#I have watched every stage of this magnificent art come together

[krokatron]

Happy holidays Jack!

You stand to be one of the best, if not the best artist I've ever had the pleasure to commission. For anybody looking for a communicative, pleasant and extremely detail orientated artist to work with, Jack's the one.

This level of attention to character detail— not just in features but in capturing the Vibe— is phenomenal. Everything from Whiskey's expression, the beautifully detailed uranium jewellery and the flare of the radioactive glow with her breath is absolutely perfect.

Thank you so much for your hard work; the time and dedication you put into your art really shows. The time lapse is absolutely mind blowing too— you've knocked the ball out of the park and I can't wait to continue following your art ✨️

It's the raddest gal in all the land! The illustrious and dangerous Whiskey!

If you haven't seen/read/heard of @koilarist's wonderful Fallout OC, I would recommend it :) I was so honored and delighted to animate their character, commissioned by another amazing artist, @krokaxe

I'm so happy I got to work with you and I'm so thrilled with how this came out! Happy holidays to both of y'all!

[majorblinks]

DOWNRIGHT ICONIC (aespa karina)

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

Hey, turns out the critics really are onto something:

You’re going to win an Oscar for this.

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

And here’s one version of the truth:

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

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

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

You’ll never once say her name. 

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

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

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

As if you’d know. 

Because here’s another version of the truth:

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

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

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

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

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

It won’t be worth it at all. 

-

First, though, there’s this. 

-

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

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

The second funniest part is this: 

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

“Are you serious?” 

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

Maybe this is what your contemporaries call cinematic irony.

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

“Baby - are you sure?” 

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

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

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

And then she lowers her mouth to lick. 

“Jesus fucking Christ-” 

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

Not that anyone’s laughing now. 

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

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

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

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

Which - she couldn’t possibly. 

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

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

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

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

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

Except-

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

And it’s true.

So you cum. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You just can’t ruin a girl like her. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Karina’s lips quirk. “What?” 

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

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

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

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

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

Karina’s mouth puckers, coy. “No?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And here’s the thing you know for sure:

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a murder plot waiting to happen. 

You take her home anyway. 

-

(Oh, and about your Oscar-winning script-

In theory, this is how it begins.

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

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

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

It’s okay, she says. No thorns. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It starts simple like that.) 

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You choke on your next breath. “Karina-” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like you - like you’re going to-

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

It’s abhorrent. 

It also doesn’t even seem to matter.

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

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

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

-

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

But you just can’t. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Karina, then, does something truly evil: 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath halts right in your lungs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Karina laughs her strange, gravelly, gorgeous laugh. 

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

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

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

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

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

-

So she stays.

-

(An update on your script:

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

What happened to your window? she asks, suddenly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, he says. 

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

He stares at the blood on her neck. 

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

-

Much, much later:

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

“What?” 

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

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

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

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

Her mouth tilts. “What’s yours?” 

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

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

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

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

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

You stare at her, hard. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s okay if you did.”

You choke. “What?”

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

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

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

Karina’s mouth curls. “Right.”

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

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

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

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

But it’s nothing compared to seeing her now. 

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

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

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

And somehow she’s still here with you. 

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

There’s a loud cracking sound. 

You squint, disoriented. “What-” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So:

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

You can’t believe in that. You can’t. 

But-

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

“Hi,” she murmurs. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Someone like-

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

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

Karina cracks another ice cube between her teeth.

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

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

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

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

But then there’s everything else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

Karina just stares at you, sentiment clear and unspoken. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

It’s like fate, probably. 

-

(Up next in your script:

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

Oh, he says. That was my-

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

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

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

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

No worries, he says. Hold on. 

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

Did you…? he starts to say, thrown. 

She blinks, finally. Did I what? 

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

Never mind, he says. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Karina stares at the ice melting in her glass. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Karina makes a huffy, half-impatient noise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Needy.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

-

That scene goes down how all scenes should:

“Fuck, fuck, fuck-” 

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

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

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

“Karina.” 

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

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

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

It happens too fast to process. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” she says. “You’re good.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Karina’s head tilts. “Yes or no?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

Karina shrugs.

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

-

(Next:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

“Do you do this a lot?”

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

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

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

“Eloquent.” 

“Shut up.” 

“I thought you were a writer.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyebrows fly up. “A phase?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Karina stops, moments from your mouth. 

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

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

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

You falter. 

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

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

Karina studies you for a second longer, expression indecipherable. 

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

You stare at her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

Until-

“Look at you, baby.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not a waste.” 

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

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

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

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

“Karina?” you say, perturbed.

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

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

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

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

And then-

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

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

So - no, God, it’s not your fault. 

But-

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For what?” she asks. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you do. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Karina chokes out a small, wet gasp.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

And it will, to raucous, riotous applause.

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

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

-

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

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

And what happened? you asked, morbidly curious. 

Your friend grimaced. What do you think happened? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still, it’s what she’d asked for. 

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

-

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

Which is moronic, obviously. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Karina,” you say, grinning wider now. 

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

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

-

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

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

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

You splutter. “When you what?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Eighteen. Just turned, I think.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You,” you start to say, again-

Karina shuts her phone off, and turns.

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

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

Then reality hits you, all at once. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

Well, almost.

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another chord - evidently not. 

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

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

And then - crazily enough - she does. 

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

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

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

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

“Stop.” 

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

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

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

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

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

That’s where the clip ends. 

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

-

(Back between the lines of your script-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

It happens like this:

There’s a monologue you want to write. 

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

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

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

Karina laughs roughly, and then she cums. 

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

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

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

“You ever seen Closer?” 

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

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

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

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

She smiles, mischievous. “Maybe.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Karina just laughs and leans in for another kiss. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think I’ll be happier with her. 

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

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

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

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

And you-

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t say a thing.

She must already know all of that, anyway.

-

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

Case in point:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your fingers pause. “You want more?” 

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

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

“Fuck-” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She still hasn’t moved.

“Karina.”

Nothing.

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

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

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

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

“I’m really sorry,” Karina murmurs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me the truth.” 

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

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

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

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

Like she’s a real-

“Natural fucking cockslut, huh?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

-then, you do.

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

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

“Mine,” you say again, softer.

Karina doesn’t argue. 

It’s basically all the confirmation you need. 

-

So, really, if you two were a movie-

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

-

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

How do you think this guy would kill you? 

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

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

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

Isn’t that why everyone’s watching? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe they’ll get to it next time.) 

-

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

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

[candiedspit]

Silly Bastard of The North Wang

The sun goes down like a slurring basketball through a slow hoop and is replaced by a sliver of fingernail.

I retire my coat on the floor; someone will pick it up got me. Whatever I want, people do it. I head to my booth where the hooligans await with their pink, fat smiles and cigars and tales of the market. How the market roared this morning. How the market quivers beneath my influence. How my influence glitters across the numbers.

Michigan greets me and orders me a martini as I sit down. He tells me about the girl he’s seeing. Some young, elastic twenty one year old studying tactical art at one of the local colleges.

Now, what is tactical art? He asks with a laugh.

I shake my head and laugh.

Must be some sort of gimmick.

Oh, but she’s wonderful. So curious about everything, poor thing. She asks me these questions at night when we’re laying down, right as I’m on the cusp of sleep. She goes, Daddy what do you love me for? And Daddy, how do you spell protection? I rub her head until she nods off.

Gotta get me a girl like that, Robert chimes in.

We talk and smoke throughout the night as the cabaret singers trail off into operatic blues and fall into ballads.

Saturday morning, the next morning. I like to sleep in and eat cherry tarts in bed and lean against the morning broadcast, minting for anything important I ought to know. In the afternoon, I eat rabbit and take a couple of pills and in the evening, I ease downtown where the kids only get smarter and smarter and the lights are all neon. I slip into a lounge and order something orange. As the night goes on, I go to the Club Fantastical, a smaller venue for smaller acts that might not get on the bill at other places. The freaks of song. One singer entrances me. It is not often I get entranced. But this little blue boy with a magnificent, scratched voice gets on stage and lets out this mournful love song. I keep my applause small and a couple hours later at the midnight intermission, I go backstage and look for him. Among the paper wings and dark glitters. One of the girls tries to get my attention but I dismiss her signals. I find him at the back, getting changed out of his outfit. He looks up at me.

Do I know you? He asks.

I saw your performance, I tell him. And I wanted to tell you I liked it very much. You were beautiful out there.

He looks at me again.

You’re not my crowd, he says.

I like to come here on the weekends.

I watch him put on a sweatshirt.

What’s your name? I ask.

Sam, he says.

Well, Sam. Do you want to have dinner with me?

He laughs again as if in disbelief and nods.

Sure. But take me somewhere nice.

I take him back to my apartment and have the cool make us a couple of lobsters and bring us out some wine.

What do you do? He asks, running his fingers over the painting in my bedroom.

Something hard to describe.

We eat in the dining room and I ask Sam what his life is like. He is twenty six and lives with his cousin in Harlem and works at a grocery store and sings on the side. As the sun comes back up like a bloodied maestro, Sam and I fuck in my bed. This is rare and I surprise myself. In the morning, I call Sam a cab and give him my number.

If you’re going to call during the week, call after five, I tell him.

A couple of weeks pass. Sam lives in my head like an insistent moth. He calls me at exactly five on a Friday afternoon. I tell him I was waiting for him to call. I’d like to see you again. Sam comes over that night and we fuck and I love him more than I did the first time. And again, a couple of weeks later until we’ve got a routine going; every couple of weeks, we spend the weekend together in my apartment like two blasted agoraphobes.

That winter I take him to Coney Island on his insistence. He wants to walk the boardwalk with me; we hold hands and it is thirty seven degrees. Sam never asks me anything about work. Instead, he asks about my childhood.

I could have stayed there in that grime and grossness, I tell him. Saving up for a nice drink. But by some lucky star I was able to meet the right people and make the right moves.

I want to give you a beautiful life, I tell Sam as we ride the cab back to Midtown. Anything you want for the rest of your life.

He thinks for a while as the city passes us in cold, whisked blurs.

All I want to do is sing, he says. I don’t mind the shit staircase and the weed smoke but if you want to do anything for me, I’d like to sing.

I keep this in mind. In the meantime, we spend our nights inside, fucking and falling asleep and watching television and eating well and sleeping again. Sometimes, Sam stomps into the penthouse screaming about his cousin. The fool. The fool. Sometimes, we don’t speak. And go straight for skin.

As summertime approaches in her hot veils, I meet my men again at the same booth as the other times before and order a drink. I listen to Michigan complain about his tax cut. All blabbermouths. And before long, there he is. Sam comes onstage and sings the song I picked out for him. That’s my tenderness. That’s my boy; my boy is a dove, a harp, an oasis for my tired, oil slick soul, my unhappiness, my grout.

And he takes the loving so well.

[dhappyorangec]

FMV 水晶心🍊: highlights of 08.26.23 concert. It is the warm and brilliant Zheng Yecheng!

是热烈而灿烂的郑业成啊！

【是热烈而灿烂的郑业成啊！-哔哩哔哩】 https://b23.tv/4ZZ9sTC

1. Full birthday performance: https://youtu.be/3dtWpm5tmEs

2. Full fan meet: https://youtu.be/qD1efBNLWdU

(see playlist for different angles/better resolution)

3. Full birthday playlist:

Happy birthday Zheng YeCheng: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLykbRqPIkH78Ls_-YLsgaonXafvZBnuNZ

Loving this Full View Sword Dance: https://youtu.be/F-f3a2S70tU

4k: https://youtu.be/TuLG6x5nfg0

20230831 XiaoHongShu (see Facebook link for photos): Edited: "A plog documenting the birth of the stage ||| What an exhilarating journey, an everlasting memory! Looking at the images in the photo album and replaying the scenes in my mind, it feels as though nothing has truly started yet and already it’s come to an end. Reluctant to move forward, I find myself revisiting my notes. I remember back then, watching as the 👌 grew more and more, the joy in my heart was beyond description! From conceptualization to realization, it took a month and a half. From planning the content, coordinating with the participants, to rehearsing the performances, selecting the venue, and setting up the stage design, I was fully involved throughout the crazy process. The execution was intense and seamless, but of course, none of this could have been achieved without the wholehearted support of every friend. In the end, not only did we attain success, but the magnificent outcome felt like the perfect finishing touch! Grateful for August, appreciative of the experiences from the past thirty years, which have enabled me to perform on life's stage with abandon. The future still holds endless possibilities, as I recite poetry in the wind. What a splendid celebration of of Zheng reaching his prime! The story continues~" #TraditionalOpera [topic]# #Performance [topic]# #ThisIsLife [topic]#

Photo translations:

1. 7/17/23: First reunion after 20 years, and where the idea was born.

2. 08/10/23: First time seeing the spectacular lights and other special effects on stage, which led to my creative juices flowing.

3. 08/12/23: The earlier part of training made me feel like that kid again.

4. 08/13/23: Taking a break amidst my busy schedule to kick some ball.

5. 08/14/23: Couldn't wait to practice and rehearse with my classmates as soon as I returned to Shanghai.

6. 08/18/23: Putting on the monkey face again after over a decade.

7. 08/21/23: My first front flip after injuring my knee.

https://youtube.com/shorts/PeYaJjVjrKI?feature=share

8. 08/21/23: Rehearsals with the art troupe teacher.

9. 08/22/23: Didn’t know I would end up finding time to do some filming in between… that lousy FJY!

10. 08/23/23: The costumes have arrived, I feel much more at ease now.

11. 08/23/23: Participating in the poster design process.

12. 08/24/23: Putting together the look for the first time, unlocking a different me.

