#funniest part? she at first has no idea what she's doing and wins every time.

[prcttyinpcnk]

Phiona hates gambling-related games, which is funny because she would be scarily good at games like poker, blackjack, and baccarat.

[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!!!!!!!!!!!

[hywonuka]

keep that in mind | jww

every step that i take is a mistake to you, chapter 1

Sypnosis: After accepting the dare from his friends of making Y/N fall for him within 4 months, Wonwoo seems to realize how hard —and complicated— this is actually gonna be for him, due to awkward encounters and shared environments.

Pairing: college!wonwoo x college!fem!reader

Genre: college au, falling for a bet or dare trope, slow burn

Warnings: none

Word count: 2.086 k

intro | chapter 1 | chapter 2

9:30 in the morning. Wonwoo is late. Way too late. He wore the first thing he saw on his closet, and ran away to his faculty building, knowing he wouldn’t make it to his first class. He cursed at himself for not waking up in time, and promised himself he wouldn’t drink that much next time he went out with the guys, which was an obvious lie he always told himself.

As he was running to his destination, he couldn’t help but think about last night, and the damn dare he now had to fulfill. Why did he say yes? Firstly, he doesn’t know how to talk to women. Secondly, it’s not like she was unknown to him. In fact, they both were part of the same friend group, which, in Wonwoo's eyes, makes everything more awkward. And last (but not least), they both were part of the student council. Funniest part is that, even with all the opportunities he had have, he has barely ever talked to her, not because he didn’t like Y/N, but because he had no idea of what to say to her. He should just approach her, out of nowhere? No way, he couldn’t. Way too shy for that.

How was he gonna do this now? He only had 4 months, not enough time for him, but now he couldn’t back out. No, god, he couldn’t. The guys will mock him if he even thinks of backing out. He is fucked up and he knows it.

He glances at his phone, to check the hour. 9:45, and his next class isn’t until 10:30. He decided to keep walking, as the Engineering faculty building was nearby, and he already missed the first class of the day. He was passing by a small field with flowers, when he saw a familiar silhouette, which made him stop on his feet. “Hao? What are you doing here?

“Morning man. Just picking up some flowers for Asher”, Minghao said, as he showed Wonwoo a small bouquet he made himself. Asher was Minghao's partner and one of Y/N closest friends.

“Flowers, huh? What’s the occasion?”

“None at all, just felt like it”

“Huh?”

“Of course, you wouldn’t understand”

“W-why?” The tall one asked, startled. He knew his friend wasn’t fond of the idea of the dare, but he wouldn’t think that bad of him now, would he?

“Cuz you are a virgin and a loser who has never even touched a woman before”. Yeah, he thinks that bad of him now. On a normal day, Minghao would reassure Wonwoo about that topic, but seems like he won’t be doing it anymore.

“No need to be that harsh dude”

“And no need to say yes to such a dare. Wonwoo, have you thought of the consequences of this?”

“I… No, I haven’t. But is not like I’m gonna win it”. At this point, Wonwoo was trying to excuse himself, even though deep down he really thought he wouldn’t make it. He cannot make Y/N fall for him in 4 months. He needs more time for that. And it’s not like he knows how to make her fall for him.

“Whatever. When everything is messed up, if you come ask me for advice all I’m gonna say is ‘I told you so’, got it?”, as he said those words, he finished the bouquet, looking at it with a fond smile.

“You are giving it to her now?”

“Yeah, gonna see them before their classes start”

“Can I…?” Minghao gave a deathly glare to the tall one. He knew he was just asking as Asher and Y/N were classmates, which meant that Minghao was going to their faculty building.

“You are lucky you are my friend, cuz if not I would have kicked your ass at that question”

“But can I accompany you or not…?”

“Do as you please”, and with that, Minghao started walking towards the Art and Design faculty building. With no hesitation, Wonwoo ran after him, trying to make small talk, even if the other wasn’t really in the mood to talk to him.

They finally reached the Art and Design faculty building, which was just a couple minutes away from the Engineering faculty building. Minghao’s face changed completely as he was looking for his partner, which Wonwoo found endearing. And, if Minghao already seemed whipped while looking for Asher, the moment he landed his eyes on them, his whole expression lightened up. He quickly walked up to them, calling out their name. “Asher!!”

The goth stopped walking as they heard their boyfriend’s voice. The person accompanying them also stopped, which Wonwoo recognised even before she turned around. It was Y/N.

He suddenly felt his palms getting sweaty. Damn, how was he gonna do this now?? Should he approach herdirectly? Follow Minghao and just join the conversation?

“Hao!! What are you doing here?” Asher’s face lightened up at the sight of their boyfriend. It was that moment that Wonwoo noticed their makeup. He already knew they were goth, but never really looked at their makeup. It was pretty cool.

“Just wanted to give some flowers to my monarch”

“God, you know you can call me princess”

“Monarch sounds cooler”, he said as he leaned on to kiss their lips and give them the bouquet. Wonwoo couldn’t help but look away, feeling he was intruding on an intimate moment between the couple. His eyes landed on Y/N.

She was beautiful, that's something he always knew. It wasn’t a surprise she got many admirers. Damn, it’s gonna be impossible to win this dare. He didn’t realize he was staring at her, until she smiled at him, making him blush and look away. Great, now she will think he is even more of a loser than he already is.

“Are you going to this afternoon's student council meeting?” Her sweet voice surprised Wonwoo, not because he hadn't heard it before, but because it was directed at him. He winked a couple times before answering. “Y-yeah, gotta go”

Minghao looked briefly at the interaction between both of them, slightly annoyed, before turning back his attention to his partner.

“Oh, cool, I’ll see you there then!! It’s always good to see a familiar face at those places”, and she smiled at him. He could feel his heart race, due to the nervousness. He was about to say something, but the sudden sound of Minghao’s voice interrupted him. “Wonwoo, don’t you have to go to class?

Wonwoo looked at his phone. It was 10:27 and he, in fact, had to run to his next class. He waved them goodbye and ran to his faculty building, with the image of Y/N’s smile imprinted in his mind. These were gonna be the hardest 4 months of his life.

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.

Being part of the student council wasn’t something he had planned when he started college, but somehow knew would end up happening. After all, he has been class president during middle and high school.

He didn’t mind being his class president in uni. Been there, done that, he thought himself as he was elected, but things escalated way too fast, and without even knowing how, he was stuck in the student council. It was fun, and he got to be around some of his friends, such as Jeonghan and Minghao. That’s how he got to meet Y/N, and to be in the huge friend group both of them were part of.

Bzzz, bzzz

The sudden phone buzz scared him as he was on his way to the student council. He took his phone from his back pocket, and wasn’t surprised when he saw the notifications.

[vernon 🥸 has added you to a gc]

[vernon 🥸 has changed the gc name to wonwoo being a loser pt 4]

Wonwoo rolled his eyes at the screen, knowing perfectly fine what this was about.

[minghao psycho]: pt 4??

[mingyu uni]: i think he already made a fool of himself like 3 times with one of our dares

[mingyu uni]: you werent there last time tho

[minghao psycho]: makes sense

There was an unspoken rule about their dares. If you weren’t at the hangout, you didn’t get to know what the others were dared to, and no one had ever complained about it. Except for that one time in which Jeonghan was dared to ignore Cheol for a week, and as Cheol couldn’t make it for the hangout, he was heavily confused if he had messed up or if it had just been a simple dare. He even had begged the rest of the guys to break their rule and tell him the truth.

So it wasn’t a surprise for Wonwoo that Vernon created a new group chat. In fact, he was kinda expecting it to happen.

[vernon 🥸]: well wonwoo, any update??

[vernon 🥸]: time is passing by~

[wonwoo]: vernon its been A DAY?!?!

[wonwoo]: lemme breathe haven’t recovered from the hangover yet lmao

[tiger wannabe]: morning?? tf is this about now😭😭

[mingyu uni]: its fucking 5 pm dude wdym morning

Wonwoo laughed at his friends, as they started a discussion over hoshi’s sleeping tendencies. He kept walking, as another notification appeared on his lockscreen.

[minghao psycho]: are u coming??

The tall one laughed at the contact name of Minghao in his phone. He wanted to add him as ‘Minghao psychology’ but it was too long and just writing psycho made everything funnier.

[wonwoo]: omw, will be there in 5 mins

[minghao psycho]: nice

[minghao psycho]: btw she is here

[minghao psycho]: and asked bout u

Wonwoo could feel his heart beating faster. Why on Earth would she ask about him? Did she know about the dare? No, that’s impossible. Wonwoo hasn’t even interacted at all with her.

[wonwoo]: what she asked?

[minghao psycho]: if u were coming

[minghao psycho]: i would say try flirting with her in front of me and ill kick your ass

[minghao psycho]: but lets be honest

[minghao psycho]: u wont even look her way

[wonwoo]: what a dickhead

[minghao psycho]: deserved

[minghao psycho]: best part of this dare u dont even have the guts to talk to women

Wonwoo put his phone in silence and back to one of his pockets, ignoring his friend's texts. He is kinda tired of the same jokes all the time, and now that Minghao has also started to say those comments, just because he accepted the stupid dare. He wouldn’t admit it out of loud, but it hurts his ego.

After a couple minutes, he finally arrived where the meeting was taking place, and quickly sat down next to Jeonghan, smiling at him and Minghao. He looked around and without noticing, his gaze landed on Y/N. She was happily chatting with some of her friends, as she was about to start the meeting. Wonwoo couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. Both his friends sat next to him noticed, but said nothing about it.

“Well, now that everyone is here, the meeting can begin!!” The sweet voice of Y/N made Wonwoo come back to reality. He was at a student council meeting, in order to prepare this year’s university open days.

As the meeting progressed, Wonwoo could feel his concentration span diminished. All he could think about is getting back to his dorm to play league with Soobin, one of his classmates. He was already in the game, as Wonwoo saw on Discord. Agh, and he was stuck in that stupid meeting.

"Are you fine with the idea, Wonwoo?” Jeonghan’s voice startled the one with glasses, who had absolutely no idea of what was being discussed. Of course, he would do whoever in his same situation would do. “Yeah, sounds great”

Jeonghan smiled at his friend, and then at Y/N, nodding at her. Wonwoo was confused, what did that mean??

“Then it seems that we will be working together, Wonwoo!!”

Wonwoo looked at Y/N, and then at Jeonghan, trying not to look too confused. Working together in what? God, if only he hadn’t been lost in thought.

“Y-yeah, it will be great…”

As the meeting finished, Wonwoo ran to Minghao and grabbed his arm, pulling him out of the room they were in. Minghao already knew what his friend was gonna ask, and wanted to see him suffer a bit more.

“W-why am I working with Y/N at?!”

