. “i can’t believe i’m about to say this but, i don’t want to keep being friends anymore...” slowly pausing before finishing your thoughts. “wha-” “because i want to be your girlfriend too.” you quickly cut him off, heart anxiously pounding at the fact you just admitted to this. it never dawned on you that jungkook could ever feel romantically towards you but he hid his feelings a little too well for you to never detect this secret. the distance between you was seemingly nonexistent, feeling his warm breath against the side of your face as he leans in closer. “i guess it’s official then, you’re my girl now.” a pair of ring clad hands cup your face gently, pulling you in for a slow kiss. his soft lips felt so divine against yours, the languid movement of his body with yours was like magic. out of all the fake scenarios you created in your head about kissing jungkook, none of them could top the real thing. his peach flavored lip balm tasted so sweet, delighting you with even more hunger for him, the room felt like it was spinning.
a whine slips from your lips when he momentarily pulls away, missing the peachy candy taste of him. you could kiss him for hours with absolutely no complaints. “now that you’re my girlfriend can i do the thing i’ve really always wanted?” jungkook cranes his head to the side while asking, tracing the outline of your lips with his thumb. you thought him kissing you was what he wanted most but guess not. “of course honey, whatever the birthday boy wants the birthday boy gets!” you were willing to make this the most memorable birthday he’ll ever have. “to be completely honest, i want you to ride my face. but you can do that later for me, i wanna try this cake you made!” his attentions drawn back to turning to the light on again, finally getting able to see each other better. you were trying so hard to play it cool after he said that, but on the inside was total chaos. this whole day escalated so quickly, you wanted to pinch yourself to wake up but this felt way too good to be a dream— you’re now dating your best friend and couldn’t be happier.
“this looks so damn good, i can’t wait to eat it.” jungkook smacks his lips at the piece of cake you cut for him, and of course, it was on a pink plate with a matching fork to fit the theme. “i’m most excited to eat you instead though.” he smugly grins, dipping his finger into the frosting, but instead of eating it he dabs it on the side of your face. “what are you doing?” you cluelessly respond before he leans in again, this time licking the sweet buttercream off your cheek. “i wanna try somethin’ real quick, hold on.” he announces as he goes back to dip in the frosting again, you could sense the mischief all over his face. his other hand travels to the neckline of your dress, pulling it down slowly to reveal one of your perky breasts, his eyes were like a deer in headlights, in complete awe of how perfect you looked. “so much fucking better than i imagined.” the tent in his pants grew inevitably, biting his lip at the stunning sight in front him. bringing his finger to your perched nipple, he coats it with the pink icing, bending down to sensually lick it off once again. “nnghh.. that felt so good..” you lull out a moan, body turning into straight puddy by his touch. “don’t worry babe, there’s more where that came from,” the devilish smirk on jungkook’s face was enough to know he wasn’t kidding around, “i’m about to have the best birthday sex ever.”
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