13. Upper left: Come on, let's go wild today because we won't be able to anymore after this.

14. Upper right: Today, we're seeing it from this perspective.

15. Lower left: You can definitely say this is one grand vision. Running purely on adrenaline now.

16. Lower right: Recording these crazy days in my social circle.

17. Draft layout photo: Under the comments section of his post, he said he added this sketch and asked whether anyone could tell what it was.

Saw stage first time, 16 days before show, on 08.10.23 ~ that's quite impressive for him to plan and play out things within 2 weeks.

关于舞台诞生的plog|||一段疯魔的经历，一段永恒的记忆。看着相册里的一幕幕，感觉一切都还没开始，就已经结束了。不舍，回看备忘录写下的东西，想起当时眼看着👌越来越多，那心里的喜悦甭提多高兴了！从一个念头到现在的呈现，历时一个半月，从策划内容，统筹演员，到排演节目，选择场地，舞美搭构，不疯魔不成活的我全程牵头参与，紧锣密鼓的部署着，当然离不开每一位好友的鼎力相助，最终不仅成功的做到了，更有锦上添花的效果呈现！感恩8月，感恩前三十年的经历，能让我戏舞春秋，凭疏狂，未来仍心有阡陌，吟风流。精彩郑当年！故事继续～#戏曲[话题]# #演出[话题]# #这才是生活啊[话题]#

Xhs diary photos post:

https://m.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=276860711760180&id=100083087602946&mibextid=Nif5oz

----

#郑业成 #정업성 #เจิ้งเย่เฉิง #ジェンイェチョン #鄭業成 #TrinhNghiepThanh #zhengyecheng

[ialwaysknewyouwerepunk]

perfect now - a close reading

only pure and true love for this one. it’s soft and sweet because the one he wrote it for is and needs cheesy uncool romcom soundtrack-worthy affirmations and it’s the most wonderful thing oh my the flurries 

some album booklet art for your viewing pleasure

((just a warning for below: while the lyric analysis was kept fairly neutral and close to the words and their meaning, more and more parallels did ensure me larrying out by the time the analysis kicked off so if you’re not into that, you can skip this one!))

⟼ check out @bluewinnerangel​ ‘s magnificent post with all the parallels to 1d/h&l bc it’s exhaustive and was a source for mine <3 thank you again for your service <3 bc this song really is a fanpiece of every song that has been important to them throughout their career so far, whether they wrote it or not, and it’s honestly kinda impressive

SUMMARY

you’re sad and i love you so much i will do anything to make that undone but while you’re sad know that i sill very much love you and you’re also strong enough to conquer all of this on your own but i’ll be by your side anyway

lyric breakdown ft. the many parallels, incl. little things, through the dark and wmyb

what this says about louis, his partner and the relationship he is in

never gonna dance again frenzy

identity 

louis is a marvellous majestic sonofabitch basically <3

walls, track 10

～ little things “you still have to squeeze into your jeans, but you’re perfect to me”

You don’t feel pretty and it’s hard to miss

You don’t feel pretty and it’s hard to miss

later lyric: “like a neon sign” - i see through you trying to hide away your insecurities

I wish that you could see my point of view As someone staring back at you

“you” is also staring at him, but perhaps is too insecure to realise how mutual the adoration is

i wish i could get you out of your own negative spiral and give you a look at yourself from my perspective

～ wmyb “everyone else in the room can see it, everyone else but you” 

～ wmyb “right now i’m looking at you and i can’t believe you don’t know you’re beautiful”

～ little things “you never love yourself half as much as I love you, and you’ll never treat yourself right darling but I want you to. If I let you know, I’m here for you, maybe you’ll love yourself like I love you”

On Friday night when we’re all out I turn to you and you’re looking down And you don’t wanna dance I know you love to dance You never stop given half the chance

heavy echoes of kmm again, but the opposite: the “nightmare on the dance floor” doesn’t want to dance

when “you” is confident rlly not being subtle with who i think that is, they love to dance <-> tpwk “feeling good in my skin, i just keep on dancing”

“i know you love to dance” = i know what you love bc i love you

“given half the chance” 

～ tpwk “giving/given second chances”

given a chance tattoo, making another appearance (see below for more tattoo meltdowns)

Just keep your head up, love, keep your head up

term of endearment <3 

～ dlibyh

this album is full of encouragement to keep going and as much as it gives me life it ruins me 

Don’t hide away, don’t ever change

“be happy, proud”

～ “just hold on”

“pick someone who’s supportive”

Keep your head up, love, keep your head up Don’t look away, don’t look away

don’t look away from me

～ through the dark “and I can see your head is held in shame”

Cause everybody’s looking at you now, my, oh my

they have the stage to themselves / new career paths they’re doing on their own

could also mean ppl they’re going out with are looking at them, which “you” interprets as sth negative, which makes them self-conscious, while they’re actually admiring them bc they steal the scene

～ wmyb “you’re turning heads when you walk through the door”

I guess some queens don’t need a crown And I know why Even when your tears are falling down Still, somehow, you’re perfect now

“you” is royalty to louis, to put it simply 

they don’t need something on their head to make it known to everyone else - they’re a queen and everyone knows it

gendered: female - also used in drag contexts - the only time L has used any gendered word to identify his partner on the entire album (more on this below)

～ steal my girl "she's been my queen since we were sixteen" can't believe i forgot this one thank you @mortalenemiestolovers for reminding me!!!

～ falling

～ through the dark “you tell me that your tears are here to stay”

You never do, but if you asked me to I’ll tell the truth lying next to you

“you” never asks for affirmations directly, but by saying shit like their pants are too tight make it clear enough to L that they do need to hear once in a while that it’s not true

Cause you’re the only one when it’s said and done You make me feel like being someone 

Good to you even at your worst

～ always you

i love you so much you are a force of life to me, and even when you hate me i want more

～ drag me down “If I didn’t have you there would be nothing left, the shell of a man who could never be his best. If I didn’t have you, I’d never see the sun. You taught me how to be someone” (sung by louis first, harry second) 

～ through the dark “even if you scream and shout, it’ll come back to you and I’ll be here for you

You steal the scene and it’s unrehearsed

reference to working on a stage - their natural presence wins everyone over - that charisma is never manufactured

Don’t you wanna dance? Just a little dance I’ll never stop given half the chance

L keeps encouraging them, will also not pass by any chance to dance with them

Every insecurity, like a neon sign, as bright as day If you knew what you were to me You would never try to hide away

“it’s hard to miss”

L sees through them trying to hide their insecurities, pretend to be strong

～ through the dark “but I know you were only hiding”

SYNTHESIS

Perfect Now is not a fan favorite and I am so not here for that discourse, so please do not pester me with negativity about this chocolate drop of a song. 

As others have pointed out, the parallels with other songs written by Louis, Harry or for One Direction are extremely present. Especially Little Things is echoed loudly, but there’s so much more to be read, as you’ve seen. These are songs that are clearly near and dear to Louis, bc he wrote them or bc performing them was special, like with Little Things and What Makes You Beautiful. A lot of the same emotions come back in Louis’s writing, so much so that you can’t help but see the larger story behind it all. Throughout Walls you can hear him singing about not giving up and holding your head high despite hardships, and if you look back at his earlier writing, it’s always been there. Through the Dark is an early and striking example of this style of Louis song: you’re sad and i love you so much i will do anything to make that undone but while you’re sad know that i sill very much love you and you’re also strong enough to conquer all of this on your own but i’ll be by your side anyway 

basically through the dark’s chorus:

Oh, I will carry you over Fire and water for your love And I will hold you closer Hope your heart is strong enough When the night is coming down on you We will find a way Through the dark

It is very clear that Louis is faced with a partner - I can freely say it’s Harry now right? are the antis gone by now? i think so - that struggles with his body, with his identity, with how he wants to present himself vs how opinions on that might push him down and dampen his spirit. Louis, always the supportive boyfriend, then tries his best to make him see the light, while keeping that space for his sadness, his struggles, or their joint struggles. Accept the sadness but don’t lose your heart to it.

I’ve linked @bluewinnerangel​ ‘s post at the start of this post, but I need to stress how good it is once more as I also shamelessly insert a screenshot from it here bc it makes me feel a lot and summarizes perfectly just how deeply Perfect Now is woven into the history of their lives, relationship and especially “you”s/Harry’s personal struggle with their identity/body/confidence...

Because yes, i absolutely think these tattoos are being echoed in the song. “Never gonna dance again” as a lyric and then as a tattoo on Harry’s legs like shackles around his ankles represents the sensation of shame, of being stuck, bc of your desires, bc of your sexuality. Obviously we can never know why Harry got the tattoo, as in what experience pushed him to choose those lyrics or what exactly he recognizes in himself, but it’s safe to say it’s about the struggles of being queer and navigating relationships with that identity and with others.

Most importantly, the sense of shamelessly dancing, dancing like no one’s watching, dancing together with your lover, as a celebration of self, life, love, is the key here. Harry got that tattoo ages ago, at a time when he undoubtedly felt way more stuck. When he couldn’t dance freely the way he wanted to and with whom he wanted to. Perfect Now is a reminder to him, an encouragement to still dance if he wants to, no matter what people say or think. Significantly, then, Harry’s own Treat People With Kindness heavily features that same sentiment, but in an extremely positive light: i have found a place (in life and in myself) where i feel like i have given and was given second chances and now i dance bc i finally feel good in my skin.

Louis has obviously been there from the start, or at least from when or before Harry properly started experimenting with/questioning how he likes to present and how he identifies as. Before he ever dared to consider pulling on a pair of women’s skinny jeans, never mind a ball gown. Louis has seen him limit himself as well as being limited by others ofc and has always seemed to have been there, with a secure hand on Harry’s back, to encourage him. Even at a time when boys wearing nail polish or skirts was unthinkable. Just remember how much encouragement Harry needed when growing out his hair; Louis literally joined him. yes this might make me cry okay i need to stop bc i’m going off track and this is just becoming a larry breakdown while i was trying to hype up this beautiful song. 

What I’m trying to say is: Louis has always seen all of Harry. He’s always had his back, no matter what. He’s loved every part of him. And now, on a completely gender neutral album, in the sweetest, softest song off of the entire thing, Louis puts in the word “queen”, and that is so very deliberate it makes me want to scream. It’s Louis confirming his love again and again while affirming the multitudes contained by Harry, including everything involving his gender journey. brb crying

It’s a raw Louis, an honest, sweet, kind, loving partner, and both of them are fucking lucky to have each other, and I also wish that all of us end up in a caring and wholesome relationship like that. I truly do.

[fairymermaidfloor]

hello! do you still take requests?? if so, can i request for xiao, albedo, kazuha, scara & zhongli with a theatre artist f!reader?? someone who acts, sings and dances on stage! feel free to remove anyone but i’m real curious about xiao hehehe. thanks so much in advance! have a nice day:D -🎐

theatre artist f!reader!

❁ featuring —> xiao, zhongli, scaramouche, kazuha 🎐:;

❁ warnings —> none 🎐:;

❁ notes —> honestly I should have posted this early but I didn’t, I was just so lazy, but it’s here now!! hopefully u guys enjoy!! Also might change theme a lil to Baal or Ayaka, what do you guys thing? 🎐:;

Xiao:

He never was interested in mortal means. All he had to do was protect Liyue, aka you. But he did find you, yourself, interesting.

And not just in the sense that in a lover, you already got him hooked.

He knew you were considered a very talented individual, but once he actually got to know you, he REALLY understood how much this must mean for you

You were always busy, looking for inspiration, criticism for improvements, and the passion for your work is very admirable

And you sometimes even make him dress up as characters, because supposedly, they have to look a certain way, and you don’t fit the criteria

When the only thing they have in common, is that their short

You can chat your ears off about theater, and he’ll listen

And whenever you draw or just make something for him, he’ll CHERISH it.

He always make sures to come watch your shows, causing him to speed run killing demons

Seeing something make you happy, makes him happy

“Hmph. Yknow, you really are a special individual. I want to see you work more.. If you don’t mind.”

Scaramouche:

Well he isn’t fazed by your work at the theater.

He’s an actor himself! Actors just lie their whole lives right? So he can do that.

You explain to him that that’s NOT what actors do.

But either way, he DOES have some experience with performing

He is a balladeer of sorts, so he does know how to play a few instruments, mainly from Inazuma.

Seeing you perform was really something extraordinary. You really could do all this? The Tsartia would love you.

But, he also only wanted you for himself. He wanted to be the only pair of eyes on you.

He loved you way too much to share you no matter who they are.

“Incredible as always Y/N. To have you be mine is truly an honor..”

Kazuha:

You both do something art related, so it's no wonder the two got together.

He’s love for you was already infinite, but your talents and your hard work somehow went past that.

Kazuha always tries his best to support you however he can

While cooking for you if you ever overworked, humming a lullaby, or getting supplies.

He’s basically your husband -malewife-

He always makes sure to have a watchful eye when you're performing. He wants to experience every bit of it.

And each time he found himself loving you all over again.

“You are really remarkable y/n. I hope to see you play more and the fire inside you will never get lit out, my beloved.”

Zhongli:

Zhongli is a man that only eats the best food. Only watches award winning plays, and overall a VERY hard guy to please.

So when he heard about your talents he was very interested.

He then started to explore all sorts of parts about you, and he was just invested.

That affactuation then turned into love, for you and how much you have achieved.

He always made sure to come to your plays and hand you a gift right afterwards.

Despite all the plays he watched, you were always number one.

Maybe it was love sickness..? Who knows. Either way..

“Y/N, a magnificent show yet again, allow me to treat you to dinner.. Shall we..?”

[onyxheartbeat]

Dear HIM/Ville Valo fans,

this is a long post but I must discuss this.