“Some collaboration between Computer Engineering and Design. I can’t wait to see Vernon’s reaction to this”

A/N: yaaay, 1st chapter published!! i hope yall enjoy it, i honestly had a lot of fun writing this and thinking of different ways to make wonwoo more embarrassed :3 ill try posting next chapter next week, so i hope yall stay tuned!! you can ask to be added to the tag list if you want to! im also posting a masterlist of my fics (and this one too) and posting to my profile so it can be easier to find the fics :)

Taglist: @adonisbtch @mydearhangel @wonvsmile @wonuilu @peachyaeger @minwonwoozi

[elizabethwritesmen]

Notice - Part 4

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Curvy!Reader

Warnings: Smut 18+, Mature Themes, Self deprecation on both sides, Body image issues, Self hatred, Angst (That's basically all this chapter is sorry love you guys), Slow burn, Mutual Pining

Summary: Dean is gone. Until he's not.

Word Count:

AN: Hey guys! I'm so sorry it took so long for me to put this out. This past (almost) year has been ridiculous, and I haven't had much time to even think about writing. But I'm back at it now with lots of fresh ideas and chapters! And I snuck in a little something as an official apology (;.

The next chapter will be the last, and I might do a short epilogue.

Thanks so much for the continued support and enjoy!

╔══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╗

She pined after Dean left, just as she knew she would.

Every time she saw a man that looked like him at a bar, or a store, or anywhere, she fought the urge to say something. She knew deep down, though, that if Dean ever came back, she's the first person that would find out. He would knock on her door and let her know how long he was staying for, and maybe he would even spare her a kiss this time before disappearing.

She waited for that knock. A month passed and she waited, then two, then three. Eventually she grew cynical, her inner demons possessing her and her insecurities winning.

"Come on, Y/N. Please. If you want to wait forever for that guy to come back, more power to you, but can you at least rejoin the human race in the mean time?" Evelyn asked, her voice heavy through the phone speaker.

"I don't know, Evvy. I don't really like the whole bar scene anyway, I never have fun like you guys do."

"Yes, we've been over this. Ashley and I have tons of men all over us and you never have anybody. Did you ever stop to think that maybe that has nothing to do with how you look? Seriously, Y/N. You're hot. But you're quiet, and reserved, and you hang out in corners and read or peel labels off bottles. It's intimidating and off putting. What you need is to come out with us tonight and let your hair down! Have a good time!"

"I like corners and books and peeling labels," Y/N huffed.

"I know you do, but why don't you just take a break from the norm? You might have a good time, and it'll get your mind off of Dean."

The mention of his name was enough to make her second guess her decision. She did want to forget about him, at least for the night. She wanted to remember what it felt like to be human.

"Okay, fine. But you're driving. Come get me."

Evelyn cheered on the other line and hung up, leaving Y/N to wonder if she'd made the right decision. She shrugged off her doubt and wandered to her closet, picking through clothes until she found an outfit she was happy with.

An hour later, there was a knock on her door. Evelyn and Ashley stood on the other side, both with giddy smiles plastered onto their faces.

"Stop looking at me like that," Y/N furrowed her brows, letting them in and shutting the door behind them.

"Like what?"

"All smiley and weird. You look like the doodle bops. You're creeping me out."

The girls giggled, and Ashley explained, "We're just so happy to see you. It's been so long! It's like you forgot that we're all best friends."

"It hasn't been that long. Besides, I'm sure you guys have more fun without me, I am the lame one."

Evelyn huffed, "No you're not. You're like the coolest of all three of us. You're the funniest, and the smartest. It's not the same without you. We don't even really go out much anymore since you stopped coming with us."

"It's true," Ashley nodded, "You make us whole. I'm glad to have you back."

Y/N was taken aback. She always thought she was extra. She never realized how much she mattered to them.

"And by the way," Evenlyn raised her brows and blatantly checked her out, "You look hot."

Y/N blushed, smoothing out her yellow mini dress. Her white heels complimented it perfectly, and she paired the outfit with assorted gold jewelry and curled hair.

They walked into the bar, and Y/N let out a sigh when she noticed how packed it was.

"There are so many people here," she cringed.

"And you're about to flirt with one of them!" Ashley exclaimed, much to her dismay.

"I don't think she's gonna have to make the first move, either, with that dress on," Evelyn smirked.

They found a booth and Y/N volunteered to go to the bar and order them all drinks. Three beers.

"I love a girl in a good sundress," a voice came from behind her. She turned around to see a man, tall and handsome, but not quite Dean.

"Oh," she awkwardly spoke, "Thank you?"

"You're welcome," he laughed, "Why don't you let me buy you a drink?"

"I already ordered one, but thanks."

"Okay, then why don't you hang out with me while until you finish it and I'll buy your next one?"

He was persistent, she had to give him that.

"Okay," she sighed, figuring she had nothing to lose. At least it would be a short-lived distraction.

"Here you go, ma'am," the bartender handed her three bottles.

"Thanks," she smiled, grabbing them and turning to the man she'd been talking to, "I'll be right back."

She brought Evelyn and Ashley the beer and told them about him.

"Go for it, girl! He's been staring at you since we walked in, he totally wants some," Ashley spurred her on.

"Yeah, but I don't want some," she frowned.

"Okay, but he doesn't know that yet, so there's no harm in flirting. Just something to get over Dean and boost your self confidence," Evelyn inputted.

Y/N let out yet another exasperated sigh and silently agreed, walking back over to the man.

"There you are, hot stuff!" he smiled at her, all teeth.

"Yeah, sorry, I just had to bring my friends their drinks."

"No problem at all, sweetness, I knew you'd come back for more."

Internally, she was cringing. This dude was disgustingly cocky. He looked like a former frat boy who peaked in college.

They talked for a while, but she really wasn't interested at all. Even a conversation with him was a chore, and her energy levels weren't high enough to inflate his ego further.

"Listen, Jordan, I'm gonna go back to my friends but it was nice to meet you," she interrupted him in the middle of his sentence, not caring what he had to say.

"Excuse me?" his confusion showed all over his face.

"Yeah, I'm sorry, I'd just rather be hanging out with them. There are a lot of other girls here you could talk to," she smiled politely, ejecting herself by turning away from him.

He grabbed her arm and pulled her back into him, growling through gritted teeth, "But I'm talking to you. You know, you big girls are good in bed but you're really all fucking bitches."

She tried to yank herself away from him, but it was to no avail. She yelled, "Let go of me!" He didn't listen, holding tighter and reaching down to her ass, giving it a squeeze.

"It's ok, hot stuff, I can take care of that. This ass needs me behind it, huh? Get rid of your attitude real quick."

She didn't even have time to respond, or spit on him, or punch him, or whatever else she planned to do because she was ripped from his grasp. It was a whirlwind, and she felt like she was spinning, but when she grounded herself, she was behind a solid wall of leather.

She recognized him by his smell alone. It was Dean. Her Dean.

"She told you to let her god damn go," he deadpanned, his voice low and deadly.

"Who the fuck are you, her dad? Get the fuck out of here, she's just some whore," Jordan huffed.

That was all it took for Dean to swing, sharp and quick, his fist landing square in the center of the other man's face. Jordan's nose instantly started leaking blood behind the hand he'd put over it.

"She is not a whore. She just doesn't fucking want you, asshole."

He grabbed her hand and lead her out of the bar before the owner even had a chance to kick them out. Evelyn and Ashley followed closely behind.

"Are you okay, Y/N?" Evelyn asked, concern written on her face like a book.

"I am," the girl meekly assured, rubbing her arm where the creep had grabbed her.

"Um," Ashley started, glancing between Y/N and Dean pointedly, "We're gonna go. We'll call you later to check on you."

"Yeah," Evelyn agreed, sensing the mood. She turned to Dean as they walked to her car, "Get her home safe."

"Always," he promised, waving goodbye to the girls and turning to his favorite. "What the hell were you doing, talking to a guy like that, sweetheart?"

"I..." she stuttered. She didn't want to lay all her cards out on the table just yet. "I don't know. I liked him."

Dean cocked a brow, "Him? Really? See, I just don't believe that."

She rolled her eyes and stomped her foot petulantly, "I thought it would be a distraction, Dean."

"From what?" he asked, as if he really didn't know. Her eyes averted to the ground and she pursed her lips awkwardly. That told him everything. "From me?"

"I think about you more than I should. I just knew you would come back, so I've been waiting for you, but I didn't know when, so I wanted a distraction."

"How many distractions have you looked for?"

"He was the first one. And I didn't plan to sleep with him or anything. I just thought the conversation would be good for me. Turns out it wasn't."

"Well you don't have to answer to me, sweetheart. But you should know, I've been thinking about you, too."

"Really?"

"I've been trying to get back. It's just been impossible. We've been so busy with hunt after hunt, and there haven't been any here."

"If there's not a hunt here, then why are you here?"

"There was an easy one close to home. I sent Sam on it alone for a couple days and I drove here."

Her eyes met his, and she saw how worn down he was. The innocence in his eyes was dwindling every day. Her heart ached for him, wishing she could lighten the load. Wishing she could take some of it away for him.

"Take me home," she demanded, her voice sweeter than her words. He nodded, leading her to the impala and opening the passenger side door for her.

The car ride was silent. As was the walk up to her apartment. Neither of them knew what to say. All of the feelings from before were still there, in fact they were stronger than they'd been the first time.

They stood awkwardly at her door for a moment, and she cleared her throat to ease it, "You can stay here tonight, Dean. You don't have to find a cheap motel."

"I actually already have one. But I'd still rather stay here, if you're sure it's okay."

She let him in and he sat on her couch as she walked to her bedroom to change. She threw on a tank top and a pair of spandex shorts, rushing back to his side. She didn't want to be away from him for too long. Really, she didn't want to waste a moment of the time she had with him.

"How long are you here for?" she asked.

"Until tomorrow afternoon."

She couldn't stop the sorrow from creeping into her smile, "Well at least we have a little bit of time."

"I need more with you."

"I know," she sighed, "But this will do. Are you hungry? I'm gonna make something to eat."

"I'll help you," he offered, following her into the kitchen.

They threw together some burgers and fries, and she handed him the remote, instructing him to find a movie. He did, The Untouchables, mumbling something about it being his favorite of all time.

Before they knew it, they were sitting next to each other on the couch, plates empty and discarded, movie almost over.

"You were right. The movie was good," she mused as the credits began to roll.

"I’m always right,” he smirked, turning the TV off and carrying the plates to the kitchen, washing them before she could protest.

A loud yawn burst from her lips as she joined him, placing the newly clean plates in her cabinet.

“You should get some sleep, sweetheart. I’ll still be here in the morning,” he told her.

“I’m not ready to go to bed yet, I don’t want to let you out of my sight,” she whined in protest.

He chuckled, pulling her into his chest and squeezing. She took the moment to breathe him in,

“Hey Dean, why’d you go to the bar when you got to town instead of to my apartment?” she’d been wondering for hours but hadn’t had the chance to ask yet. Finally, she said fuck it and went for it.

“I came here first. You weren’t home, and it’s a Saturday night. I figured the bar was a good place to start looking for you.”