________

I came across this interview of Kat Von D from a few days ago. Before I get into my thoughts, below is a passage from her old book “Go Big or Go Home” which you may or may not have read. She wrote about Ville:

________

“I only knew his music, and I loved it on first listen. It was dark and it was beautiful. It was metal and it was poetry. It was love loaded into a gun, and I wondered about the man behind the songs.  Two years later, our paths crossed, and like the majority of the connections I’ve made in life, tattooing brought us together. Through our first tattoo sessions, we began to get to know each other. For the next few years, I just thought of him as my friend from overseas, and that was all. Then, after knowing him for six years, something changed. It could have been the wine, the music, or the moon. Most likely it was just perfect timing. Just one kiss, and he changed my world. We were both sad back then, and lost. I was depressed, having finally ended a marriage that had been doomed from the beginning. I was also dealing with the pressures of filming a television show, which was totally new to me - and drinking my way blindly through it all. His story mirrored mine, and he had been feeling just as low. We had been waiting for something to happen, for someone or something to come along and save us from ourselves. And when it suddenly seemed that that someone was each other, it took us both by surprise. We shared darkness, and doing that bought light back into our somber worlds: for once, we didn’t feel alone.He’s the reason why I wanted to write music to begin with - and learn to sing. I remember the exact moment I made up my mind about making music. It was something I felt I needed to do, not for any reason other than a way to respond to him. It didn’t matter if the songs I’d write never saw the light of day, as long as he was able to listen to my music, my message to him. He had told me to look for a package at my door step, prefacing the delivery of the contents, his new album, saying, “These are all of the things that are easier sung than said.”I knew what he meant, but never imagined that each song would be filled with direct messages to me. I put the album on, and the music rushed out of the speakers and filled my house. His voice rang all around, making it’s way to the core of my heart with every word he sang. As cryptic as those lyrics may have been for anyone else, I knew exactly what each word meant and recognized every event and place he referred to. The songs were so beautiful, I just wished so badly that he could have said everything out loud just once to me. How should I respond to something like this? Where do I even start?The first time I saw him after I got sober, he was in town working on music. We sat in my office at the shop until the late hours of the night, talking and catching up about everything - music, home, art and work. Did we talk about love? No. We constantly danced around our past instead. What happened to us? I couldn’t find the courage to ask because I was scared of the answer I already knew. We decided to draw, with pencils and paper in front of us, we sat at opposite ends of the table. He pulled my three-minute timer from one of the nearby shelves, and placed it at the center of the table. He suggested we draw each other, and I was game. With a flip of the hourglass, the grains of sand moved from one vessel to the other, and we began.Sketching these timed portraits forced us to stare at each other, making it practically impossible to focus on the drawing itself. I had almost forgotten how beautiful his face was. He has a combination of eyes, lips, and a darkness to his looks that makes him look almost otherworldly. With him, I felt like I was at the center of an orderly, tranquil, magnificent universe. For those short three minutes, there were no questions about life or purpose. It was as if we never needed any more from each other than this.Like all people, I’ve suffered from love sickness and tasted the pain of love. The theatrical director of my mind, the one who staged all these versions of him and my life with him, seemed to be unaffected by reason. I was finding myself constantly day dreaming of the past.His eyes, his hands, his crooked smile - I’d ruminate over his features. Things he said. Things he did. Things he wrote. Things he drew. Things he sang. Over and over again, I’d sift through these images and memories as if they somehow contained the answer to my prayers. But I was living with a long-age memory of him; living so far away from the present moment.If we had spoken about what we were or what we thought we were, back when we got sober, I wouldn’t have been so confused, wandering what if, and writing the rest of our story in my mind. What did I expect? For him to magically not hear about me being in a relationship? And to not be bothered by it? If only he would have asked….. I would have….. If we could have only talked….. then things would be….. if we allowed ourselves to transform our fears of being open, vulnerable, then, I’d convince myself, we would be together. I realized that none of that mattered now. If I wanted to be free of this unrequited longing, I would have to make peace with the past and finally let it go. There was no way around it. But did I want to be free of it? - and him?I listened to one of his songs the other day. Out of all the songs he wrote on that album, this one was the most direct. He sings my name in the chorus. By the time the song is over, I’ve felt a range of emotions - I’m sad but happy, frustrated but calm. He sings about how I alone bring him to a place of stillness and peace within when we are together. What a victorious feeling - to enter into a place with him where no one else has been. To be able to bring goodness to and draw it out of someone. Those sweet thoughts were interrupted by  an e-mail from him. Impeccable timing as always. It’s just a short note, letting me now he’s somewhere out there, thinking of me. He ends the message by calling me “Star Face” - his pet name for me from long ago that no one else uses. At that moment, I loathe him for it. I loathe him because I love him. Sometimes it feels like it would be so much easier to walk away from this if he’d just tell me that he hates me, that he wants nothing to do with me. But instead he calls me “Star Face.” There is no way he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s not letting go, either.‘Ultimately, it is the desire, not the desired, that we love.’The silver plane hurtled over Newfoundland, over the Labrador sea. Someone told me I might see the northern lights as I fly east and north, but I wouldn’t have noticed as I was deep in writing the letter that I had already mentally composed long before I decided to make this trip to see him over New Year’s Day. I didn’t have to edit myself this time, I knew exactly what the letter would say.I reread the note to myself before sealing the envelope. Then I drew out the first letter of his name in pencil on the front. What a beautiful letter it was, probably my favorite out of the entire alphabet. A letter I was so used to writing myself. With ease the swirls and curves of each arch seemed to flow from my heart, my mind’s eye, drawn in and through my arms to my hands, releasing themselves onto the pale ivory paper envelope. My plane landed soon after.I had missed this country, I had missed him, too. I wondered how time had treated him ,for it had been a few years since I had last seen him. I wondered if I still had the ability to quiet his heart when he was feeling manic. He always said I had a way of doing that when I was near. And I wondered if he even needed me in that way anymore.When we met up, he looked just as beautiful as the day we saw each other for the first time, almost ten years before. And as if no time had passed, we started right where we left off - hours flew by in the comfort of each other’s presence. Talking. Catching up.He asked if I was getting sleepy, and my attempt at concealing the tiredness was transparent. I looked at the clock; maybe it was the jet lag or the clock hands pointing to midnight, but I knew it was time to say good-bye. Reluctantly, we both stood up and tried our best to part ways. As good as it felt to be near him again, I gave him the letter I had written letting him know that I was letting the nation of us go. He took the sealed envelope, and then I watched him walk away for what I assumed would be the last time.My heart didn’t belong locked up in a tower across the ocean from my home. It belonged in my chest, beating, living, feeling, sometimes hurting, but always loving. I deserved to be free, and understanding and needing that more than a dream, I was finally able to let him go.”

_________

Now, let me start by saying, I’ve never understood this and I still don’t. I’ve had that passage saved in my drafts for years because I keep almost anything pertaining to Ville. 

I’ve been a HIM fan since I was about 15 years old, and have followed Ville’s life and work closely. The friendship between them was always apparent to HIM fans in those days, because we saw her in photos with the band often. I used to watch Miami Ink and LA Ink as regularly as pretty much anyone in those days, and I remember when this particular passage of her book was brought to light, the HIM fan base read it and we all had our thoughts. We were all aware of Screamworks being written about Kat (it’s obvious in the lyrics of the album) even though Ville never specifically said Kat’s name when asked about it in interviews.

I remember being baffled back when we as HIM fans discovered this passage from the book. I couldn’t imagine not making that relationship work if it was true love. I’m a bit biased because I adore Ville and he’s like a dream to me, but I just couldn’t understand it. It seemed like she took the relationship for granted or she didn’t love him enough to make it work; but I digress. I get it; love and relationships are complex.

Still, flash forward to this recent interview (the screenshot), she says it was unrequited love, and I’m still not understanding it. Why release all the songs now? Why didn’t she make it work if it was true love? Who is she trying to say was the one not reciprocating (as the word “unrequited” suggests) in the relationship? I don’t understand any of it. More than anything, I’ve had so many questions that I wish I could ask Ville about it all because he only spoke briefly about it all, and it was always rather cryptic. 

I’m only writing this as a HIM fan, and because I love Ville and his lyrics on Screamworks so, so much (it’s an extremely underrated album in the HIM discography, in my opinion) so I’m letting any fellow HIM lovers know she wrote an album in response to it, in case you’re interested. I haven’t followed Kat or her work in many years, so I don’t know what to make of all this, but it’s always been extremely apparent to me when listening to Screamworks that a lot of heart went into it and even pain, not that his lyrics on other albums aren’t like that too, but I felt it more on Screamworks. I feel that Ville was the one who was truly heartbroken.

You all probably know from following my blog that I’m obsessed with love and unrequited love. Any romantic stories, bittersweet letters, heartbreak, longing etc. is just my favorite thing in the world so please excuse the long post, haha.

[bored-storyteller]

All the parts you want. If you have anything specific in mind let me know!

Part 1:"Keep death away"

Part 2:"Beyond the Mask"

39- Tokyo Ghoul- Uta x Human! Reader pt. 3

"Just like you"

His tattooed hand presses against the wardrobe door that he has just closed, right in front of you.

Your breath tickles his knuckles as he hurries to hide the jar from your view, which you only caught a glimpse of it.

Trapped between him and the piece of furniture, your guilty gaze meets his.

"Oops ... sorry." You murmur, barely smiling at him.

Uta sighs slightly, shaking his head with his sweet and calm expression: "no ... I'm sorry, I forgot they were there."

You watch him bend over to open a drawer to look for the leather straps he asked you to retrieve, only to see him return to his workstation soon after.

Were those fingers in there?

The shop has been closed for a while now, and even if you would never say it out loud, this makes you happy. It's not exactly the best for you to always be ready to snap to hide in the bathroom, waiting for his customers to leave.

It hasn't happened many times, actually, but in one of them you heard Uta justify the presence of your smell as "his next meal". It made sense, yet you couldn't ignore a shiver running down your spine.

Despite any moral expectations, since you discovered that that boy is a ghoul you have found yourself much more company with him than before. It is something of yours, mutual. Now that a frightening world has knocked on your door, the one who showed it to you has become your safety and protection, and in the same way Uta comes into your protection with concern and at bottom with a slight sense of guilt it tickles his soul, relieved simply by the relief of not having to hide from you anymore.

Even if you are now aware of who you have in front of you, however the dynamics between you two are still fragile, and above all the dynamics between you and your inner fears are fragile.

The day after the tragic and at the same time sweet evening that opened you to a completely new reality for you, he immediately took care to give you the necessary recommendations: if someone asks you for something, any person, you absolutely must instantly forget that he is a ghoul.

At first you actually felt offended. Did he really think you were that stupid to tell someone about this? Did he think you would ever endanger him?

But soon after, you realized that it was not for his safety that he worried so much. He was afraid for you.

"This is really dangerous" he had told you "If anything happens to me, nobody has to know that you know, okay?"

If anything happens to me.

You couldn't say anything clever at the time, so you just nodded, but something bittersweet had started to tingle in your heart.

He is dangerous, and at the same time in danger. You are in danger of being there with him, you are in many ways. Some would say that you are committing a crime, that you are wrong, that you deserve punishment just because you enjoy his company. Yet you can't feel guilty.

You have so many questions to ask him, but in those days since the revelation you have not asked him even one.

It is so difficult for you to understand what you are feeling. He kills, he eats people, this is now known. He is one of those monsters that the news is talking about so much, one of those monsters that should be exterminated.

Yet you are now there, observing the empty, weeping eyes of a mask behind a display case. He must have done it recently, it's the first time you've seen it.

But still, you are there, in a hidden shop where you risk finding a box of human eyes by opening a drawer, and the thing that scared you the most until the other day is that you can't get the reaction you would expect from you.

You keep looking at the masks and him as you did until last week even though you know.

You didn't tell him, but it all kept you up at night. You've always thought about it, every moment was spent to find a way out of that tangle of thoughts and emotions that went through you both in his presence and in his absence.

It was hard to make peace with yourself, it was almost scary, but in the end you accepted it. You had no choice but to accept it.

He eats people like you, but if he didn't he couldn't exist ...

"I like this mask ..." so sad, so scared, a soul of a poor devil in hell.

"Really? I recently did it. But you know, to tell the truth it gives me a strange feeling. "

Even if he doesn't look at you he is attentive to you. Even if he sits on his stool where you are, he listens to you, he perceives you, much more than you perceive him.

Now you know… someone in that cruel world has to die, and you don't want that someone to be Uta, despite the price.

Yeah, the price, that price you didn't pay.

Now there is one more thing you have to solve with yourself, something else to admit, so fragile and so strong together.

You approach him to see what he is working on - or rather to see him.

When you look at him, every time, you immediately remember that he is a ghoul, but at the same time it is as if you forget him.

You've been spending a lot of time together now, yet each time you want more, and you don't really care how wrong it is.

“Listen…” his peaceful voice quickly distracts you from your thoughts “… you've been pretty quiet lately. Do you feel ok?"

His hands do not stop for a moment to work, to create. He certainly has deadlines to meet and yet what he is doing is not simple work, it is art. You feel privileged to be able to observe it at work.

"I'm sorry, you're right, I've been thinking too much lately."

You just laugh, a little embarrassed and a little really strangely and genuinely amused by that turn that everything is taking, as long as you are with Uta you feel free to smile again, despite everything.

You move closer to get a better look at his fingers intertwining with ribbons and straps. Who knows how he does it.

"Is it really such a big problem that I'm a ghoul?"

His words rain down on you like a cold shower interrupting all consideration, yet on his part they were necessary.

Uta also finds himself strangely surprised. His skilled hands interrupt the art, in the surprise of that new doubt that until now he had ignored.

No, in fact, he hadn't really ignored it. It had simply always presented itself in a thousand other terms that had never been posed as such a placid question.

He had experienced that stigma, that exclusion from the beauty of the world in a thousand sick ways, but never as he is experiencing it now with you.

And again that world that runs too fast for him returns, that world that "loves only humans", yet in his selfishness he prays on the sidelines that you will be able to give up that love that that magnificent world grants you, to stay there immobile, with a Pierrot like him.

For a moment Uta doesn't know what to do, whether to resume his job to avoid your gaze and protect himself, or to risk looking at you, discovering your emotions.

Yet before he can decide, he feels your movement.

You don't even know what you're really doing, you just know that for some reason at that moment you need to feel him as much as possible, to understand, to fix yourself.

Kneeling on the cold floor, in the intimate solitude of the closed shop, you let your arms surround his waist without fear. Your head in his lap, nestled against him as much as possible.

He doesn't react, he just looks at you, blank in the face.

Suddenly he feels angry restlessness rising in him. What are you doing? He can't read it, what does it mean?

For some reason he can't really feel your hug, it's as if he doesn't contemplate it among the possibilities. You're hugging someone else there. Snuggled against his stomach, you are approaching human victims like you, not him. There is no bridge between you two, it is impossible to believe.

There is no way that you, little fragile human, can really accept something so big, he cannot ask it to you, he thinks ... and yet ...

"I like it ..." your words are light, shy, and even fearful. Afraid of the scope of what you are saying, of that bestial confession you are revealing "that you are a ghoul ... I like it ..."

And that's the hard truth. It's just something of him, it's him, it's something attractive.

It is attractive to know that those gentle lips could bite you and trap your flesh, that those light hands could tear you apart. That safe sense of danger he gives you is tempting, and the trust you place in him just makes you enjoy that awareness.

This is hard even for you to admit, but you cannot ignore it, nor leave him unaware.

And once again your words overturn his stage, destroy it and rebuild it according to a new conformity.

He is surprised, you can feel it from his breath that stops for a moment, jumps against your cheek.

One thing he loves about you is that he can't help but believe you. No matter how much those words may be at odds with everything life has taught him, if you say it then it's true for him.

His delicate fingers intertwine with your hair, light, almost shy. His hand caresses you patiently, aware, almost as if he is caressing a child, while he holds you there in a sweet constriction.

"Really?"

His calm question about him is not a request for confirmation, as much as wanting to hear you say the things he never has the words to say.

You rise from your seat, getting back on your feet, but unexpectedly you are prevented from walking away from him.

Now it's his arms that surround your waist, and you find yourself there, trapped between his knees and his arms, without being squeezed. His eyes look at you attentively, his bizarre face shows nothing but his calm composure - which does not at all reflect the vibrations of his heart -.

“I think… it's part of you, you wouldn't be the same otherwise. I like it."

You don't know with what courage you spoke those words, so sure and sincere.

You are not embarrassed, perhaps because you both love that little world that belongs only to you, where no one can see and hear you, that behind the scenes of the circus of life.

And it is your way of seeing reality that he likes, what he needs. That your putting Uta before the ghoul, that small and natural confirms that you always give him. This is what still gives many hope, the existence of someone like you, who knows how to see things in the order in which they should be seen. It is the principle for which love exists between humans and ghouls.

The light and affectionate smile that is painted on his lips is the confirmation that is needed, nothing else.

"I could eat you ..."

"I know" but you won't.

You should be food for him, you are. You are a possible meal, but you are also a person. You are someone. You talk, laugh, joke, cry, get angry ... and over time he has learned to want to keep it all, because he likes the way you are. Though you may be his source of life, just imagining feeding on you becomes painful for him. The thought of devouring you, of consuming you, of making you disappear from the world, of swallowing your body, your laughter and your tears, your voice calling his name… has become extremely painful.

And he's also sure you don't really know what you're saying, he's sure you want to change a lot of things about him if you only knew them, but for now it's okay that you only know that drama.

Indeed, no, it is not a scene. Uta is Uta, whole and sincere. What you know is the real and authentic facade of Uta that you deserve to know, there is nothing wrong with that, and he is sure you know it.

Everyone is modeled on relationships, you do too, but it's not that you are less true with him than with others.

The same goes for him, and despite this he is also aware that the affection that binds him to you will not change when he is talking to Renji, and not even when he is at the center of an auction. Uta is always Uta, and you are always you, no matter where you are or who you are with.

Two extremely complex creatures, monster and prey that still share something so profound and at the same time solid and concrete.

His lips curl slightly more, in a vague expression of veiled sweetness.

"Good."

His hand slips on the table as he stands up, but you don't notice it, too focused on seeing that the other hand hasn't given up on the touch on your hips.

Only when something lands on your face do you wake up. You do not understand it immediately, but the mask, still white and anonymous, is now on you, supported by him.

Before you can say anything or ask for an explanation, Uta is close to you, so close that you know you can feel the hard cover vibrating slightly on your cheeks under his breath.

It is still too early, everything is too delicate to utter certain words between you two, to give voice to deep and primitive feelings, which have nothing forbidden even though society would like you to believe.

It is not for fear that you will not admit what you both know, it is just for the pleasure of enjoying that moment, that moment before, that sweet harboring the affectionate secret.

This is why it is the stiff and cold lips of the mask that are kissed, a slight barrier that separates the delicacy of that touch from you.

A kiss that doesn't whet anyone's appetite, is just a silent admission of something extremely big.

And as the mask came, it goes away, returning to its place, leaving you uncovered and incredulous.

Uta also moves away, returning to turn his attention to the stock cabinet, abandoning you still and dazed in front of that almost dreamlike situation.

"Uta?"

"Yes?"

His answer is always ready as he rummages through the rolls of tissue.

"What was that?"

His quiet face of him turns to you, and you know him well enough to notice that slight amused glint in his eyes.

"What was what?"

“That! You know!"

A slight amused snort from him lets you know you'll never get your answers: "You must have daydreamed."

-End-

[scotianostra]

On 24th August 1947 the first Edinburgh International Festival (EIF) of Music and Drama opened.

Rudolf Bing, an Austrian impresario who had fled Nazi Germany, wanted to create an international festival in the UK. After various searches Edinburgh was proposed by Henry Harvey Wood of the British Council, supported by both Sir John Falconer, the city’s Lord Provost, and Lady Rosebery. In 1945 a festival committee was formed which decided that 1947 would be the earliest possible date - and that the Festival would be a chance for Edinburgh to create a new post-war identity as ‘the cultural resort of Europe’.

The first Edinburgh International Festival began on 24 August 1947, with an aim to ‘provide a platform for the flowering of the human spirit’ by bringing people and artists together from around the world. One of the highlights of the first year’s programme was the reuniting of conductor Bruno Walter with the Vienna Philharmonic and Walter’s comments set the seal on the future – ‘What you have done in Edinburgh is one of the most magnificent experiences since the war. Here human relations have been renewed.’

The “Festival” as it simply known in Edinburgh is now the world’s biggest arts festival, in over 300 venues, thousands of shows from around the world entertain people from, well around the world too, it is said the population of my hometown more than doubles at Festival time.

It’s not all comedy, and theatre, there are now many aspects to the festival, first you have the Edinburgh International Festival of Music and Drama, that’s the one that started on this day 73 years ago, it’s the professionals who get paid for being on stage in what ever guise they don, the thing was at the beginning it was invite only, and only eight companies were invited, so some set up their own shows, hoping to not just entertain, but hopefully earn a few quid in the process, this took the name The Fringe, it was been so successful it soon became bigger than the “Official” Festival and over the years most acts just wanted to be in Edinburgh, any chance of earning a crust went out the window, many performers save up all year just to come to Edinburgh and appear, sometimes in front of only a handful of people, if you’re lucky!

There was no real organisation during the first years of The Fringe, it wasn’t until 1951 when the sign of any communal activity occurred in 1951 when Edinburgh University students opened a drop-in centre at 25 Haddington Place. This was used by many Fringe performers as it provided cheap food and a bed for the night, oh to be able to find a cheap bed nowadays!

It was 1954 before Fringe groups held their first meeting to discuss the possibility of working together. “We are cutting each other’s throats” was a quote from one of the groups.  It was the logistics, the non-performance aspects, that they saw as a problem and the establishment of a joint box office and publicity mechanism were given high priority. The first Fringe programme was produced in this year by C. J. Cousland, an Edinburgh printer, as seen in the second pic. The Fringe now outstrips the EIF by an insurmountable amount, but as I said earlier most shows struggle to make a profit.

Eventually, the Festival Fringe Society was set up in 1959. A constitution was drawn up, stating that elected officers should oversee the running of a box office, produce a programme brochure that would include every event that was not on the International Festival, and run a club where performers could meet, eat, drink until late, and generally feel involved.

This post is, like the Fringe, getting to large, I like to keep them short so having covered the main two, here is a quick run through of the rest of the Festival, as we know it now.

Pipes and dancing took place on the Castle Esplanade, and in Princes Street Gardens, from 1947, the year of the first International Festival. It was eventually superseded by The Edinburgh Military Tattoo in 1950. Under the direction of Brigadier Alasdair Maclean, there were eight items in the first programme.  There were no stands in that first year, the audience watching from the side of the Esplanade. Stands were erected from the following year, growing to its current size when it houses an audience of around 9,000.

The Edinburgh Art Festival is a fixture in the International Festival programme, the early 1950s arguably being the golden period.  However, funds were withdrawn in 1973 and the visual arts were relegated to “associates”, i.e. linked to but not directly part of the International Festival.  In more recent years the associate tag gradually disappeared and it began to rely on The Fringe programme to provide external advertising of its wares. Most Edinburgh folk will remember the Ingenious  Campbell soup cladding on the pillars of the Scottish Royal Academy for the Andy Warhol exhibition in 2007, it’s certainly my most memorable memory of the Arts Festival.

The Jazz & Blues Festival is a 10 day festival, spread over a dozen venues, which spans late July and early August. It began in August 1979 at the Adelphi Ballroom, Abbeyhill, which had a capacity of 500, and it was held over a single weekend. Like all the festivals it has grown over the years and for a short time they had “Jazz on a Summer’s Day” which attracted a bigger crowd than any other single jazz event in the UK, it was held in Princes Street Gardens, but the commercial folk that run things in Edinburgh basically fucked things up by allowing a Spiegeltent event to take over the space in the gardens in 2010 and that aspect of it has not returned since, which is a shame.

Edinburgh International Book Festival was first held in 1983 and was an instant success with 120 authors attending, including John Updike and Anthony Burgess. The 17 day festival is now  sited in Charlotte Square Gardens, at the western end of George Street, converting it into a tented village for the duration. The 2016 festival, with an attendance of circa 230,000, boasted of appearances by over 800 authors, poets, illustrators, journalists and politicians from 55 countries.

So there you have it,  small beginnings from the ashes of world war two, I thought that things would be back to normal this year, after last years cancellation, but it is a curtailed Festival this year, I only managed to get across once, the place isn’t the same without the full thing, hopefully next year we will all get back to a more normal, normal. 

[completeotometrash]

Secret Love (Jumin Han Fluff)

(WARNING): Spoilers for Seven’s route, implied nsfw. Read at your own risk.

Part 1

Word count: 2.4k

(She/her) pronouns.

.................

For years he has hopelessly longed for her. There was never a second that he thought she was anything other than ethereal beauty. Like a graceful and refined goddess, she blesses his vision. Though Jumin Han is not one to express his feelings or be interested in art for that matter, somehow, she makes seeing both so much clearer.

 He can recall the day she entered the RFA chat room, the way she presented herself. He is still amazed with how daring and bold she was. Everyone loves her for it. At the party, she wore a beautiful red dress that flattered her every curve and did wonders for his wandering mind. But it was not her body that truly earned his attention, rather, her charisma; the way she adapted and took advantage of every opportunity. They got along surprisingly well and even scheduled dinners to enjoy together so they could keep in touch. But she was never too close. He knows he is a busy man; he has no time to indulge in romantic affairs. Even with that aside, from his knowledge she does not share the same feelings.

 So, they stayed strictly platonic.

  Another year passed; another party was thrown. That time she truly outdid herself. Over a thousand guests were brought in, triple the usual. She slaved away to ensure that it was a great success; and that it was. She did not appear to be overworked, the smile on her face that traveled up to her eyes was magnificent. He found that to be a beautiful quality, the ability to stay positive. His heart hammered in his chest harder than it ever had. That night he found himself unable to sleep. He tossed and turned for hours but the exhaustion never came.

 Finally, there is now. He has watched her grow more successful and gain the respect of everyone around her in less than three years. Her parties have raised millions of dollars that has all been donated to charity.

 They talk every day in the chat rooms, but it never satisfies the urge to speak to her. To hear her voice. As he normally would not act upon this, his fingers are already dialing her number. She picks up only seconds later.

 ~~~

With poise, she brings the glass of wine to her lips, one he specially ordered from a famous brewer located in Europe. After a small sip, she licks her bottom lip. He watches her reaction that seems to be a pleased one with the grin that follows.

 “It’s exquisite, Jumin. Some of the best that I’ve ever tasted!” She chuckles giddily, setting the glass down. He tries a sip of his own and agrees.

 “I’m glad you enjoy it. Would you like the winemaker’s contact information?” He takes another sip before adjusting his collar. She nods, trailing on about how she should invite him to the party as a guest. Her enthusiasm does terrible things to his body. Jumin finds himself heating up and wanting to take off his jacket.

 He doesn’t, of course. He has self-control.

 “So why is it that you would rather meet here at my estate than go out?” As he enjoyed her company and greatly prefer staying home himself, he could not help but ask. She has only visited his home once before, a brief exchange to deliver something.

 She fixes her posture, crossing her right leg over the other. “Honestly, I just wanted to enjoy you and our time together without anyone being around. As much as I love going out with you, I prefer just relaxing together on a less formal level.” She glances around only to look down at her hands, “Also, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious about what your apartment looks like.” She nervously laughs, rubbing her hands together.

 He swallows, his throat becoming tighter. Such honesty in her statement making him feel a little bashful. Taking a deep breath, he stands. “If you’re interested in my decor, I can show you around.” In a way, he takes pride in the way he keeps his house tidy. He has a modern dark theme with all the newest gadgets on the market. She happily obliges, standing beside him.