Her heart warmed, swelling in her chest.

“Let’s just have a living room sleepover and watch movies til we fall asleep,” she suggested, pulling just far enough away to look at him.

“Or, and feel free to say no or slap me or whatever you think is appropriate, I could sleep with you tonight? We don’t have to do anything. I just want to be next to you.”

And he meant it. He’d never been so eager to simply sleep in the company of a woman in his life. He wanted more, sure, but he was fine with just holding her. She was warm, and she smelled of vanilla and strawberries. She was comfort and she felt like he’d found a home. Hunting didn’t really allow him one of those, so he savored her.

“Come on,” her voice was barely over a whisper as she pulled him by his hand to her room.

He had to fight the urge to inhale as he walked in. Her scent was so heavy in the room he could wrap up in it like a blanket. He felt like he was becoming addicted, and he dreaded leaving the next day. She was just as perfect, if not more so, than he remembered, and he didn’t understand how she came so easily to him when nobody else ever had.

“You’re welcome to shower before you go to sleep. I have some extra boxers that I think might fit you,” she hummed as she flitted about, cleaning up as much as she could. She wasn’t expecting him, and her stomach was in knots, butterflies fluttering in there like she’d never felt.

“Why do you have boxers laying around?” he asked, brows furrowed, a twinge of jealousy tainting his voice.

“Evelyn stayed over a few months ago with her ex boyfriend and they forgot to bring his boxers, so they went to the store and got some. He only used one pair out of the pack, the other two are still in there. I’m pretty sure he left a T shirt too, but I’d have to look for it,” she explained. She felt empowered by his slight jealousy; it made her feel wanted.

“Just the boxers will do,” he smiled, and she reached into one of her dresser drawers to fish the package out for him.

He went to shower and while he was gone, her nerves got the best of her. She paced, almost frantic, heart beating out of her chest. What if he made a move? What if he didn’t make a move? She hadn’t become less insecure since he’d last been there, and she worried about whether or not he even liked her. Maybe it was just a friendship thing for him. Maybe it was a pity thing. Maybe he didn’t want to see her at all, and just stumbled into her at the bar by accident.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he asked, drawing her out of her panicked state. She stood frozen when she laid eyes on him, his hair wet and his chest bare. The boxers fit perfectly and her eyes widened when she noticed what they were hiding. It was…. intimidating, to say the least.

“Yes!” she squeaked out, jumping under the covers, willing the flush to leave her cheeks.

He climbed in beside her as she turned on her bedroom TV, putting on an old movie and turning the volume down for background noise.

“I can go to the couch if you’re uncomfortable,” he offered. His concern for her was evident.

“I’m not,” she said, all too quickly. “I just… I can’t believe you came back. Why did you come back?”

He sighed, heavy and thoughtful, “You’re all I’ve thought about since I met you. I talk about you all the time. I didn’t send Sammy on that hunt alone, he went without telling me and called me on the way. Told me to drive here and see you before he goes crazy.”

“Why are you so interested in me?”

“I guess for the same reason you’re so interested in me. It’s not something I can explain. It’s just something I feel.”

“Yeah,” she paused, “Tonight is the first night I’ve gone out since you left. I’ve been waiting for a knock at my door like an idiot. You’ve.. you’ve vexed me.”

“You vexed me first.”

She met his eyes, startled by how close he was to her.

“Close your eyes,” he whispered.

“Why?”

“Trust me. Close your eyes.”

She did as he asked. She hoped he’d kiss her, but she was only half expecting him to, doubt gnawing at her like a dog with a bone.

It let go of her, though, the second his lips met hers.

It was the kind of kiss a girl doesn’t forget. Heavy, and soft, and passionate, and desperate. And sweet. So sweet. His taste was burned into her memory and if she was ruined before, she was much worse for wear now.

He slipped his arms around her and pulled her into his chest, embracing her like he’d wanted to since the moment they met. She whined, needy and pliant, and he had to fight the urge to groan. He’d never felt want like he did with her. She made him feel like he could do anything.

She arched her back into him, wanting to be closer. She thought she’d die without more of him right that second. His bare skin taunted her, warm and hard and inviting. Her nipples hardened through her thin tank top, pushing against him, creating the most beautiful friction. She couldn’t hold back her moan when his tongue brushed against hers, and her leg found it’s way over his hip, her core meeting his in a fit of need.

The groan he’d been saving came out full force, his hand sliding over the curve of her ass, pulling her closer, wanting…. wanting…. wanting. Only then did the kiss slow, coming to a sweet and breathless end.

“Maybe we should wait,” he suggested.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked.

“I’d rather work for you, sweetheart. I don’t want this to be something you regret. I want it to be perfect, like you deserve. And I just don’t think I deserve you quite yet.”

“Dean..” she breathed out, unsure of what to say. He was so… careful with her. It turned her into a puddle. “We can wait. But you deserve everything.”

“You are everything.”

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

Tag List: @stoneyggirl2 @winchestergypsy90 @hazel-eye-coffee-shop-girl-blog @deansbbyx @siospins2 @gatorgal94 @classyunknownlover @jbcalway @djs8891 @mishapocalyse @justrealizedimmascifygurl @ellie-andthemachine @sassy-pelican @tmb510 @superwholockisdabest

[dolphs-world]

August 26th, the Pikmin 4

Anyways, the actual movie itself. Main criticisms was that it was too on the nose and too expository. Again, is this for kids or adults? Because this made it feel dumb. There should not have been a narrator, I honestly think that the 2001: A Space Odyssey scene would have been so much cooler without the narration, people making their own interpretation. You know, like 2001: A Space Odyssey?! The worst scene in the movie was when Barbie said she didn't feel pretty and then Helen Mirren as the Narrator butted in to say criticise the filmmaker's choice to have Margot Robbie make this point. I hated this for so many reasons. 1, nice lampshading idiot. I was kind of invested in the scene when you had to break my immersion. 2, Helen Mirren is also very beautiful. When women support women, women win. 3, it also just undercut the moment. Even beautiful women don't feel beautiful all the time and it was nice that someone brought it up without being judged, IN THE WORLD OF THE FILM. 4, this got the biggest laugh out of the second audience I saw. That audience was packed but even in the first theatre I saw it in 2/6 people laughed. I really wish the film was more funny. I did find it pretty funny and I didn't think it had the issue of quippy dialogue undercutting the emotion, but all the lines I was smiling at weren't the ones the audience were. I wouldn't consider myself a cinephile, I'm probably on the same level as Doug Walker, but being in a theatre made me realise what like the average person's sense of humour was. Barbie crying about being called a fascist was the funniest line and I wish I hadn't been spoilt on it. Would have had the same reaction as I did when the asshole waiter in Dirty Dancing tells Baby to read The Fountainhead. The second best thing I can say about the movie was the attitude. Even if I think it was messy, we need more movies like this. We need more movies that are serious in their sillyness. The best thing I can say is the acting. I was surprised how much I liked the mum, she was great and also pretty funny. I like that she just has a husband. Although her idea at the end does suck, what if instead of sonic you played as a man who wears blue pants and has to collect rings to pay taxes. Also liked seeing Rhea Perlman. Tax evasion jokes would have been funnier if they weren't played out. Will Ferrell was also really funny. He does have Jewish friends. But Ryan Gosling stole the show. I'm sorry Margot Robbie but I think she's done better acting in every other movie I've seen her in. I do think that Ryan Gosling should win best actor. And now I think he's one of the best actors. Search up "best acting comps" on the internet and you'll find a lot of men screaming. Whilst dramatic acting is great, I prefer comedy. So when someone can perfect both, such as Bryan Cranston in Malcolm in the Middle and Breaking Bad, that's perfection. And Ryan Gosling is now perfection. The Ken song was the best part of the movie. I have more to say on the ideology of the film but I'll save that for later, along with A.I.

But in terms of my actual week, it's been fine. That girl I was talking about at work, I think we're friends now. She's in one of my classes at school and I'm going to play Board Games with her after exams. I also bumped into another coworker at school who I only worked with twice, I think, but he was really cool. Oh, my mum has decided that we're going to stay here. That didn't resolve all our problems though. She's been worried about me a lot, that I'm becoming more detached, more suppressed, unhappy with school, even less likely to stand up for myself. Surprisingly me writing about how annoying it is being surrounded by people complaining about their lives and critiquing mine didn't cause me to have a revelation, talking about it with my mum did. Started crying after I realised that I don't really like talking with my friends. After secondary school I just started losing more and more, they just responding to my messages, and now I'm realising that there's only a few who I can really talk to. Only some that are more than just laughing, something deeper, something real. Kind of like the Barbie Movie! But I have a great life. School is easy, I just don't like it. This is the most stressful it's going to be and I just gotta write a couple of essays. I hope Psych will be more interesting next year. I love my work. Everyone in my personal life seems to enjoy my stories, except those who hate children, maybe I'll share some anecdotes. I do like my friends. It's just tough. I don't know. I don't like complaining. Really, the only thing I dislike is my familial tensions. But I don't want to talk about that. I just want to write about movies.

[makeste]

BnHA Chapter 316: We've Had One, Yes, But What About Second Explosion

Previously on BnHA: Deku was all “[powers up like whoa because it’s time to end the fight]”, and he saved Overhaul from getting not-shot, and then smashed up Nagant’s arm with the power of his new rechargeable super knees. Nagant was all “yoooo this kid is crazy strong whaaaat, it’s like he’s some kind of protagonist or something.” Deku was all “I AM A PROTAGONIST, ACTUALLY, DO YOU WANT TO JOIN FORCES AND FIGHT BAD GUYS WITH ME?” Nagant was all “ah shit why the hell no -- ” and then AFO was all “SURPRISE” and everyone was all “?!?!?!” and AFO was all “TIME TO EXPLODE NOW” and made Nagant explode because he’s an absolute fucking dick. And then Hawks showed up, because Horikoshi just wanted to stuff as many plot points as humanly possible into a single chapter I guess.

Today on BnHA: Hawks is all “good job giving motivational shounen redemption speeches Deku but I’ll take it from here” and screams very earnestly right in Nagant’s face until she finally wakes up. Nagant is all “oh hey it’s my successor, you seem surprisingly unfucked-up from your own HPSC tenure, how did you manage that?” Hawks is all “fandom is going to love hearing this one, but basically it’s because I’m very upbeat and also I had the world’s best role model Endeavor to look up to,” and I swear this man stirs the pot on purpose, but damn it I still love him so damn much. Overhaul is all “HELLO AGAIN, JUST A REMINDER THAT, THE BOSS!!” and Deku is all “MAYBE TAKE TWO SECONDS TO REFLECT ON HOW YOU TORTURED A LITTLE GIRL,” which, thank you, lol. Nagant is all “btw AFO’s hiding in a house in the woods”, and so Deku and the gang go to the house in the woods. Video recording!AFO is all “hi I’m AFO welcome to Jackass” and blows up the house. Sometimes I wonder if this manga is just a weird dream.