 ~~~

“The view is breathtaking.” She stares out the window with astonishment, finishing her glass of wine. He agrees, but only watches her.

 “Yes. The city is quite beautiful in the afternoon while the lights are lit. I made sure of that while searching for my apartment. I’ve found that Elizabeth the Third enjoys the view as well.”

 She cackles, shaking her head. “You know, you’ve got her spoiled. It’s actually really cute, just how much you care for her.” Turning to face him, her head tilts to the side. “You’re a good host. We should do this more often.”

 Revealing a small smile of his own, he looks down at her. “I appreciate your words and agree that we should do this more often. I find myself enjoying your presence in a less formal environment nice as well.” A small moment of vulnerability.

 She gasps, excitedly clapping her hands. “One day, maybe we can do some wine tasting while watching a movie!”

 Jumin takes her empty glass and refills it and his own. “I don’t see why we can’t do that now unless you have plans for tomorrow. It’s getting rather late.” He checks the time on his watch. “If not, I’ll have a ride set up to safely escort you home.”

 “I don’t mind staying. “

 Despite having the movie ready and being situated on the couch nearly an hour ago, it was never started. Sitting side by side, he talks with her instead.

 “I’ve always wanted to visit Rome and see the Sistine Chapel! The art there is so beautiful.” She leans back, seemingly more relaxed after two glasses of wine. He too feels the effects of the alcohol.

 “That is one place I have not been yet. As I’ve never been one to care for art, I’m sure your company there would be nice.” Jumin freezes, realizing the gravity of his statement as her eyes grow wider. There’s the crippling fear of her suddenly being repulsed by him. Mentally, he scolds himself for possibly making her uncomfortable. “I apologize if that was too-”

 His sentence is stopped yet again, but this time she is the one to do it. “In the future I’d love to go with you. What is the fun in traveling alone, anyways?” She smiles, rubbing her head. “Shall we start the movie now?”