I am once again reading the Bean version because I think it was actually the best out of all three translations last week. and that is surprisingly including Viz’s. “faux” is not nearly as entertaining as “knockoff”, and also I have literally no idea why Caleb thought Deku was saying the Third’s lines lol

oh hey, Endeavor’s here too! not that you’d ever be able to tell from this first panel lmao

glad you received All Might’s call, mysterious unidentified glowing smudge

oh snap he says he’s weaker in the rain. is that why AFO told Nagant to attack then?? except that as we discussed the other day, I believe that AFO fully intended for Nagant to lose the fight, so him giving her info that would give her an advantage doesn’t really fit in with that. maybe he wanted Deku to be separated from Endeavor and the rest for maximum angst, though

btw Deku’s eyes are unsurprisingly back to the new normal here

alas, the angst continues. I say, pretending like I’m not totally eating it up each and every week and writing essay after essay about it lol

anyway so apparently Hawks can’t actually fly lmao. he was just yeeting himself with style

for some reason this is the funniest fucking thing I’ve ever seen omfg. wave to Hawks, kids! say “bye, Hawks!”

j/k of course Deku is catching them. -- except???

wow so he was just running on fumes there at the end. well, good to know there is actually a limit to his shenanigans, particularly regarding this new “knockoff” 100% OFA. it will definitely not alleviate any of the discourse, but it’s good for my own peace of mind because it’s solid confirmation that he still needs his pals in order to win this thing

anyway, but on to the rest of this conversation, which is basically Deku deducing what we all deduced last week -- AFO implanted some sort of trap into Nagant when he gave her Air Walk. though I’d still like to get the actual details from AFO and/or Horikoshi, because this was particularly wild even by quirk standards lol

omgggggg

she still has a face after all!! so it’s confirmed, Horikoshi has no idea what “blowing up” actually means. we might have guessed, based on what happened to Toga in the MVA arc, and also based on everything Katsuki does ever, but shhh

so now Hawks is all “NAGANT PLEASE WAKE UP, IF I SHOUT MY NAME AT YOU WILL THAT DO THE TRICK”

this is actually kind of touching though because even though we all know (or most of us acknowledge at any rate) that Hawks is a pretty caring person, it’s rare to see him actually panic over someone’s welfare like this

oh shit Horikoshi is really doubling down on it

I wonder how much Hawks knew about what really happened between Nagant and the HPSC. regardless, he probably sees her as a kindred spirit of sorts, and I’m more than happy for Deku to pass the redemption torch onto him now that he’s on the scene. like no offense Deku but they actually know each other and stuff lol

DAMMIT NAGANT CAN’T YOU SEE HOW LOUD HE IS YELLING

apparently being freed from his HPSC shackles has finally given Hawks the space to embrace his own inner shounen protagonist. is there anything more shounen than trying to motivationally scream someone awake when they’re lying in your arms inches from death?? 100% guaranteed to work

!!! IS THIS NAGANT’S POV OMG

SO SHE IS ALIVE. THANK GOD. Horikoshi doesn’t want to meet with my emotional distress lawyer today after all

love how she’s all “just gonna stir up the weekly Hawks Discourse pot here by implying that he probably committed a lot of Atrocities just like I did, so now people can get all hopped up about that, even though there’s no evidence he’s ever killed anyone aside from that one horrible ‘damned-if-you-do...’ situation with Twice.” no one asked for your provocative speculation young lady!! trust me Nagant, our rabbles don’t need the rousing lol

but nice save there with the “so how are your eyes so untainted” well you see it’s because even when he was following the HPSC’s orders he always went to great lengths never to go against his own moral compass. which just to be clear was incredibly difficult, and led to a ton of pain and suffering on his part, because the life of a spy is basically just one impossible situation after another. but in spite of that he never stopped trying to do his best to help people. I don’t really know where this tangent came from or is leading to, lol, but anyway p.s.a. I love Hawks a lot and he’s a good kid dammit

oh shit??!?

how is the League always able to swing all these fancy forest mansions. where do they find them. how many do they have

so Deku’s dropping them -- very roughly, not sure if he was reacting to finally getting AFO’s location, or if his energy really is giving out -- and now Nagant’s saying that AFO hired other villains as well. well of course he did. gotta keep chipping away at OFA’s ninth successor little by little

now Nagant is asking Hawks how he’s able to keep making “that” face. I assume she’s again talking about the fact that he somehow didn’t let the HPSC wear down his spirit

oh my god???

thanks for stuffing this chapter to the brim with good nutritional Hawks Feels, Horikoshi. what a good. he just keeps on trudging forward undeterred no matter what bullshit comes his way. what a steadfast little guy. I WILL PROTECT YOU FROM DISCOURSE MY SWEET SUNSHINE

lmaoooo

“SPOTTED THIS DUDE JUST CHILLING OUT THERE ON THE ROOF WITH NO ARMS, SEEMED PRETTY SUS” good job Endeavor

anyway so you don’t really need me to tell you that Overhaul is immediately starting in with the “BUT THE BOSS WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO TAKE ME TO THE BOSS YOU PROMISED YOU WOULD TAKE ME TO THE BOSS” stuff again. but I will go ahead and tell you anyway. so yeah. he’s doing that

OMG YOU GUYS LOOK AT DEKU’S “of all the fucking assholes to just randomly drop in on my life once again why did it have to be you” FACE THOUGH, OMG

fun fact, if you go back to chapters 124 through 160, there was an entire story arc where Overhaul imprisoned and tortured a little girl. yeah, I know!! suuuuuuuuper evil. anyways just an interesting little anecdote for you all that’s somewhat relevant to the current situation

OMG, YES. FUCK YES, DEKU

THEN WHAT ABOUT SPARING ONE FOR HER!!! YES!!! EXACTLY!!! JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, SOMEONE GETS IT

HERE’S THE PANEL OF DEKU SAYING THE EXACT SAME THING I’M SAYING LOL

(ETA: so apparently there’s some discourse about this because some people are interpreting this as Deku saying “you should apologize to Eri”, which would obviously be a terrible idea even if Overhaul actually wanted to do that, because Eri shouldn’t ever have to see him again. however I just want to point out that there is a HUGE difference between saying “it would be nice if you could direct that feeling of regret/being sorry towards Eri as well”, vs saying “you should also apologize to her.” all Deku is doing is rightfully pointing out that Overhaul has hurt way more people than just his boss, and if he really is remorseful, then he should extend those feelings of remorse to Eri and the rest as well. it’s not a directive to take any specific action, and I’m 1000% sure no one at U.A. would let Overhaul within 100 miles of Eri ever again.

tl;dr “try feeling remorse sometime” =/= “do you want me to fly you over to U.A. right now to surprise the little girl you traumatized”, lol.)

[slings an arm around Deku’s shoulders] you’re a good kid. I like you. I don’t know if I tell you that enough, but it’s true

meanwhile here is Overhaul’s “spare... a thought... for Eri...???????” face sigh

the struggle is real y’all

(ETA: and that’s... the last we ever saw of Overhaul, I guess? well all right then. I assume Deku will make good on his promise, so we know he’ll get that little bit of closure before going back to jail or whatever, and I confess I’m more than fine with leaving the rest of it open-ended, especially given his character’s history. I think this was pretty generous all things considered.)

lmao holy shit

All Might what did you do to those tiki torch guys?? did you thrash them. did you give ‘em those hands. did you deliver their own asses to them complete with a sticker reminding them Amazon Prime Day is on June 21. we missed out goddammit

so Endeavor, who wasn’t the one he was asking, is telling him that they captured (well let’s be real, Deku captured, give the credit where it’s due) Nagant and Overhaul. and so I guess they’re going to take Nagant to the ER now

fire is no one’s weakness

-- oh my GOD I scrolled down and audibly gasped

[is politely but firmly approached and asked to remove my arm from Deku’s shoulder by the physical manifestation of all this Dekuangst] “we’re sorry, he’s not allowed to have visitors right now” oh shit, my bad. [goes to stand behind a police barricade]

lmao what. did you run out of room on the previous page

what an exaggerated fade to black lmao

-- AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

I actually can’t see what he’s reacting to so maybe I’m just seriously jumping the gun here lol, but THE HELL WITH IT. the next panel appears to be a cut to Haibori Forest, so I’m just gonna go ahead and declare that Deku ran off on his own all wounded to go have more Dekuangst, just like I manifested. now go call Katsuki goddammit

[scrolls three more inches down] oh

yeah so like I said, Deku is walking very slowly a few feet in front of Endeavor, who’s telling him to wait up. yep. we’ve all gotta be so careful to not just jump to conclusions. I know we’re excited but still

anyway, so! welcome back to Mt. Lady and Kamui Woods (ARE YOU GUYS DATING) and Edgeshot! have fun walking into this obvious trap lol

dammit Deku why are you so determined to tempt fate

[monkey puppet meme faces]

OH MY GOD THIS IS PURE GRADE-A CHEESY COMIC BOOK VILLAIN 101 SHIT AND I’M HERE FOR IT

that’s such a weird way of clapping who claps like that

unlike certain other people who shan’t be named, AFO doesn’t feel the need to inexplicably take his shirt off when recording sinister villain monologues. I think we’re all pretty grateful for that

high fives to everyone who called it!! yep yep

anyway so this whole scene has major booby-trap vibes, which I’m enjoying immensely even though I don’t think anything is really going to come of it lol. probably just another long-winded AFO Speech. but wouldn’t it be funny if like the ceiling started lowering down to try and squish Deku afterwards lol

(ETA: well the explosion was still pretty funny too ngl.)

ffff

[“Dekuangst is the trap” intensifies]

anyway so yeah. he’s just hitting up all of his usual villain talking points. we get it, you’re so smart and you see right through the thin veneers of society and people who don’t conform are left to fend for themselves and labeled as villains and history is written by the victors, and blah blah blah dude are you just jumping randomly from one soundbyte to another lol. literally what are you talking about. what does this have to do with you blowing up Nagant

-- holy shit??

[”Dekuangst is the trap” intensifies MORE?????]

LOL WHAT

BRO. WHAT IS WITH YOU. DON’T YOU KNOW HOW TO LAY ANY OTHER KIND OF FUCKING TRAP GOOD LORD

“YOU’RE NEXT” THE CALLBACK?? THE PARALLELS?? THOUGH WHEN ALL MIGHT POINTED HE MADE IT LOOK WAY COOLER. AFO’S POINTING JUST LOOKS LIKE SMOKEY THE BEAR

HAS ANYONE CHECKED IN ON KAMUI WOODS I HEAR HE IS WEAK TO FIRE?? THE ONLY ONE WHO IS, APPARENTLY

r.i.p. to this particular forest mansion. don’t worry they have a ton of backups

remember last week when I said maybe AFO thinks explosions are gauche. well never mind. he fucking loves explosions

anyway so that’s the end of BnHA, everyone. hope you enjoyed. it was a good ride while it lasted. see you all, good luck in your travels

[everlarkficexchange]

Like The Stars Hold The Moon

Written By : @katnissmellarkkkk

Prompt 59 :  "Katniss dad is a victor, he won his hunger games and is a mentor. Peeta is reaped for the games and Katniss begs her dad to help him win the games. [submitted by anonymous]“

Hi! It feels like there’s so much I need to say here and I can’t remember any of it now! This is obviously–if you read the summary, which I assume you did and that’s why you’re here hahaha–an EFE prompt. It was submitted by an anonymous person, so I don’t know specifically if this is what you wanted but I really hope this is good enough that you’ll be fulfilled?

I don’t think there is much more to say? I hope everyone who reads this has a good day! I wrote plenty of this on Easter so I’d like to thank Jesus for rising again. And I feel like the prompt alone is a sufficient summary but just so you know, this heavily features Katniss, Peeta (obvi), Haymitch and Katniss’ father, Hunter (I named him, that’s not canon, I know).

This fic I likely going to be a three-shot with an opportunity for a sequel three-shot. Oh and also, thank you to the anon who sent the prompt!

Oh and this got really long, so I’m just going to submit the first part on here and then I’ll add a link at the bottom to continue reading on AO3. I’ve never done this before so I don’t know if I’m doing it right?

Okay, if you read all my talking, bye now!

Rated T for the canon violence. 

At the reaping for the Forty-Seventh Hunger Games, Matty Knick drew out the names of a ”very special boy“ and ”a very special girl“ from the reaping bowls. She read them off in a bright voice and matched the sentiment with an out of place perky smile. The girl’s name was Heather Branch.

And the boy’s was Hunter Everdeen.

Of course, everyone knows the story of Hunter Everdeen.

/

Year of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games.

"So Hunter,” Caesar Flickerman leans toward the victor, absolutely electrified, and says, “tell us, tell us. How excited are you for the games this year?”

The camera focuses in on gray eyes, the color of a storm cloud or a cleanly polished knife. Dangerous and hard and cunning.

Or protective and frightful and angry.

Or warm and loving and kind.

“I’m about as excited as I always am, Caesar,” he shoots back, not a trace of even so much as a smirk on his face. Not even so much as a lift from the corner of his mouth.

And still, the crowd of Capitol idiots burst out in laughter, as if they just heard the funniest joke in the world, as if this was Hunter’s desired response to the words.

As if the conversation wasn’t about teenagers—and some as young as twelve—killing other teenagers.

“And what about you, Haymitch?” Caesar asks next, segueing from one aggravated man to another.

“I’m looking forward to the free drinks,” Haymitch says while tipping back dark gold colored liquid into his mouth. Almost as an afterthought, he gestures wide and sloppy to the crowd, igniting cacophonous sounds from the population once more. “And of course, the social interaction with all you lovely people.”

No one in the audience recognizes the insult. No one understands the blatant sarcasm at their expense.

Here in District Twelve though, we do. As exemplified by Peeta’s laugh, vibrating against my back. “Shh,” I hush, laser focused on the enormous television screen before us.

“Daddy’s not speaking anymore,” Prim reminds me from the other room, where she’s currently flipping through a magazine our father sent.

“Well, be quiet before he does,” I snap, elbowing Peeta when he rolls his eyes now. “Stop it, I haven’t seen him in weeks,” I complain, fixing him with a fierce glare.

“I know,” he murmurs agreeably, gently kissing my temple. “But he’ll be home in a few days.”

As if they could hear our exchange from inside the television box, Caesar turns his attention back to my father. “Hunter, how excited are you to get home to District Twelve?”

At that, his eyes genuinely light up with ferocity. “I’m counting the minutes,” he replies, but still manages to keep his tone cool. He adamantly refuses to give away his true emotion to even a single soul in the Capitol. It’s his way of withholding power from their greedy, glitter covered hands.

But I see the change in him. Prim, from her position against the doorframe, sees it. I’m positive my mother, who’s watching with our brother from the comfort of our house sees it as well.

Our father’s eyes are now alive again, the permanent frown his mouth resides in on every televised appearance loosens a bit, his brows aren’t knit so closely together any longer.

Caesar Flickerman sees the change too evidently.

“Look at those silver coins!” He bellows, gesturing for the cameras to put my father in a close up now. “They just lit up like the stars when talking about home. Tell me, Hunter Everdeen, how’s the family back in District Twelve?”

At that, my father makes a considerable effort to transform his entire expression into a mask of indifference. “They’re good,” he states evenly, his tone clipped. Making it blatant to even the airheaded Capitol citizens that he refuses to speak publicly about his family.

“Because you’re not property of the Capitol, baby,” he told me once, while on a walk in the woods. “You’re not anyone’s property.”

“What about you and mommy?”

“You’re our responsibility, but not our property.” He’d knelt down to my height, which happened to be the shortest in my second grade class. “Property implies ownership, Katniss. And no one owns you. No one owns you or your sister. Remember that for me. And never let yourself forget it.”

“You’re daughters are both old enough for the reaping, am I right?” Caesar presses further, and my sister and I automatically sigh. Knowing the response that’s bound to come.

“What’s wrong?” Peeta asks, as he still remains completely clueless. I shake my head instead of offering an explanation though, leaning further into his chest.

Peeta won’t understand. He was raised in town by merchants—the owners of the bakery, to be specific. He’s never understood the fierce protectiveness, the instantaneous fury, the irrational tunnel vision, that appears when a victor’s child is mentioned entering the games.

Peeta’s never even met my father. I’m not impatient by any stretch of the imagination to put the two of them in the same room, to watch my father chew my boyfriend up and devour him alive, to abide by his rules and regulations that will surely come with dating.

He doesn’t know Peeta and I have even so much as shaken hands. I’ve never so much as left him even the slightest hint. Not even when I’ve accompanied him to the bakery for the occasional trade with Peeta’s father, the baker himself.

Like both Prim and I predicted, our father is now on edge, his breathing uneven and his nostrils flaring. “Yes. Both my girls are of age,” he says after a long beat, his tone hard and jagged.

Caesar though is either oblivious or is extraordinarily practiced at appearing obtuse. “Well, wouldn’t it be something if either of them were chosen for the games? Am I right?” He directs his questions to the audience. “Don’t we all love a family story?” His words elicit cheers and hollers and a murderous glint in my father’s silver eyes. The camera only catches it for a moment’s time before quickly flitting away, towards the much more enjoyable image of the Captiolites chattering like chipmunks at the very idea.

And suddenly I feel Peeta’s arm tighten around me, the vision of me—the only person in the world he’s certain that he loves—being taken away from our home here in Twelve and tossed into an arena with kids twice her size, too much for even his naïve mind.

“Don’t we all believe in Mr. Everdeen,” the talk show host continues to push and I feel my typical annoyance with the odd man bleed into anger. “I mean, he brought home Mr. Abernathy here.” And with one single hand gesture from Caesar, the entire interview’s focus re-centers on Haymitch.

And unlike my father, he doesn’t even miss a beat before replying.

“Barely,” he mutters with a last swig of his drink, cleaning the glass. “And he was stingy with the gifts.”

Next to him, my father relaxes a bit. Haymitch always brings out a bit of levity in him, even on his worst days.

After all, in my father’s eyes, the paunchy drunk is a symbol of hope.

Haymitch is the only person my father’s ever brought him. He’s the only other living victor inside the confines of Twelve.

Not to mention his closest friend.

And my surrogate uncle, I note, a bit ironically. Haymitch and I have a far different relationship than he has with anyone else in my family but he’s always been there, has known me since the day I was born, often has dinner at our house, rain or shine, no matter how much he annoys my mother, and he’s an irreplaceable member of my family.

The audience is still riled up from Haymitch and howling with laughter—a bit too much, in my opinion—but my father can’t let the subject of his children go before adding one last sentiment.

“Don’t worry, Caesar. If either of my girls are reaped, trust me,” he states, louder and far more pronounced than anything else he’s said the entire interview. “They will be the victor. There’s not a tribute in the arena that would survive against my girl.”

/

For as long as I can remember, my father had taken me to the woods. He sometimes claims the first time he looked down at me in my mother’s arms, at a mere two days old, he saw a familiar hunger in my eyes.

Not a hunger for food. District Twelve is the smallest and the poorest in the country of Panem, but luckily, my family is one of the richest.

Unlike my schoolmates, I’ve never once had to worry about having enough to eat for lunch. My parents never worried that we’d starve to death or that Prim and I could be taken from their grasp by authorities. They never worried about supplying us with whatever we needed—they gave us more than we ever could have wanted—and they never had to fret that we’d be sent to the mines for work one day.

No, we were far too wealthy and far too famous for any of that.

But my parents had a far different batch of worries to keep them up at night. Not about food or finances or anything remotely common in Twelve.

No, they had to worry about cameras peaking into the privacy of our home and photos being taken without our knowledge and my face or Prim’s face being splashed across every magazine and newspaper in the country.

They worried about the almost insatiable thirst the Capitol seems to have for more family dynamics among the victors.

Especially after the recent back-to-back sibling victories led the hunger games to higher ratings and revenues in the Capitol.

When I was a child, my mother coached me to never go into town without my father by my side. Which sounds easy enough, until my father’s extensive vacations to the Capitol are taken into consideration. For as long as I can remember, my father would leave at random stretches of time, for weeks on end. To go play puppet for a population so dumb, so completely isolated from the rest of the country, that they took his anger for sarcasm. They took his bite as charm. They believed his glare was an act, was part of his appeal, when in reality my father had rebelled against performing for the last twenty-seven years.

When he was gone, our lives became strict. Bedtimes came earlier, curtains remained drawn day in and day out, our mother never wanted to sing or dance or even so much as smile with her husband gone.

But when he was home, sunshine peaked in our windows again. It danced on the floor and it swept us away with its gentle affection.

There was music and laughter and sweets and toys. He never returned from the Capitol empty-handed. He brought back expensive jewels for our mother, he built me and Prim a fancy treehouse in the backyard, put up a large, golden swing-set, went as far as purchasing as many cakes and breads as he could hold from the Mellark Bakery.

Peeta’s parents bakery.

Since I was two, further back than I can even retain, my father would take me out to the woods, would hold my hand and tell me old stories of District Twelve’s past, detail insane urban legends, teach me about plants and berries and trees and the direction of the wind.

And for as long as I can remember, I idolized him. He was so confident and so charismatic and so kind. For as long as I could remember, I wanted to be exactly like him when I grew up. It felt like an honor to me that I received far more his end of the gene line than my mother’s. She was regarded as a beauty in her youth, but he was one of the most magnificent people in the country. Having his coloring and the same silver eyes felt like a special gift, awarded every single time someone marveled at how similar we appear.

But my father was gone often and the unpredictable lengths of his stays in the large, foreign city was one of the only constants my family ever knew. So it really came as no surprise when my mother phoned the cabin only minutes after Caesar’s interview was over.