 He inhales sharply, lifting the remote and pressing play.

 ~~~

When the credits roll, he shifts, ready to go to bed. Seemingly, she’s already passed the point of exhaustion, eyes closed and chest heaving slowly. Jumin wonders how long she has been asleep and whether he should wake her. He yawns, standing up. It’s dark and it would be dangerous to send her home at this time. That is what he tells himself, at least.

 That night he brought her to his guest room, now being unable to forget about it. She went home early the next morning and insisted that she leave immediately. The next day he was given a gift from her, an apology for her accidentally falling asleep. If she gave it to him in person, he would have returned it, she need not apologize for something a friend should do. Although, he cannot help but feel flattered by it. She gave him a navy-blue tie from one of his favorite brands. The material is soft against his fingers; he incorporates it in his outfit for the party.

 The day of the party comes quickly, it is at a different location his time because it’s become much vaster. The area is loud, everyone talks cheerfully with each other. Business owners negotiate and bond over shared interests. The same brewer he told her about that was invited to the party was so flattered that he gifted several bottles of his product for it. He notices it being served at the bar.

 Jumin continues to scan the room, firstly wanting to congratulate MC. He walks around until he feels a tap to his shoulder. It’s a very excited Saeyoung.

 “Jumin! We’ve been looking for you.” Seven steps back, motioning for Jumin to follow. He rounds the corner and immediately notices a familiar tuff of teal hair. He joins the circle, adjusting his sleeve.

 “Good afternoon, everyone. The party seems to be a success.” He pops into the conversation in his own giddy way. His excitement doesn’t show, it almost never does.

 “Jumin, greetings! We’re glad you could make it.” V smiles wholeheartedly, nodding his head in his companion’s direction.

 Yoosung smiles as well, chiming up when he sees him. “The party just gets better every year with MC! She’s just amazing at what she does.” His eyes glimmer with adoration. 

  Zen crosses his arms, looking around. “Of course, she works her ass off every year, and it pays off. I worry about if she doesn’t take time to relax.” It’s no surprise that Zen worries for her well-being, the multiple lectures in the chat rooms prove just that. 

 “I’m sure she takes time for breaks; she also knows that we’re here to help with the guests of needed be.” Jahee pushes up her glasses, “Good afternoon, Mr. Han.”

 Jumin straightens his posture, “Where is MC at?” His mind returns to its original concern, craving to see her again after their last meeting. 

 Jihyun places a hand on his shoulder playfully. “She left a few minutes ago to give her speech on the stage, she should be there any moment now- “

 Ironically, at that moment, the sound of the mic booms through the speakers, silencing the room.

 Jumin is left speechless when he spots her. She wears an elegant dress that reaches just below her knees. It has a V-cut front with golden embroidery; being tight around her hips. She screams utter elegance, and he cannot look away.

 Awkwardly, she readies the mic, smiling at everyone in the room. A part of him wishes he were the only one to see it. She looks around, taking a deep breath. “Thank you to everyone who could be here and join us this evening; your presence today means a lot.”

 Her eyes catch his own, everything feels like it’s in slow motion now. All but his heart that has seemingly quickened its pace. He wants to pull her to the side, to hold her close to his chest so she can physically feel exactly what she does to him. She touches her neck, smiling a little wider. That same smile that absolutely captivates him. Even as she looks away, he cannot stop his own lingering stare. She looks so ridiculously happy, so pure- beautiful. 

 Jumin only realizes he was holding his breath when everyone begins applauding her speech around him. He joins, swallowing gently to bring himself back to reality. To his right is an open balcony, one that he quickly moves to catch some fresh air.

 It’s brisk outside, but it helps his body cool down faster than it would in the crowded room. He knows the best thing to do is wait and speak to her with a clear mind, urges aside. Taking a deep breath, he holds it until his lungs burn. Feeling almost ashamed of himself, disgusted with how greedy he feels tonight. He moves out of the view of the party, standing alone and gazing upon the city lights. 

 “Hey stranger.” There is a shuffling noise as the presence of another accompanies him. Jumin glances to his side, MC is looking him up and down. “It’s unlike you to leave a room like that, are you alright?”

 He is fine, in the physical sense, so he nods his head in retaliation. “Yes, I found myself getting hot and needed the fresh air. I’d like to congratulate you on the party, yet again, it was a success.”

 She places her head on her hand, sighing exhaustedly. “Thank you, that really means a lot to me. I’m so glad you think so. I have been so stressed out lately because of it. I’d also like to thank you for last week, you didn’t have to let me fall asleep, let alone take me to your guest bedroom.” She grins sheepishly, tucking her hand beneath his tie. “I’m also happy that you liked your gift, I saw it and thought about you.” Her fingers softly glide along the fabric.

Her lips are a burgundy color, he cannot help but notice as she comes closer. He wonders if she thinks the same way as him. Jumin looks into her eyes to see if he can find the answer there. Instead, she simply wraps her arms around him, swaying from left to right gently. There is no music, but she makes her own rhythm. “You should dance with me.”

 Her hand is now in his, his arm cradling her back and pulling her closer as they move in unition. He finds himself speechless, only focused on the steps she makes. He thinks of all the ways he could confess to her, forgetting just why he had never said anything in the past. Because when he sees her now it’s almost as if he had been struck by Cupid’s arrow.

 He stops moving, lips parting open as he looks down at her. He wants to speak, but the words do not come. His mind is suddenly blank. Her eyes flicker for a moment before her head comes closer, he can feel her hot breath against his skin. By instinct, he tilts his head to the side, drawing in like a magnet.

 Their lips join finally when she stands on her toes. She tastes sweet, better than even the finest of wines. He immediately pulls her closer, years of pent up feelings releasing themselves in a single kiss. His hands are traveling everywhere on her body that he has ever longed to feel. When his tongue glides against her lower lip she gasps, running a hand through his hair. He moves his lips elsewhere, peppering kissing along her gnaw and down her neck.

 Jumin speaks between breaths. “I’m tired of pretending that I don’t want you.” His voice is low as he continues, now kissing her shoulder. This only makes her blush and forcefully hold back a moan.

 Right as his lips meet the scratchy fabric of her dress, he pulls away completely. “If you feel the same way, meet me at my apartment after the party.” There’s a sincere look in his eyes as he gazes at her, he’s softer than usual. His hands adjust his coat and hair before he walks back inside, disappearing from her view.

[tifaria]

Good Omen fan fic recommendations?

This has been unanswered in my notes for far too long! 

Whoo boy, where do I start?? Let me just pull up my AO3 bookmarks… okay. This is gonna be a long post because I have a Lot of Thoughts about fic in this fandom. I’ll separate by types of fic. 

Series/stories with a plot: 

 Demonology and the Tri-Phasic Model of Trauma: An Integrative Approach by Nnm

As soon as Aubrey Thyme, psychotherapist, had opened her office door and seen her new client, Anthony J. Crowley, sitting in her waiting area, she was observing and assessing him. At first glance, she paid attention to the following:

–His clothing was expensive and stylish;–He wore very strange but noticeable cologne;–His relationship to the seat he occupied could only, very loosely, be described as “sitting;”–He looked angry;–He was wearing sunglasses.

What Aubrey Thyme, a professional, thought, upon first seeing her new client was: you’re going to be a fun one, aren’t you?

Okay, so some warnings: discussion of suicide, PTSD, implied alcohol abuse and implied child abuse. That said…. this is an excellent fic and I was thinking about it for days after it ended. It’s about Crowley dealing with trauma from the bookshop fire, and it has an outsider POV that I ended up caring deeply about, and the ending had me in (happy) tears. Just. It’s a miracle that this fic exists. 

A Curious Case of Miracles on Marlborough Street by @nihilnovisubsole

After stopping the apocalypse, Crowley and Aziraphale finally take the next step in their six-thousand-year friendship. But when a spate of miracles sweeps across Soho and Mayfair, they realize their amorous escapades may have an unintended side effect. As they scramble to restore balance and an archangel arrives to investigate, Heaven and Hell’s messengers learn that you can never have too much of a good thing.

At the very least, you need to go look at the art on this fic, because it is magnificent. But you should really read the story, because it’s absurd and weird but in a way that makes it feel like it could plausibly take place in the TV-verse. Implied sexual content, nothing explicit. Plenty of humor. It’s crackfic that’s taken seriously, but it works and I love it.

The Sandford Flower Show by Musimm

Crowley had waited six thousand years, kept it all in check. But this was the slipperiest slope he’d ever set foot on and as soon as he’d indulged in a few discretionary acts of kindness he was falling face first into pining, tumbling into flirting, about to dislocate his knees on the sharp rocks of intimacy.

Was this really it? What he had waited six thousand years for? A stupid flower show? Aziraphale wasn’t pulling away from him. Maybe… maybe this time he wouldn’t? Maybe they’d hold hands again. Maybe tonight with a bottle of merlot in them he’d finally work up the courage and just kiss him and he wouldn’t pull away.

The very moment he’d thought it he spotted the problem at the flower show.

Chapter 7 is explicit, so if that’s not your jam, skip to the next chapter after they go to bed. I really enjoyed this one! There’s angst, pining, miscommunication, idiots acting like idiots, but with a happy ending. The plot is interesting and the original characters were engaging and felt like they’d fit right into the TV-verse. I re-read this immediately after finishing it, that’s how much I liked it.

I Will Get Up Now and Go About the City by @drawlight

This is the story of six-thousand years and a borrowed jacket. (A tale told in vignettes.)

Look, if you haven’t gone and read every single thing that @drawlight has written by now, I don’t know what to tell you. This is my favorite fic of his. It is, quite simply, poetry. I’m due for a re-read, in fact.

Fluff/Sweetness:

 Divine Intervention (AKA God Ships It) by @theladyzephyr

There’s a battle strategy devised by humans many millennia ago that’s designed to overcome an adversary who is particularly well entrenched. Some walls are too tall and thick for a frontal assault, and must instead be bested through sheer dogged stubbornness.

Crowley and Aziraphale didn’t know it, but they were about to be put under siege.

Fed up with an angel and a demon who are still avoiding any talk of Feelings, God starts to interfere. When it comes to the ineffable plan, sometimes things need a bit of a push.

Listen. This is my favorite fluffy Good Omens fic ever. It’s silly, it’s romantic, it’s completely heartfelt, and it’s joyous and happy. I grinned so hard while reading it, and re-reading it, and re-reading it again. I go to this fic when I’ve had a bad day. I go to this fic when I’ve had a good day. It’s wonderful and sweet and it fills my heart with warmth.

Sunny Picnic with the Southern Pansy by @almaasi

As the one-year mark of the Unpocalypse approaches, Aziraphale pointedly mentions to Crowley that he’d like to spend the anniversary doing “something lovely” with “somebody special”. Thus, Crowley secretly plans a surprise picnic in Tadfield with Anathema and the Them. Of course, this comes served with a plateful of misunderstandings, a side of moping, and a seasoning of mischief… eventually followed by a deliciously pleasant afternoon.

I love when authors can work in the ensemble cast in a way that works. This fic is fluffy, warm, and fuzzy. I loved every time The Them were in a scene because the author wrote them so well. 

Saturday (Wouldn’t It Be Nice) by Sir_Bedevere

It’s a Saturday in the little cottage on the South Downs, where a demon and an angel are spending their retirement, and there’s nothing - nothing - that they can’t face together.

It’s a Saturday, and this is how Saturdays tend to go.

This is a gentle and soft fic that soothes my soul when I read it. There’s plenty of cuddling, sweetness, and fluff. This fic is like a comforting, warm blanket when you’ve had a hard day.

Love Like Fools by @animeangelriku

One minute, Aziraphale is cataloguing some of his first editions, and the next one, he’s leaning against the bookshelf with one hand because he feels like the breath he doesn’t necessarily need (but is nonetheless used to taking) has just been knocked out of him.

He does not need to hold back his feelings for Crowley anymore. He does not need to hide his feelings for Crowley anymore. They’re on their own side now.

Soft romance with hand-holding and plenty of kissing? Sign me up. I live for Aziraphale showering Crowley with affection, and Crowley being overwhelmed by it.

An Honest Surrender by @kedreeva

“For six thousand years,” Crowley said, voice cracking, “I have wanted something I couldn’t have, because I asked the wrong questions. But I’m asking the right one now. The only one that matters.”

In which Aziraphale follows Crowley home after the nonpocalypse.

I never get tired of what-happened-at-Crowley’s-flat-that-night fics. Never. Give me all of them. This one depicts the boys as asexual and includes some intense soul-bonding that I find really lovely and that I think is achingly beautiful.

It’s Getting Hard, This Holding Back by ZehWulf

6,000-odd years is a long time to evolve a romantic relationship, but as a near-immortal being, Crowley had patience. True, they had lost momentum right around reaching the Speaking Looks and Meaningful Gestures stage, but at the time Crowley had been more or less content to let things idle.

Now, he was determined to shift things back into gear, and that gear was Explicitly Romantic Physical Expressions of Affection.

Crowley comes up with a plot for easing into physical affection with Aziraphale, and it goes about like you’d expect. Cute, sweet, and fluffy asexual relationship. 

Smut/Explicit:

Lie Back And Think Of Dinner by jessthereckless

“Crowley, this is a disaster. This is everything I ever wanted. We’re in love. And there’s a picnic. And we don’t seem to be able to get…amorous without causing earthquakes.”

Aziraphale attempts subterfuge. Crowley sees right through him.

This fic is so cute, with just a bit of smut. I don’t always enjoy smut, because sometimes I feel it strays too much from their characterization, but this fic gets it right. It’s funny and charming and the dialogue is spot on. When you’re finished, read the sequel, which has more explicit smut but still manages to be believable for me while also being very sweet. 

The First Week of the Rest of their Lives by @deputychairman

“Port gives the worst hangovers in the world, did you know that?” Crowley slurred when the bottle was all gone. “Don’t know who got credit for that one. Nice drink, lovely drink, shame it makes you want to die in the morning.”

“Such a shame,” Aziraphale agreed sadly, watching Crowley stretch out on his sofa. He did like port. He liked Crowley stretched out on his sofa, too.

After a week of lunch dates, Aziraphale is finally ready to face his feelings. This is sexy and just smutty enough and the banter between them in the bedroom is cute but also hot.

Overboard by Laura Shapiro

Asking Crowley to move here with him is, Aziraphale thinks, the bravest thing he has ever done.

Aziraphale tries and fails to deal with his anxiety, and eventually the pining and angst lead to an understanding. I enjoyed the depiction of Aziraphale’s anxiety over he and Crowley’s relationship, and the sex is very well done and you can sense the love in it. 

Alternate Universe (AU):

Here’s the thing about AUs: I don’t usually enjoy them. I find that often the characters don’t resemble the ones I know at all, and it prevents me from getting interested in the story. However, I have come across some that I’ve loved, and while the characterizations aren’t necessary recognizable as Aziraphale and Crowley, the stories are compelling and well-written. I tend to think of it as the actors from the TV series playing other parts, and it works for me. 

Acts of Service by seekwill

After receiving direct instruction from God, village reverend Aziraphale leaves his countryside congregation to serve the underserved and in-need at an urban church in London, a transition made all the more complicated by the mysterious and handsome Crowley, who always seems to appear when Aziraphale least expects him.

I was thinking about this fic for a while after I finished it. Is it a bit soap operatic? Yes. Is it also compelling and romantic and sexy? Hell yes. Just go read it and decide for yourself. The only reason I didn’t finish the entire fic in one evening is because I read until 1am and then had to wake up four hours later. Otherwise I’d have binged it all in one go.

Only Love (Can Bring the Rain) by soft_october

There were all these little hopes and musings Crowley buried so deep in his heart it ached to bring them out into the light to catalogue their faults and flaws, and each time Aziraphale sought him out, or asked his opinion on some weighty manner that was hanging on him, or even just smiled, those little wishings grew bigger and bigger, pressing in on him until he felt as if he was being crushed.

“Princes do not fall in love with gardener boys,” he told himself one night, staring into the shard of looking glass he kept on a shelf, hoping it would help, hoping that hearing it out loud would make him believe it, would help him put all these ridiculous notions behind him.

It didn’t work.

Crowley and Aziraphale, the gardener’s boy and the prince, meet as children and develop an unlikely friendship.

By the time they’re twenty, everything has changed.

Crowley is a gardener, Aziraphale is a prince, and this reads like a gentle fairy tale. I adore everything about it.

With All Your Delights by @weatheredlaw 

Crowley laughed. “I thought you’d have realized by now. I am no ordinary king.”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “You certainly are not.”

or: aziraphale is sent as a gift to the southern king to smooth over trade negotiations. they both find themselves in over their heads.

Good Lord, this fic. This fic is so sexy, so romantic, so immersive. The world-building is vague, but somehow that worked for me because I was able to imagine and fill in the gaps as I pleased. Do they 100% resemble any Crowley and Aziraphale that we know? No. But is it a well-written romance that checks off a lot of boxes I enjoy? Yes. There’s angst, but with a happy ending. I think I’ve read this one 3 or 4 times now, which is unheard of for me with an AU.

Slow Show by @mia-ugly

Listen. This. This fic. It’s done something to me. I live for updates on this fic. 

Crowley and Aziraphale are co-stars on a Game of Thrones-esque TV show. There’s pining, angst, explicit sex, mentions of past addiction, and somehow, it all comes together in a beautiful story that has me rushing to me computer on Mondays to check and see if it’s been updated. It has wrecked me. The last chapter was a wham and I am desperate for more. I have the utmost admiration for the author because it’s a beautiful, sexy, romantic story and I have never been so eager to read an AU before. 

[simptasia]

Cats 2019 😌

Oh, thank you, I’m gonna gush about this movie without even a DROP of that “i knoooow it’s bad” stuff, y’all know that I know. Okay maybe a few drops sneak in, in a back handed way, but MOSTLY this is me gushing and fawning

For context, since i’m putting this in the tag, the prompt was this was somebody gives me a topic and I respond with what i like about it. Like, the opposite of that “send me a thing and i’ll tell you what i hate about it” one

sometimes, like half the time, the CGI actually slaps. like, the close ups are amazing. proper look at some of these cats and it’s like, wow