“I’ll get it,” Prim says flatly after a moment, throwing a sardonic glance at me and Peeta on the couch. Now in a much different entanglement than we had been while watching the talk-show.

“Thanks,” I murmur unintelligibly against Peeta’s mouth, before closing my eyes in pleasure.

“Don’t strain yourselves,” she can’t stop herself from tacking on the end.

“We’ll try not to while you’re still here,” Peeta murmurs cheekily, moving his lips downwards, towards my neck, right onto my pulse point. I let out a somewhat ridiculous squeak in response.

“Hello?” Prim says lightly into the receiver, already knowing it’s our mother. No one else calls this phone, inside this hidden cabin, located in the woods surrounding Twelve.

The woods in which officials fenced off years ago. The woods in which it’s illegal to enter. The woods in which my father has taken me to hunt for families less fortunate than ours since I was a small infant.

It’s not a typical cabin found in the outskirts of Twelve. No, ordinarily a cabin out here—a cabin anywhere in Panem, really—is nothing more than a broken down shack. There’s normally nothing other than an unsteady foundation, a freezing damp floor and an unlit fireplace.

But somewhere along the lines, in the years before I was born, my parents resurrected this place from the depths of despair and expanded it, rebuilt it, refurnished and redecorated and turned it into a vast, warm, safe second home for all of us to run away to when we felt the need.

Prim listens into the receiver for a long moment before she sighs deeply and beckons me. “Katniss, can you?”

Instantly, I break away from Peeta’s embrace, cupping his face and pulling him back from my collarbone.

“What’s wrong?” I ask as I scramble off the couch, my anxiety abruptly spiked. “Did something happen?” I search Prim’s eyes as I take the phone from her but, to my utter relief, all I find there is blatant, unmasked disappointment.

I already know what my mother is going to say before I put the phone to my ear. “Hi?”

“Hi, honey,” she murmurs, her voice both strained and higher than typical. Which indicates she’s trying to put up a front for us right now, when she’d rather be moping in bed. “Your father just called. Evidently Effie Trinket informed him he has more scheduled commitments to fulfill before he can come home.”

I deflate, already prepard, knowing this was coming. Isn’t it always coming inadvertently? My father has never been home when he was scheduled to be in my life. No matter the holiday, the birthday, the emergency or event, the Capitol demands that they comes first to him. Not even my birth could upstage his commitments. He wasn’t allowed to return home to Twelve, to meet his firstborn child, until his press events were done and over with.

It’s no wonder he refuses to put on show for those people.

“Okay,” I mumble after a moment, not even convinced my mother is even still there on the other end.

“It’ll be alright,” she says, as positively as she can. “He’ll be home as soon.”

“Yeah.” I try and fail miserably to match her tone. I inherited my father’s ability to act. Or inability, that is.

There’s the faint sound of crying in the background, and my heart aches a bit. “I’m sorry, honey, I have to go check on Archer,” she apologizes as a way of saying goodbye.

I make my way into the kitchen as soon as we hang up. Prim is standing by the counter, staring at the same magazine our father sent three weeks ago.

Peeta comes up behind me then, his hand rubbing my back in comforting circles. “Your father delayed again?”

I nod silently, as my eyes focused on my little sister now. She’s trying her best to hold back the upset that’s threatening to take over.

And without hesitation, my instincts to protect my family from anything and everything painful kick in. “Prim, it’s okay. It’s probably only going to be another week before he’s back,” I console, stepping closer to her small frame and touching her back.

It’s all the initiation she needs before spinning around into my arms and clinging onto me tight. “He’s never around,” she cries into my neck—I’m not much taller than her—as her shoulders shake with tears.

I feel Peeta’s eyes on me, measuring my reaction to Prim’s words. He’s heard me cry the same thing time and time again, he knows the familiarity of this scene better than anyone should.

“He tries his best, Prim,” I whisper thickly into her long, blonde hair. She’s fair and light, like our mother. Like a merchant or peacekeeper. Looking at my little sister, you’d never consider her to be the daughter of a man from the Seam.

But you’d easily believe that she was a girl raised in Victor’s Village and I suppose that’s what counts. Where we were raised and not where we could have been, if things had gone different.

“He’s never really going to be ours though,” she weeps and I don’t have words to comfort her now. Because she’s right.

Our father will always belong to the Capitol, first and foremost.

And not even his children can upstage that.

/

Prim leaves not long later, to head home to Victor’s Village and more than likely curl up with our mother for the night. They’ve both always been so alike, so much softer and more hopeful than me. I half expect every trip of our father’s to double in time, if not triple. After a lifetime of disappointments, I can’t help but prepare myself.

It’s not that they’re weak for believing. It’s that I have too much Hunter Everdeen in me. I have too much pessimism crawling inside my bones to ever fully trust that he’s really coming home until he’s already stepped off the train in Twelve.

Too many hours of my childhood were spent, wearing fancy stockings and warm, fur-lined coats, standing at the train station, only to welcome a load of cargo and no father in sight. Too many times were phone calls answered in tears. Too many night spent crying, clinging to my father’s hunting jacket, so disoriented by the hazardous schedule in which our lives were ran, waiting for my father to phone, waiting for him to walk through the front door, waiting for him to sneak up on us in the middle of the night or pull us from class on a school day.

That was the true constant in my life. Waiting for my father to finally come home, knowing every moment we shared was on borrowed time. Knowing that he’d never truly belong to us. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting to hear my mother’s bedroom door slam and lock, waiting to hear Prim cry or Archer wail, waiting to see that defeated glint in my father’s slate gaze.

I close the cabin door behind my sister now, knowing with confidence that she’ll make it home alright, even with the sun currently setting in the faded blue sky.

Our father never took Prim hunting like he did me, never brought her out to the woods and taught her to shoot a bow and arrow, never showed her how to trap and kill an animal. But even still, the path from the cabin to our home in Victor’s Village is imprinted in our brains, like a birthmark or tattoo. We’d be able to find our way to and from, even if we were sleepwalking.

As would Peeta. Considering this is the place he spends the majority of his time.

Considering this cabin may as well be his permanent address.

And if it weren’t illegal, it very well might be, I think to myself wryly as I walk over to where he’s leaning against the doorframe now.

“Hello,” I greet again, hopping onto my tiptoes and kissing his lips lightly.

He grasps my hips, smiling against my mouth. “Don’t you have to get home too?” He hesitantly asks, his desire to keep me here bleeding through every caress of his fingers, as they trail underneath my loose shirt, sliding upwards and causing an electric current to ripple through the core of my body.

But I just shake my head at his inquiry, moving my mouth from his to kiss down the side of his face, underneath his jawline.

“Mmm,” he moans after a long moment, before suddenly putting a few more inches between us. “Are you sure your mother won’t miss you?”

Peeta’s always been considerate of my mother. Too considerate sometimes, if I do say so myself. Bordering on obsessive.

He is obsessed with keeping her approval, with never crossing any invisible line, with never even so much as mildly exasperating her.

I suppose it’s only natural though. She is the only parental figure he has in his life.

I’ve never been too enthusiastic to introduce him to my father and he’s never pushed the issue too far. Hunter Everdeen is a practical legend around Twelve—and beloved across the entirety of Panem—but he’s the reason, I’ve always privately felt, that I was isolated from all my classmates.

Sure, I’m already not the most friendly person to start with, in anyone’s book. As Haymitch never hesitates to tell me. But there was already very little chance of me making friends in school anyway. Being the victor of the Forty-Seventh Hunger Games’ child dropped the chances of play-dates or sleepovers drastically. My father trusts no one. Not with his children.

And I didn’t mind for the most part. I’m too like him to enjoy people much anyway. This whole notion was much harder on Prim, who adored her fellow classmates and easily endeared herself to them as well. But no matter how darling my little sister may be, nothing changed our father’s mind and when he was set on something, it was practically written in stone.

I can’t even imagine how Peeta must feel, having to live in fear for the entire last year of our little secret being exposed. I may be nervous about how my father will react, but Peeta has to be outright petrified.

“My mother will be fine,” I murmur, rolling my eyes as I lean back against the wall now. “She’s got Prim and Archie to keep her sane until my father’s home.”

Peeta chuckles at me, a mirthful smile in his eyes. “And you got me,” he teases, tapping my nose with his finger.

I giggle in a way I withheld until Prim left. I wasn’t about to give her ammunition to mock me later on. “All to myself,” I add, matching his expression now. “For unlimited hours of the day.”

“That’s my girl, looking on the bright side.”

I snort. “Yeah, that’s me.” I’m the exact opposite of an optimist. I prefer expecting the worse and setting expectations low. Maybe it’s a learned behavior but, at least that way, I’m not crushed like my mother when things don’t pan out the way I want.

Peeta mistakes the look on my face to be one of hidden disappointment. “You’re father will be home soon, sweetheart. They can’t keep him in the Capitol forever.”

“Can’t they?” I mumble, not expecting an answer. Before he can offer one—because Peeta is nothing if not a fixer—I quickly segue to a new topic. “Where do you think you’ll go when my father does come home?”

He just shrugs the question off though, completely unbothered. “Anywhere but home,” he says simply, his stunning blue eyes clear as the sky they remind me of.

“Anywhere but there,” I agree, my smile twisting into a grimace.

/

A year ago, when I was barely fifteen, President Snow—Panem’s true Gamemaker, my father always said—demanded every victor extend their stay in the Capitol, even after the games ended that year. He gave no outright reason and my father was cagey to speak on the subject, but in the end, the president’s word was law and there was no room for argument. President Snow can demand of us whatever he wishes.

It was a cold, dreary autumn that year, with early snowfall, which was the leading cause to the significant increase in accidents and injuries. My mother, the born healer, had more patients than she could handle, and even while training Prim as her assistant, she required my help. I was to head to town and purchase a list of herbs from the apothecary shop her parents still owned. The people who disowned her, who had little to no interest in her after she married a man from the Seam, victor or not. The people who never cared to meet their own grandchildren, to acknowledge our existence even as we passed right by their shop, in their plain sight.

I was dragging my feet the entire walk there, already with a sour taste in my mouth, when I heard the loudest wail my ears had every registered. When I heard sharp words being screamed out, when the sound of a boy sobbing filled the air.

And my instincts took over, my every sense focused on finding the hurt and helping them, altogether forgoing the trip for my mother’s herbs.

I followed the commotion to the bakery’s backdoor. Right through the open threshold, it was crystal clear, the baker’s wife—the witch, as many of the kids at school referred to her—had beaten her youngest son senselessly.

He’s in my year, I’d realized abruptly, staring with an agape mouth at his bloody face. His eye was swelling and his nose and lip were smeared scarlet and the only thing that crossed my mind at first, was I recognized him as the blonde boy with the colorful notebook, who could never meet my eyes and always wore long sleeves.

Of course, I snapped out of the daze after only a moment. The witch turned and caught sight of me, snapping that no Seam brat was going to get any free handouts from her and to scatter before she called the Peacekeepers.

Something about the unmasked prejudice against the Seam, a place where people in Twelve had next to nothing and were seen as lesser than the merchants, jolted me into action.

“Get your hand off him!” I’d demanded, using my entire body weight, just as my father taught me, to push the door open as she tried to close it in my face. “Let him go or I swear I’ll make you regret it.”

At that, I heard an ugly laugh and the door flew open again, my exerted force throwing it back into the wall.

“I’m serious, child,” she snaps, her blue eyes narrow and her mouth in a snide smirk. “I will call the Peacekeepers to remove you from my shop-”

I didn’t even let her finish. I wasn’t one to be messed with. Not when I just witnessed something awful firsthand, not when I had it in my power to do something.

I knew then I couldn’t bring my father home. He was owned by the president and the Capitol. To an extent, we all were. And I knew I couldn’t stop the games from happening or the possibility of my name being pulled from the reaping bowl. I couldn’t always make my mother come out of her room or even out of her bed, when her illness struck bad. And I couldn’t stop my siblings from crying for our father at night.

But I knew that day in the bakery, I had the power over Mrs. Mellark and I wasn’t going to let her get away with hurting her son anymore.

“Call them,” I dared, not an ounce of insecurity in my voice. “Cray is an old family friend.” He was actually indebted to my father, who’d kept the man’s secrets for too many years to count. But family friend rolled off the tongue more effectively.

“Head Peacekeeper is now making friends in the Seam?” She spat in disbelief. “No wonder this district is so rundown.”

She laughed humorlessly, but my focus was pulled towards the boy. He was covering the left side of his face, as if it hurt too badly to release. As if he was trying to stop his eye from swelling, stop his nose from gushing blood. As if he could hold his now split lip together with nothing more than the palm of his hand.

The sight hurt my heart to see. It burned a fire inside of me that only a true injustice could set alight.

“My father is Hunter Everdeen,” I snapped in the woman’s direction, not even basking in satisfaction when her face drained of all color. The idea that a scrappy little girl with olive skin and dark hair was the child of the most powerful man in all of Twelve struck a cord inside even the witch. “Still wanna make that call?”

The woman’s face was caught between anger and shock when I glanced at her again. And I hated her for it. I hated her and every single person in this district who hurt their kids, who took out their grievances on them, who made them cower and quiver in fear. Who raised them to be afraid of those they loved in a world already so awful.

I know I live a privileged life but, deep in my bones, I know even if things were different, my parents wouldn’t have laid a hand on us. Even if we were so poor I had to take tesserae, even if we were starving to the point of no return, even if we were practically homeless in the Seam, my parents would never hurt us.

“Leave,” the witch spoke then, but her voice was void of all emotion.

“Not without him,” I refused, my eyes planted on the wounded boy in front of me. The boy who was doing everything to avoid looking me in the eye, too busy covering his battered face.

I heard a sound caught between a groan and a shriek, before a cutting board was tossed across the room. “Just go!” She shouted at her son, causing him to flinch severely. “Just go with her!”

On her order, which sounded more distraught than angry, the boy had stormed out the back door and into the chilly evening air, still covering his face desperately, still looking utterly ashamed.

But he waited for me to catch up with him. He waited for me to guide him away from that awful woman he was forced to call his mother.

He didn’t flinch when I touched his arm nor when I took his hand. And when I led him away from the town and towards the village, he followed me without complaint.

Actually, he followed me without a single word.

I realized this just as my house came into view. “You never told me your name?” I whispered, looking up at him gently.

He had tears leaking from his eyes that he was doing his best to ignore, the bleeding on the left side of his face had barely even lightened up, his eye was swelling bigger and bigger, and yet, he chuckled a little at the question. “I’ve been in your class since kindergarten, Katniss.”

I felt my cheeks burn pink, even under the darkening sky. “I know.” But I still peered up at him, curiously waiting for him to tell me.

“It’s Peeta,” he finally answered, maybe a bit satirical.

“Peeta Mellark,” I suddenly recognized.

“Mhmm. Figured you’d pick up the last name.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s printed across the bakery in huge letters?”

“Oh.” He chuckled at my ignorance, causing my blush to deepen.

And I realized immediately how much I liked the sound of his laugh. How I liked being the reason for the sound.

My stomach did a complete flip at the notion and my ears abruptly felt hot, but I tried to push all this away, needing to get him to my mother.

“Wait,” he halted before I could even reached the front door. “Is your mother in there?”

I shot him a confused look. “Yeah, of course? Who else-”

I didn’t even get a chance to finish though. “I really don’t want anyone else to know about this,” he pleads, his eyes looking as frightened as they did with the witch.

“Peeta-” I start, opening my mouth argue, to convince him to go into the house and let my mother treat his injuries. To let me get him help.

But one look inside his desolated, defeated, terrified eyes and I couldn’t make myself do it. I couldn’t put him through any more than he’d already gone through. Not when he’d eventually have to go face the witch again at home.

“Okay,” I whispered, and I felt him squeeze the hand I didn’t realize I was still clutching. “Let me take you somewhere else. And I’ll try to fix you up myself.”

I wasn’t a healer like my mother and Prim. I was a hunter, just like my father, just like his very name, through and through. But I had witnessed enough of what my mother did—my father had forced me to witness enough of what she did, in case I ever needed the knowledge—and I was confident I had the expertise to help him.

My decision was validated by the relief in Peeta’s eyes, by the visible exhale he expelled from inside. He was ashamed, I realized, of his abuse. He was embarrassed to let anyone know what was happening behind closed doors.

I guided him by the hand outside the village, through the Seam—a place in which he’d never been before—and to the fence line.

“Isn’t it electrified?” He asked, his grip on my palm tightening. I liked the sensation for some reason. I liked the way his big hand felt wrapped around my small one. I liked how he wanted to hold onto me in the darkness.

“Nope,” I say, and let out a proud giggle. Or maybe a nervous one. Whenever I think back to this night, I can never tell.

“How do you know?” His blonde eyebrows knit together, still afraid in a way I’d never had to be. My father had taught me everything there was to know about the woods from a young age.

“Listen,” I urge softly, leaning my ear towards the fence.

He cranes forward too, waiting for the buzz of electricity to fill his ears. Only, just as I knew, it never does. Because it never has. The fence’s electricity was shut off long before we were even born.

I watched as his face registered the silence, as he realized and trusted I was right. And I beamed at him, before showing him the way my father slips beyond the fence and guiding him through the trees, towards the cabin, buried deep inside the woods.

It took an hour to find, not because of the blackened sky, but because Peeta’s face hurt so badly that his gait was slowed. But I remained patient, even though that was never my strong suit either. I waited for him to pick up the pace, to be ready to move, to find our way through the tall green trees. I pulled all the branches I could see out of his path, used the moon as our flashlight and didn’t complain once when he stumbled along the way.

By the time we got to the cabin, it had to be past Archer’s bedtime. My mother would be worried sick for me, but I soothed myself that she had plenty on her plate. I’m her firstborn. The child she understands the least, the one who’s like her husband in body and soul. I knew I was probably near the bottom of her worry list.

The very first thing I did when we entered the cabin was order Peeta to sit down in the dining room. I gathered my mother’s first aid kit from the bathroom, wet a rag in cool water and I got to work cleaning the blood from his face.

“This has to be gross for you,” he murmurs after a long stretch of silence. His eyes betrayed how self-conscious he must have felt.

Trying to alleviate his anxiety, I pretended to shrug it off. “My mother cleans wounds all the time. At our kitchen table, no less.”

Peeta made a noise that indicated he didn’t buy my act of ease. “I heard at school that you run from the sick and injured.”

I raised my eyebrows at the comment. No one at school talked about me. No one knew me well enough to. People stopped trying to get close to any of Hunter Everdeen’s kids years ago.

The longer I stared at Peeta in disbelief, the more he seemed to lose confidence in his statement. “Maybe I didn't hear it,” he finally amended. I brought the damp cloth back up to his face again as a reward, tenderly wiping away the blood, before using the clean side to set against his swelling lid, hoping to offer some pain reduction there as well. “Maybe I saw it,” he added sheepishly.

I furrowed my brows, even more perplexed by the elaboration. “Saw it?”

“When Leaf Barker tripped and broke his knee in Physical Education last year? You were almost green when you bolted out of the gymnasium.”

His words conjured up a vague image. Still though, something about this felt odd to me.

“How do you remember that better than I do?”

At that, Peeta shrugged. “I guess, I notice you sometimes?”

“What do you mean, sometimes?” I pressed, none of his words suddenly making a bit of sense.

“Why did you stick up for me tonight?” He abruptly segued, his expression shifting into something of defense, like he’s trying to deflect.

But I’m not one to be deterred. “I wasn’t going to stand there and watch your mother hurt you,” I stated, my voice remaining firm. “Why?”

He continued to walk around my question. “Is tonight the first night you ever noticed me?”

I pulled my hand and the damp cloth away from his wounded face, reaching in the kit to grab a white cream I’d seen my mother and Prim both use on swelling before. “Yes,” I finally replied, because I don’t know what else to say. That I saw him glance at me sometimes and then watched as his eyes flit away? That I noticed how he doodled in math class, because he found the subject boring? That I’d seen him lift a sack easily over his shoulder at the bakery and watched him beat almost every upperclassmen at wrestling, even while three years their junior?

None of that seems even remotely relevant to mention.

“When was the first time you noticed me?” I shot back, still being careful to apply the cream with only the lightest pressure to his battered eye.

“Kindergarten,” he instantly blurted out, his tone simple and bold.

I stared at him in disbelief for a long moment before chuckling, catching the joke. “Funny.”

“I’m serious,” he refuted, peaking his good eye open, the sky meeting a silver dollar as our gaze locked. And I see that he is serious somehow.

“What?”

“The first day of kindergarten,” he continued, after a long beat of me just staring him. His confidence had wavered once again and he was looking a bit regretful that he’d put this out in the open. “You were wearing a red velvet dress and brown stockings. Your hair was in two braids instead of one and your ribbons matched your dress. The teacher asked during music assembly who knew The Valley Song and your hand shot right up. She put you on a stool and you sang it, clear as day, for everyone to hear. Even the birds outside stopped to listen. And from that moment on… I was a goner.”

I just continued to look at him in disbelief, unable to put the pieces of what he’s said together. Finally, I whispered, “you’re telling the truth?”

“I’ve had a crush on you for forever,” he admitted, his singularly open eye giving away his nerves at the admission. “And I know you probably don’t feel the same way. I know you didn’t even know my name until tonight but I just wanted to say, in case we never have the chance to speak again-”

“Stop,” I cut him off, my mind already about to explode. “Stop, um…” I refused to look at him as I spoke, furiously staring down at my lap. “I need more time to… process this.”

He had a crush on me since the first day of kindergarten? He’d heard me sing and from that day forward he held a hidden candle for me?

And he never once worked up the courage to talk to me?

Dozens of moments suddenly race through my mind.