mr. mistoffelees is precious. he’s my favourite and he’s adorable and his song makes me cry! specifically the bit where old deut is back and it cuts to his happy “oh my gosh i did it” face. triumphant! heck, i just like that whole song, as like the character thing that it is. and yeah anyways, misto is a cutie pie, he’s so shy and awkward and nervous, i wuv him uwuwu

misto is my fave but munkustrap is actually the best character in this movie. i cannot gush enough about robbie fairchild’s acting, singing and dancing in this. he is the backbone of this movie and i adore him! there’s a reason i’ve reblogged a bagillion gifsets of him being so expressionate, he’s so good! you can tell robbie loves being a part of this. and like, very often munku will absolutely be the best aspect of a scene

plus he’s beautiful too. munku, misto, victoria. beautiful kitties

now that i’ve adjusted to the art style, i find these kitties adorable. i love the ears and tails, they make me happy. i like how misto’s tail curls and the movement of everybody’s ears

i really like the music, shoulda mentioned that first. like, when its good, its really good. memory is of course a powerhouse. skimbleshanks is the movie’s highlight, so fucking good. i like mr. misto’s song, fight me. jellicle cats is a fucking bop. rumpleteazer & mungojerrie, I Just Like It. robbie’s performance in... well the whole movie... but also in old deuteronomy is beautiful and soothing. i’ve actually gotten every song in this stuck in my head.... SKIIIIIMBLEEEESHAAAANKS THE RAAAAILWAAAY CAT

legit, making that number include tap dancing was an actual stroke of genius and i cannot praise steven mcrae enough. whomst is also australian, im so proud. i also like skimble’s pants

OH ALSO regarding the music, another thing i love about this movie is that it introduced me to the concept of this musical. i never had any exposure to cats the musical before this movie happened. all i knew before was a couple of references i saw and i had heard memory. but i didn’t know that memory was from cats. and like, think of all the great songs i wouldn’t be aware of if this movie never happened. i’ve also, by extension, become enamoured with the 1998 version of cats too. because of this! i wouldn’t have had a reason to care before! i had no interest! so besides the fact that i actually do like this movie, there’s that

this is true of the stage musical thing, but a lot of cute and fun character moments are gleaned from like background stuff and facial expressions, that sorta thing and i find it really fun to notice stuff (or see somebody else point stuff out). like it’s all very simple but still with some depth, ya know?

the dancing in this is so good. so so good. especially munku because his actor is a magnificent dancer. it’s also funny and cute how misto clearly isn’t as good a dancer as everybody else, so they have him doing clumsy doofy stuff in the background. but im not insulting laurie davidson’s dancing, he’s actually good considering he had to learn for this movie. i just have to praise the dancing in this movie because i’ve seen people say that “the dancing isn’t impressive in this movie because it’s CGI” and i WILL EAT YOU WHOLE. no n no no people HAVE to know that the actors are actually doing that. robbie and francesca are professional ballet dancers, most of the people in this are. the movements are real, they just painstakingly overlayed CGI cat stuff over it. the stuff that isn’t real is like, stuff humans can’t do, like the big fuck off leaps, they used wires for that

Rumpleteazer’s Lesbian Energy Is Palpable

Munkustrap’s Chemistry With Everybody Is Stunning

victoria, misto and munku are OT3 and they’re bicons in my heart

oh i already mentioned the music but i just wanna say i think beautiful ghosts is a lovely song/motif/character thing. i haven’t mentioned victoria much, i think she’s rather sweet in a like endearingly dumb way. and her singing and dancing is, of course, lovely

the sets are practical, they built that! bruh

i have to give my respect to the poor overworked effects artists who worked on this movie. they were pushed so hard and for so long and i think they did a great job and they don’t deserve even a drop of the scorn they have received

i love misto’s jacket, it’s so good. and the pencil as a wand is clever!

the last scene is refered to as a living hell by a lot of people but i love it because just. watch munku’s face the whole time. so good. just watch munkustrap, he makes everything better

ooh on that note, i like how they made it so munk lives in a flat thats literally right by the junkyard. i find that a nice touch and fitting

i like the nuzzles <3 (furthermore i love how misto is so much taller than victoria so he has to bend down so far for a couple of those nuzzles)

i dunno, you can tell most of the people doing this were like really into it, like really loved doing this movie. like these performances are good, y’all! and like, these cats come across as so happy to hanging out and dancing and being together (for the most part, there is bickering and... cattiness too) that it’s like infectious. it makes me smile!

and there’s like a bagillion little things here and there that i like, like my list could go on even more. for example, shout out to that one cat that kept smiling when skimble was spinning upwards into the air (due to being kidnapped) probably under the assumption that skimble can just fucking do that djksakjdsa

so yeah i can’t exactly call this a Good Movie but i can genuinely call it a movie i enjoy, that i adore even, because i’ve never liked anything ironically in my life! also im autistic and this has become my special interest, so choo choo, this trains a chugging. i’m having a lot of fun, and i think that’s good enough

and i feel like it’s already on it’s way to becoming the world’s most expensive cult classic. like, friends getting together and watching it and having a good time, for one reason or another. and i like that. i hope in like 5 to 10 years time, people are gonna be endeared and nostalgic for cats 2019, cuz that’d be neat

[fy-enhypen]

“I don’t want to define music in one word” - Heeseung

HEESEUNG was comfortable with handling a basketball. Most of the time the ball went in, just as it was supposed to. Once, when he missed and the ball bounced off the rim, HEESEUNG kept shooting over and over until it went in. At last, two points. Shooting over and over and hitting the wall until he succeeds? Well, HEESEUNG’s attitude toward the stage is the same. On I-LAND, your older brother said that he’s proud of you now, thinking back to how you used to be this average cute but a little immature kid who liked playing games with friends and didn’t like to study.

HEESEUNG: That time he was talking about, that was when I was really immature. I’m not exaggerating when I say that everything’s changed. This might be a bit off-topic, but I have this one good old friend who I would hang out with and goof around with all the time. It was all really childish, but I’m way more mature now. (laughs) But I do think I should keep growing up more than I am now.

I saw that, when you were doing the group photoshoot, the staff asked you to move to NI-KI’s side, and you asked him first if that was okay before moving.

HEESEUNG: Yes, I did say that. It happened so quickly, I’m surprised you caught it. (laughs)

You didn’t hesitate to help other contestants with their dancing on I-LAND even though you were competing against one another. SUNOO said you’re an “angel.” (laughs)

HEESEUNG: I could try and take all the credit for that, but that’s not really how it was. (laughs) I think that was possible because I-LAND had more challenges emphasizing teamwork than other survival shows. But that aside, I still wanted to help them. When I first became a Big Hit trainee, I practiced really hard for six months and became one of the better performers among the new recruits. I guess it’s probably because I had a lot of opportunities to be the leader from that time on.

Did you have much experience singing or dancing before you became a trainee?

HEESEUNG: I’m still not that good at dancing, but I was absolutely hopeless at the beginning. (laughs) I was really, really bad. It was so bad that my friends would make fun of me for not being able to do even basic moves. They’d say, “Seriously, how did you ever get casted?” But Big Hit’s training regimen is really good. (laughs and stretches arms out diagonally) This is called “arm stretching.” It’s a basic move. This is all I did for a year. And then more than a year of following the rhythm. I focused on basic, repetitive moves like that, then I took baby steps with a dance foundations class, and then with endless practice I finally got a lot better.

You can give hope to hopeless dancers. (laughs) I know that you were always very interested in singing.

HEESEUNG: I dreamed of becoming a singer since I was six, but I totally lacked confidence. Singers need to be able to sing in front of people without feeling nervous, but the most I could do until high school was sing with two or three really close friends at a karaoke. And then my dad suggested I take the entrance exam for an art high school, but I was too nervous during the test to sing anything. I was about to head home thinking I’d better study or choose a different career path when suddenly a casting agent spotted me. I was really lucky.

HEESEUNG: I was heavily influenced by YEONJUN from TOMORROW X TOGETHER when I came to Big Hit. Up until then, I had a sense of pride. I thought, well, I’m pretty good at singing, right? But after I saw YEONJUN, I realized I was totally fooling myself. (laughs) I felt like YEONJUN is the kid who gets perfect in every subject and I’m the one who gets, about 80 in one class and goes around bragging about it. So I thought there’s no room for feeling “not confident or some other nonsense like that” (laughs) I need to really up my game if I want to be a singer. From then on, I tried to really show off everything I’ve got on stage, which is different from how I used to be.

In the “October 2020 by ENHYPEN” video, you set a goal to practice vocals for one and a half to two hours every day. Even with your busy schedule, you’ve been close to 70~80% successful with that goal.

HEESEUNG: (laughs) It’s easy to achieve your goals when it’s something you like to do. I usually put my all into things I like, but I don’t have much motivation to do things I’m not into. I think that’s a strength and also a weakness. To use studying as an example: I lost interest in studying when I was in middle school, so I didn’t put much effort into most subjects, but I liked English because I liked to listen to pop songs. There was a foreign language high school near me that accepted students only based on their English grades and mine were good enough to get in.

All your practice really shows on your debut album, BORDER: DAY ONE. I was impressed by how you expressed each song differently.

HEESEUNG: The lead single, “Given-Taken,” is about facing a new world, and ENHYPEN just debuted as a team, so I wanted to convey a passionate start of a race. You could say it’s mellow since it opens with a harp, but I used all my energy to emphasize the tone. In “Let Me In (20 CUBE),” there’s the lyrics: “Can you open your window / Been looking everywhere for my Nemo.” It would sound kind of weird if I sang, “Open up!” forcefully like that.(laughs) So I recorded my vocals in a way that best conveys the meaning and doesn’t break the mood.

It looks like you have specific ideas about the performances and your music. On I-LAND you recorded the “-note” video diary, and you reflected on various aspects of your performance. It was very impressive the way you could go back and analyze it like that.

HEESEUNG: If you debut, you become a professional. I don’t look like a pro in my performances yet, but I think you become more professional by making deliberate efforts. I think I need to be able to express myself inside and out, so I’m trying to do all different kinds of training.

You mentioned several times that you want to write your own songs this year. Have you written any?

HEESEUNG: When I was in sixth grade, I took a music composition class using a sequencer program my dad recommended, called Cakewalk. I started to write songs again after I became a trainee. There’s a song I worked on until I got into I-LAND, and also some songs I wrote and recorded the lyrics over some existing beats. But we’ve been so busy preparing for the debut. I really regret that I haven’t been able to show off my work. Anyway, I’m going to keep trying to write songs for ENGENE whenever I get time. I just hope they’ll be patient with me.

You said “Merry and the Witch’s Flower” by Yerin Baek is your favorite song. What kind of songs do you usually listen to?

HEESEUNG: As far as genre goes, I’m really into alternative R&B. I also like songs that are dreamy and chill. I listened to a lot of songs by Yerin Baek, Anderson Paak and Eric Bellinger lately. I usually listen to the newest releases to see what people like these days, but I also listen to old hits by 2Pac and the Notorious B.I.G.

In BE:LIFT LAB’s “Training Camp,” you said your personal motivation is the high goals you set for yourself.

HEESEUNG: If I were to say that I want to be at 100, I’m currently at a 30 or 40. I’m absolutely serious. I think I need to try a lot harder if I’m going to reach my full potential. I want to be more than just a set of skills, or an amazing person; I want to make sure I don’t lose myself. The more time you spend on your work, the less time there is to invest in yourself. And if your work takes over your identity, I think you might even find it easy to lose your own sense of self. I want to be the kind of person who can grow while staying devoted to my work.

It reminds me of your performance of “Chamber 5.” Even though I-LAND is a survival program and you could have chosen a song that would have been more advantageous to you, you took on a new challenge solely for self-improvement.

HEESEUNG: (laughs) I was in way over my head. I seriously never tried even a single playful song like “Chamber 5” before in my life. But, obviously, you can’t go back to the past. Anyway, that was my choice. I was preparing for a job where you have to be ready to handle all different kinds of concepts. I took that as a fact and just practiced. And also, I had the magnificent teacher, Mr. SUNOO, right there with me. (laughs) So it was good in the end.

Maybe it’s thanks to that experience that the way you turn around and wink in the “Let Me In (20 CUBE)” performance suits you so well.

HEESEUNG: (laughs) That kind of stuff just comes to me naturally now—basically showing people how charming I am. Was it a bit awkward? (laughs) Songs like “10 Months” are in-your-face cutesy. It was hard at first, but after thinking about my own style the answer came to me. I look mature compared to the other members, so I figured that was the solution to the problem of how to express my charm. Now I am Lee HEESEUNG, a man of endless allure. (laughs)

Before a leader was selected for ENHYPEN, your name kept coming up in the polls under headings like, “the first person you’ll turn to when you’re having a hard time,” or, “the person who won’t hesitate to take difficult tasks for others.”

HEESEUNG: I’m good at listening to other people’s problems. That sounded like bragging. (laughs) If I see someone struggling with something I can fix or help them with, it’s hard for me to just stand by and watch. I don’t go around thinking I always need to help with everything, but I unconsciously act that way.

You’re the oldest member of the group. I can tell the other members trust you, and rely on you. As their oldest teammate, how do you want to be there for them?

HEESEUNG: I hope they don’t think of me as being more important than them just because I’m the oldest. In middle school, high school, clubs, and places like that, I realized that opening up to someone your senior isn’t always easy. So when we became a team, I thought I should be a cute, approachable guy (laughs) and create an atmosphere where they can speak openly with me. Everybody feels comfortable talking to that kind of person.

It seems like you already are. You all looked really close when the others were touching your head without hesitation on V LIVE and saying it looks like the full moon. (laughs)

HEESEUNG: (laughs) Yes, I’m … not thrilled that happened. (laughs) Everyone in the group has their own strong, unique personality, but still, we all try to trust and respect one another, and we set clear boundaries. And as we spend more time together, we share more personal stories, which helps us grow closer.

In “-note,” you thank the people around you and judge your own practice progress objectively while finding the positive aspects. I was impressed.

HEESEUNG: Even though they didn’t show it on the show much, I felt tremendous pressure being in a leadership position. There was so much to deal with. A lot of that was hard, of course, but I believe that people become the things they say they are, so I chose to be thankful and stay positive. If I say it like I believe it, my thinking will change and then I can overcome any difficulty. For artists, fans are important, skills are important, and talent is important, if you want to draw people in. Everything is important, really. I think it’s most important to have a healthy mind if you want to really nail all those things.

What does music mean to you?

HEESEUNG: That’s the hardest question. (laughs) I don’t want to define music in one word. I don’t think there should be just one correct answer to what music is. Because there’s no answer, all kinds of different music gets made, and many different people can be on stage. As soon as there is an answer, music will lose its charm.

[cosplayinamerica]

Cosplay Over 40 group founders : Jae and Ana

Today I’m highlighting one of the Instagram share pages / theme pages, I followed, Cosplay Over 40. For the past few years, I’ve reached out to various  pages asking about how their page got started.

Ana: We arrived at cosplaying via two different avenues. Jae and I were both into anime, comic-book, and science-fiction geeks growing up. He loved — still loves — Macross and Robotech, I was more Star Blazers, Superfriends, and Star Trek. In high school and college, my friends and I made our own Star Trek uniforms and attended Star Trek events in New York City back when it wasn't called cosplaying. It wasn't even called costuming. It was just being a Star Trek geek. I bought my first official costume — a Star Trek Next Generation science jumpsuit — in grad school, and that just opened the door to what would become cosplaying. I pulled together costumes of Ranma Saotome from Ranma 1/2, Jessie from Pokemon, and Kim Possible, and I'd wear them for Halloween, to library events, and to comic-book expos... what would eventually become the cons we know today.

Jae: I have always loved taking photos. I'd take photos of friends, of people at events I'd attend. I love photography. It's my way of being involved without being the center of attention and without being stuck on the sidelines. I became a sports and portrait photographer, but cosplay always called to me. It just appeals to my geek side. And with Ana getting more and more into cosplay, it only seemed natural for me to turn to cosplay photography.

Ana: At first, we were just thrilled to be part of the cosplay scene. I love fandom meet-ups. I love meeting voice actors and artists, especially those behind the anime and comic-book characters I love. When people come up to me and ask to take photos with my cosplay, it's such a deeply satisfying feeling. My cosplay made people happy, made people smile.

Jae: We got really caught up in that scene, seeing other people reacting to Ana's cosplays and to so many other amazing cosplays.

Ana: And then we started to notice a different reaction. I think I first started noticing it at some meet-ups. There's be the main group, and then there'd be a handful of us on the outside. This happened more and more often, and it took me a few years to realize that those of us on the outside were older than the central groups. Once I realized this, my eyes flew wide open. At cons, I started noticing that the photographers would ignore fabulous, intricate cosplays worn by older cosplayers and would flock to take photos of teenagers and 20-somethings in wigs and bikinis.

Jae: It really pissed us off. Here were so many people who obviously put a lot of blood, sweat, and tears into creating armor and amazing sewing projects, and they were barely being given a glance. I started going out of my way to photograph these cosplayers... and all over them were our age or older.

Ana: It finally came to a head in 2019. We spent a weekend at an out-of-state con, and we — myself and all the other older cosplayers — might as well have been invisible.

Jae: One of the other photographers actually told me he only takes photos of "young, pretty girls."

Ana: I told Jae that we couldn't just let this kind of behavior continue. We had to stand up and do something about it, let the older cosplayers know how wonderful they are. I have a Master's in public communications and I've worked as a social-media specialist for various companies and organizations since the mid 1990s. Since cosplay is such a visual art, I went straight to Instagram and searched for "cosplay" and our age range: 40. There was absolutely nothing there.

Jae: We also checked 50. There was nothing. Then we checked 30. Two accounts came up, both dead in the water. One hadn't posted since 2015, and one hadn't posted since 2018.

  Ana: Just to be safe, we also checked "old," "older," "geezer," all those types of terms. There was absolutely nothing. Given what we'd seen over the years at cosplay events, this really didn't surprise us, but it still hit us hard that there was no representation for the older cosplayer. I spent a couple of weeks outlining the guidelines we would follow. We looked at successful cosplay feature sites like @sharingcosplay and @women.of.cosplay. We knew we wanted to feature individuals, to give each cosplayer their time in the spotlight. We also wanted it to be structured. We didn't want to give one cosplayer a huge write-up, then give the next one just a few sentences. Everyone had to be showcased equally. After all, the whole reason we were doing this was because of the inequality we'd seen.

Jae: I felt we had to go beyond Instagram with this. I'd recently gotten into videography. I felt — still feel — that a multimedia market exists for the older cosplayer. I told Ana that we had to take this to podcasts, to YouTube, to even a magazine specializing in the older cosplayer.

Ana: I've worked as an assistant editor and managing editor for several magazines and I currently work as a contributing writer for two specialty magazines, so creating a magazine was something I totally agreed with. I also agreed with the podcasts and You Tube channel. That kind of thing is right up Jae's alley.

Jae: We decided that we would make this a multimedia venture, focusing on the older cosplayer and letting the world know how fabulous older cosplayers are. Older cosplayers have the discretionary income to dedicate to cosplaying. At this age, they're serious about their hobby and it's a true labor of love. It's not just something they do with their friends a couple of times a year. It's a passion. And the skill I've seen, the dedication... it all needed to be celebrated.

Ana: But we decided to start with social media first. We launched on Instagram on June 28, 2019, with Facebook and Twitter following shortly after.  We did encounter a small glitch...

Jae: There was a Facebook group with a very similar name...

Ana: We checked them out and saw they were a community group that shared photos of themselves and events they attended, nothing remotely like what we were doing and have planned for the future. Having studied journalism law and having consulted with a copyright specialist, we knew we were in the clear to bring our dream to life: celebrating the magnificent, often-overlooked older cosplayer.

Jae: The reception has been incredible. Not a week goes by that we don't get a message or email from a cosplayer thrilled to have found a place that showcases people their age. Our age.

Ana: We also get messages from people letting us know they'll be turning 40 soon and can't wait to be featured. We get people who message us on their 40th birthday, eager to be featured. Or who message us just days before their 40th birthday, asking to be featured on their special day. It's been wonderful. It's been mind blowing.

Jae: We've gone to several cons, and the reception there has been amazing. We've spoken to so many older cosplayers, every single one of whom had experienced ageism at these type of events and who were absolutely thrilled to discover that our focus is them and only them.

Ana: And then the pandemic hit.

Jae: It really sucked, from the photography standpoint, to watch everything come to a halt. But this also gave us the push we needed to move forward with our plans.

Ana: We started producing cosplay video projects, open to any cosplayer over the age of 40. We figured that cosplayers were looking for ways to continue cosplaying — safely — during the pandemic, looking for ways to interact with other cosplayers. We'd present a theme and state a deadline for submission.

Jae: We had a tremendous response.

Ana: Jae took all the video clips and edited them into amazing montages that really showcased how amazing cosplayers over 40 truly are. For one video, our Fight Challenge, we had more than 50 cosplayers participate from all over the world.

Jae: We also held an online con in March 2020.

Ana: Yes, our "Con Together." It was nine days of scheduled fandom meet-ups and cosplay sharing. We even had an artist's alley.

Jae: But right now, we've moved on to the next stages of our Cosplay Over 40 plans.

Ana: Jae has been building a dedicated podcast studio outfitted with all sorts of live-streaming equipment. I'm sure I'm not using the right terminology for this. It's Jae's baby, and I trust him implicitly to have it ready to go later this summer. I've also started working on the inaugural issue of Cosplay Over 40 magazine. The editorial content has been decided, I've reached out to cosplayers and others in the cosplay community for interviews and photos, and I'm really looking forward to laying out the issue and getting it to print.

Jae: But even with these new platforms, we are not slowing down with our original presence on Instagram.

Ana: Absolutely not! We're still growing — we just passed 3,900 followers — and we are now actually part of the @SharingCosplay family of feature pages. We are always looking for new cosplayers to feature and we always invite those we've featured in the past to share more of their cosplays with us. We have cosplayers in their 40s, 50s, 60s, and even in their 70s sending in their photos. Like I said before, it's mind blowing.

Jae: There's a sense of satisfaction that comes from showcasing cosplayers in our age demographic and beyond, of showing the world how awesome cosplayers over 40 truly are.

https://linktr.ee/cosplayover40

[isakwon]

Traveling with Junmyeon:

A moodboard series

Arriving at the hotel

The first morning on vacation:

You roll underneath the blankets and smirk once you see Junmyeon sleeping with his back facing you. Yesterday was a real treat for both of you for your first day on vacation. You toured around the city by foot, walking as much as your feet could take, and became blown away by the Cathedral from the inside. It was ivory inside even the statues of saints, and the front was golden as well. You sailed on a ferry boat, admiring how the river sparkled underneath the sun, and endured the breeze hitting you in the face. And even watched a performance of Gypsy dances in the park. 

Before the day had ended, you and Junmyeon had dinner at the hotel’s restaurant. Although, you didn’t get to have an outdoor table with the a view of the river, the restuarant was as classy. And the food was as delightful as the time you had spent.

The desserts weren’t the only thing that was sweet for you either. As you and Junmyeon chatted about how much fun you had, a little girl randomly walked up to your table and gave you a pink carnation. You were appalled by the sweet surprise and as you waved goodbye at each other, you felt your heart swell. Another thing that made you feel warm was when Junmyeon told you it was no surprise that the little girl wanted to give you a flower. Because children and dogs know that a person is beautiful just by looking at them.

You joked with him by asking if he only thought you were beautiful on the outside, and he blushed, saying you are gorgeous on the inside. You then asked him if that was so true then why didn’t she give him a flower. Junmyeon simply took your hand in his and said you were more deserving than he is. Your boyfriend doesn’t see or carries himself in the way you do. You had always thought how unbelievably beautiful someone could be.

You had so much fun yesterday, you were about to shake him awake, so you could do it again. Until he rolls over, half awake, and pulls you closer towards him. 

“Morning sleepy head.Need more time to recharge?” 

Junmyeon shakes his head. “I’m just happy to see you.”  

You giggle and nuzzled against his shoulder.  

The time spent in the national museum of art was magnificent for the first hour. The last thirty minutes would have been great too if the guard would’ve stopped following the two of you with threats of loud clapping. If anyone who dared to touch an artifact would be stopped with security guards clapping. And neither of you had the heart to want to touch museum artifacts. However the same guard who had accused you of touching the ‘Las Meninas’ painting, thought you would do it again, followed you around in each gallery. What was worse was how every other visitor kept looking at you and Junmyeon as if you were really thieves.

With reluctance, you both left early. But it wasn’t a total loss once you stepped into the museum garden, where more sculptures are displayed around. And there are flowers at every square foot and a gigantic fountain. Each flower looked healthy and gorgeous and bursts with color, you were aching to take all of them home.

“I wouldn’t mind staying here forever.” You said, dipping your fingers in the water. “It’s really beautiful.”

You were so enamored with the flourescent garden and the grandiose water fountain, you didn’t notice the sly smile Junmyeon had over him. He pretended to shake the water off his hand until he suddenly flicked a bit of water onto you. You looked at him in surprise before taking a little more water into your hand and flicking it back at him. Your favorite thing about your relationship was that you and Junmyeon can pick at each other’s funny bone, as much as you can be lovey dovey. It’s how the two of you have more fun.

“You can if you make a wish for it now.” He said.

“But is that really allowed? What if the guard sees us from afar and starts to run toward us clapping.” 

Junmyeon laughs. “We’ll be okay babe. Look there are people doing it.”

He points behind you for you to turn around and see other tourists tossing their coins into the water.

“Oh all right, let’s do it then!” You jump off the spot and start digging into your pockets for change.

“Um...but, I don’t think it takes foreign currency babe.” He said.

“Every little penny counts Myeonie. There are no limits or exceptions on wishes.”

He smiles and grabs two coins from his pockets, setting one on your hand, and the other on his. Both of you turn your backs against the fountain in order to toss the coin behind your shoulder. As you chant your wish inside your head, you feel Junmyeon grabbing your free hand. A shy smile etched onto your face with how his hand feels like a warm glove. He was being extra with the skinship.  

You tossed the coins over your shoulder, and out of nowhere, you hear grumbling sounds from right next to you. You widened your eyes at an embarrassed looking Junmyeon, and you snicker as you realize you have to leave after all. This vacation wouldn’t be great if you stayed here and starved to death. The cafe you found seemed more like a bread shop than a cafe. In fact, it looks prettier than any of the other cafes back at home. 

The walls are painted with much brighter colors, and the windows had no blinds or shades to block the sunlight from shining inside. The staff kept their polite smiles on the entire time, and even Junmyeon was looking brighter. He removed his layers of navy sweaters, and reveals an amaranth pink buttoned-up shirt, matching the cafe aesthetics. You feel all the more excited.  

“Oh cool, my wish came true.” You said.

“Really?” Junmyeon asks, “What was it?” 

“An oversized pink shirt that I can steal from you.” 

He laughs and shakes his head as he sits down. “You’re gonna have to rip it off me in order to have it.”

You roll your eyes in amusement. “So what did you wish for Junmyeon?”

“I can’t tell you Y/N, you know that.” He says, “But I will say, I have a good feeling it’ll come true.”  

“Most likely. Since you aren’t gonna tell me.”

The waiter brings over your breakfast, and you were instantly in awe with the meal presentation. You do not know how many times this city can keep impressing you, and you are glad that it still has. The Belgian waffles were crisped into a beautiful golden brown topped with bananas, walnuts, melon, and with honey drizzled over them. There was a cup of caramel on the side, and two poached eggs topped with chives and pepper on a separate plate. Junmyeon had a heart-shaped foam over the top of his latte, while you just had a dollop of foam.

“Babe, did you not get a heart?” He asked when he saw your disappointment.

“No, but it’s fine. I’m more excited about eating this waffle though!” You laid your napkin over lap, and lifted your fork and knife.

“Here babe, take mine.” Junmyeon carefully switches your mugs, so that way you have the latte with the heart shaped foam.

“Babe, it’s okay. It’s just latte art.” You said.

“You didn’t look too happy about getting the blob though.”

You cave in to help Junmyeon carry the mugs that were filled up to the rim. The distance between you wasn’t far, but you were still shaking with nerves about spilling the drink. He didn’t have to trade drinks for you to have a neat foam art, but he did. He gave you his latte with the heart shaped foam to keep you satisfied. You smiled, “Thank you Myeon.”

“So do you accept my heart?”

You furrow your brows, confused, and looked down on the latte until you realize what he really means by heart. You bit your lips as your guts churned. Junmyeon has a polite and gentle kind of speech in general, but when his romantic side takes over, his words turn into dulce. You have been together for years and somehow he manages to drive your heart dizzy as if you were still in the honeymoon stage.

You nod, hiding the cheesy grin growing on you. “Yes Myeon, of course I do.” 

He huffs a smile. “My wish came true”

[scotianostra]

On 24th August 1947 the first Edinburgh International Festival (EIF) of Music and Drama opened.

Rudolf Bing, an Austrian impresario who had fled Nazi Germany, wanted to create an international festival in the UK. After various searches Edinburgh was proposed by Henry Harvey Wood of the British Council, supported by both Sir John Falconer, the city's Lord Provost, and Lady Rosebery. In 1945 a festival committee was formed which decided that 1947 would be the earliest possible date - and that the Festival would be a chance for Edinburgh to create a new post-war identity as ‘the cultural resort of Europe'.

The first Edinburgh International Festival began on 24 August 1947, with an aim to 'provide a platform for the flowering of the human spirit' by bringing people and artists together from around the world. One of the highlights of the first year’s programme was the reuniting of conductor Bruno Walter with the Vienna Philharmonic and Walter’s comments set the seal on the future – ‘What you have done in Edinburgh is one of the most magnificent experiences since the war. Here human relations have been renewed.’

The "Festival" as it simply known in Edinburgh is now the world's biggest arts festival, in over 300 venues, thousands of shows from around the world entertain people from, well around the world too, it is said the population of my hometown more than doubles at Festival time. 

It's not all comedy, and theatre, there are now many aspects to the festival, first you have the Edinburgh International Festival of Music and Drama, that's the one that started on this day 73 years ago, it's the professionals who get paid for being on stage in what ever guise they don, the thing was at the beginning it was invite only, and only eight companies were invited, so some set up their own shows, hoping to not just entertain, but hopefully earn a few quid in the process, this took the name The Fringe, it was been so successful it soon became bigger than the "Official" Festival and over the years most acts just wanted to be in Edinburgh, any chance of earning a crust went out the window, many performers save up all year just to come to Edinburgh and appear, sometimes in front of only a handful of people, if you're lucky! 

There was no real organisation during the first years of The Fringe, it wasn't until 1951 when the sign of any communal activity occurred in 1951 when Edinburgh University students opened a drop-in centre at 25 Haddington Place. This was used by many Fringe performers as it provided cheap food and a bed for the night, oh to be able to find a cheap bed nowadays! 

It was 1954 before Fringe groups held their first meeting to discuss the possibility of working together. “We are cutting each other’s throats” was a quote from one of the groups.  It was the logistics, the non-performance aspects, that they saw as a problem and the establishment of a joint box office and publicity mechanism were given high priority. The first Fringe programme was produced in this year by C. J. Cousland, an Edinburgh printer, as seen in the second pic. The Fringe now outstrips the EIF by an insurmountable amount, but as I said earlier most shows struggle to make a profit.

Eventually, the Festival Fringe Society was set up in 1959. A constitution was drawn up, stating that elected officers should oversee the running of a box office, produce a programme brochure that would include every event that was not on the International Festival, and run a club where performers could meet, eat, drink until late, and generally feel involved.

This post is, like the Fringe, getting to large, I like to keep them short so having covered the main two, here is a quick run through of the rest of the Festival, as we know it now. 

Pipes and dancing took place on the Castle Esplanade, and in Princes Street Gardens, from 1947, the year of the first International Festival. It was eventually superseded by The Edinburgh Military Tattoo in 1950. Under the direction of Brigadier Alasdair Maclean, there were eight items in the first programme.  There were no stands in that first year, the audience watching from the side of the Esplanade. Stands were erected from the following year, growing to its current size when it houses an audience of around 9,000. 

The Edinburgh Art Festival is a fixture in the International Festival programme, the early 1950s arguably being the golden period.  However, funds were withdrawn in 1973 and the visual arts were relegated to “associates”, i.e. linked to but not directly part of the International Festival.  In more recent years the associate tag gradually disappeared and it began to rely on The Fringe programme to provide external advertising of its wares.Most Edinburgh folk will remember the Ingenious  Campbell soup cladding on the pillars of the Scottish Royal Academy for the Andy Warhol exhibition in 2007, it's certainly my most memorable memory of the Arts Festival. 

The Jazz & Blues Festival is a 10 day festival, spread over a dozen venues, which spans late July and early August. It began in August 1979 at the Adelphi Ballroom, Abbeyhill, which had a capacity of 500, and it was held over a single weekend. Like all the festivals it has grown over the years and for a short time they had “Jazz on a Summer’s Day” which attracted a bigger crowd than any other single jazz event in the UK, it was held in Princes Street Gardens, but the commercial folk that run things in Edinburgh basically fucked things up by allowing a Spiegeltent event to take over the space in the gardens in 2010 and that aspect of it has not returned since, which is a shame.

Edinburgh International Book Festival was first held in 1983 and was an instant success with 120 authors attending, including John Updike and Anthony Burgess. The 17 day festival is now  sited in Charlotte Square Gardens, at the western end of George Street, converting it into a tented village for the duration. The 2016 festival, with an attendance of circa 230,000, boasted of appearances by over 800 authors, poets, illustrators, journalists and politicians from 55 countries. So there you have it,  small beginnings from the ashes of world war two, to 2020 where we are fighting another war against Coronavirus that has meant for the first time in it's history there is no Festival. Some Edinburgh people are enjoying having their city back during the summer, but most businesses are missing The Festival at a time when all businesses worldwide are suffering.

he Festival will, hopefully be back next August, and I'll be back taking my pics to post here for you all to see, and takinh in a few few shows as I stravaige around the town, bumping into friends and even seeing some perform, like my Friend, David Gillan, lead singer in the popular Ska group The Skababs, who you can catch performing at the venue I last saw them at the Festival,  Stramash on Edinburgh's Cowgate, the venue will be empty but I am sure they will have a large online one logging on to see them, check out details here https://www.facebook.com/events/341220463581861/