Cerulean blue eyes finding me in a crowd countless times and then pulling away as soon as I meet them. The time I wanted to play a stupid game at recess and a stocky blonde boy volunteered to be team captain, and then picked me first. The stunning drawing I found in my locker last year on Sweetheart’s Day, that I was convinced was put there by mistake, though it bore a striking resemblance to the doodles on Peeta’s notebook.

And before I could stop it, I felt myself begin to shake with nerves.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” he apologized, seeing my frightened reaction. “I didn’t mean to scare you, I just… I didn’t know if I’d ever get the opportunity to tell you again-”

“Shhh,” I hushed, picking up the damp cloth once more. “Let me take care of your face. And then…” I hesitated again, unsure what to say in this situation. I had exactly zero experiences to compare this to. “Tomorrow we can talk more.”

Peeta nodded amicably, staying silent for the reminder of my ministrations. I felt a terrible pang of guilt for not responding the way he’d probably hoped, but there was still a part of me too stunned to even fully register the confession.

I was an outcast. I’d never fit in with the kids at school, neither town or Seam. I don’t look like the merchants and I’m too rich for the Seam folk. I would have been alone all the time at school if it weren’t for Madge Undersee, the mayor’s daughter who sat with me at lunch and partnered with me in class.

How could anyone have even noticed me to be anything other than strange? I barely spoke, even in classes where I knew all the answers. And I hardly participated in games or gossip. I had a father who insisted most days on picking me up himself from school, not allowing me to walk home alone like the other kids.

But the look in Peeta’s eyes was earnest. He wasn’t playing some elaborate trick on me, he wasn’t trying to coerce me into confessing something as well so he could humiliate me. He was being genuine in every way I could tell. And I had my father’s senses.

The same senses that helped him win his hunger games.

A new thought struck me out of the blue. Peeta seemed too kind and too considerate to have a mother who beat him like this. He doesn’t fit the profile of the kids in the community home, brought there by even less abuse than I witnessed firsthand tonight.

The insane urge to get to know him more, to learn more about this complete stranger who I went out on an impulsive limb for suddenly surges through my brain.

It wouldn’t be a good idea, I told myself. He’s a merchant and I’m the daughter of a victor. Two titles that seem not far apart in theory but are miles away from the other in practice. And I’m not experienced with people the way he is. I don’t know how to make friends or how to maintain them. I don’t know what he expects from me but it’s surely more than I know how to give. I don’t know what to say in a situation like this. Haymitch always tells me I’m as romantic as dirt.

But is that what I want to be? I asked myself as I finished fixing Peeta up. Do I want to be romantic? Do I want to be that girl who holds her boyfriend’s hand in the town square and kisses him under the moonlight? Do I want to put an embroidered ribbon in my hair and wear an expensive dress from the Capitol to go to the Sweetheart’s Dance? Do I want to sneak in through my bedroom window at the crack of dawn so my father won’t know I’ve been out all night?

If I could learn to be romantic, would I want to be?

And naturally, the answer I’ve always known automatically seeps through my brain. No. I’m not like my mother and Prim. I’m practical by nature, rather than fanciful. I’ve never truly obsessed about falling in love or fawned over even the most incredible looking men on the television.

But something held me back now. Something inside me said that answer, the truth I’d always known, is suddenly not entirely accurate anymore.

Because I find that I did want those things I just described. I did want to have someone to hold, someone to laugh with, someone who conjured up that same flip in my stomach as Peeta did earlier when he laughed.

I wanted the same kind of love my parents had. The kind of love that brought them both to life, despite the horrible circumstances they’d both separately endured. I wanted the kind of love that they showed me was possible, even in a world as bleak and as inhumane as Panem felt at times.

I only realized how long I’d been silent, contemplating my inner desires, when Peeta offered a minuscule smile and stood up slowly to leave.

I opened my mouth to speak but when his eyes met mine, every thought in my head was magically wiped away. I had nothing to say, nothing that could be of any sort of consequence, that could mean anything in comparison to his confession.

“I should head back to town,” he murmured, trying to appear nonchalant. “Face my mother. Hope she’s in a better mood now-”

But I couldn’t stand the idea of him returning to the witch, the idea of going to school tomorrow and acting like his words weren’t still spinning around my brain, the idea of even sleeping soundly tonight.

“Peeta,” I called just as he was about to reach the front door. “Wait!”

He turned towards me, looking puzzled by my outburst. “What’s wrong?”

And I don’t know what came over me. I still can’t place what made me—a girl who had never been decisive a day in her life—fling myself across the room and smash my lips onto his.

He didn’t respond at first. I caught him too completely by surprise. His lips hung there, frozen, as mine pushed against his, with too much force and an overload of desperation.

But I felt an incredible stirring in my chest, an odd sensation that felt akin to a giggle amplified.

And when he finally recovered from the shock of it all, his hands both came to rest on either side of my hips, his mouth began to move against mine, his knees bent to reach my height with more success, and the stirring turned to a fiery spark. I know he felt it too, as the kiss was swiftly disturbed by his wide grin.

“Don’t go back home tonight,” I gasped out, looking up at him, wide-eyed and breathless.

His gaze melted as he took me in, he head bobbing in agreement without even needing to consider my request.

“Okay,” he’d whispered with a dazed smile, his blue eyes impossibly wild and sleepy at the same time.

His expression, his spirit somehow, was contagious, and I found myself somewhere stuck between a laugh and a blush when I replied.

“Okay.”

/

After that night, Peeta rarely went back home. I had called my mother and let her know I was staying at the cabin, but intentionally eluded telling her that the baker’s son was joining me. We’d spent the entire night talking in front of the fire, making each other laugh. The bashfulness I felt from my unexpected kiss stayed in my gut, causing me to bubble up with embarrassed laughter every so often.

But instead of that making things awkward, it cut the tension pretty smoothly. It was only months later did Peeta confess he’d felt just as nervous and just as shy about spending time with me. He was charismatic, I realize even that first night. Ironically funny. He was nice, in a way I rarely have found anyone to be. And, the more time went on, the more my desire grew to stay close to him. The more often I was around him, the more painfully I missed him when we were apart.

It was only a matter of time until my mother found out—not least of all, because my siblings accidentally caught us kissing in back of the school, a month to the day we first spoke.

I always imagined she’d be strict on me, the firstborn, when it came to dating. Especially in the world we lived in. Especially with my father’s position. I truly thought she’d forbid a relationship until I was of age. Maybe I was wrong about her. Or maybe she just saw how I looked at Peeta and understood that I wasn’t just being careless or rebellious. That whatever magnetic connection I felt towards Peeta wasn’t just an ordinary school-aged fling.

To my surprise as well, my mother seemed to take on a very similar stance to me when it came to Peeta and my father. Keeping the news of this entanglement from her husband’s ears was almost her idea.

“What are you thinking about?” Peeta asks me now, bringing me back to the present moment. His fingers tickle my neck as they brush my hair back behind my ear, touching one of the satin green ribbons weaved throughout my loose braids.

“You,” I reply coyly, shooting him a sly glance as I slip past him to head back towards the kitchen.

“Me?” He calls in mock disbelief. He trails up behind me, catching me by the waist and swinging me into his arms without warning.

“Peeta!” I exclaim, automatically wrapping myself around him as I try to steady my balance midair.

“What, baby?”

“Put me down, baby,” I mock, pressing my nose to his now, rubbing them together.

“I like holding you though,” he whispers, like he’s confessing some huge secret.

“Until your arms gets tired-”

“That was one time, Katniss.”

“I’m just reminding you,” I say with an air of superiority. “You don’t always appreciate holding me.”

At that, his demeanor falls a little. “I do when I realize I won’t be seeing you much in a few days.”

I feel my heart sink now too. As excited as I am at the prospect of my father coming home, after weeks apart, I always have to be a little more careful upon his first days back.

He always likes to spend time at the cabin and go for long walks in the woods upon his return. Spend more time in nature than the indoors, stay far away from people outside our family, sleep under the stars by the lake. The Capitol is apparently luxurious, but in my father’s own words, it is void of any true or natural beauty. Everything is artificial, man-made, concocted and orchestrated. There’s nothing that compares in his mind—or mine either—to a cool breeze on a sunny day spent in the meadow where the dandelions grow tall.

“But I’ll still see you in school?” I say, though my voice comes out as more of a plea. Peeta doesn’t always like to attend school these days, not when he knows his parents can easily track him down there.

His father, the baker himself, took the ambiguous loss of his youngest—his favorite—son particularly hard. It was only a matter of weeks after I intercepted his mother beating him that Peeta definitively decided to sever ties with majority of his family.

I’d like to say he made the choice all on his own but that’d be a lie. I watched as the physical bruises on his skin healed, as he began to peel back emotional layer upon layer to me, as he slowly told me what really had been going on in the Mellark’s family home. And I can’t say that I was impartial to his decision to cut the connection to a mother with a bruising fist and a father who closed his eyes and let it happen.

“Delly’s parents usually make me go to school so…” He shrugs it off, like it’s of no consequence, his arms hoisting me higher against his chest.

But I feel a sudden wave of gratitude towards the Cartwrights. They may be a little too jolly for my liking and their daughter, Delly, maybe can’t take a hint to save her life, but at least they always watch out for Peeta’s well-being. At least they cover for him when his mother come sniffing around and they feed him what they can afford and force him to attend class, where I’ll be able to see him.

“Good,” I murmur, at peace now. My father will be home soon and Peeta will be safely tucked away with his best friend.

I lean down and kiss his nose sweetly, reveling in the tender moment. His lips follow my lead and begin to plant themselves across my chin, underneath my jaw, causing me to squirm and squeal at the sensation.

“So,” he murmurs against my throat. “We have the entire place to ourselves, for the whole night, huh?”

His audacious smile elicits my own. “At least.” My father’s delays usually mean a minimum of two days.

Within a minute, Peeta has me on my back, against the softly quilted bed of my upstairs room. He takes his time helping me out of my clothes before I hurriedly shove his off, impatient and hungry.

He, of course, finds time to crack a joke. “Good thing Archie is too young to come here unchaperoned. Or else we’d never get the chance to do this.”

I roll my eyes and shove his mouth off my collarbone, utterly disgusted now. “Talking about my baby brother is one sure way to turn me off, Peeta.”

Archer, my three-old-brother, was an unexpected surprise, to put it lightly. My parents were done with two girls. My father joked him and my mother were both already set with one clone each, but alas, the year of the Seventieth Hunger Games was a year full of shocks.

A few months before the games that year, the coal mines—the industry Twelve is known for—exploded. Right in the middle of the afternoon, as everyone was obliviously going about their day.

It was a close call for many and one more reason my father is beloved around these parts. If he hadn’t been at the right place, at the right time, if he hadn’t volunteered to go with Prim and her class on a field trip down to the mines that day, there was a chance that no one would have noticed the gas leak.

It was too late to do anything by the time my father pointed it out, but his warning and the fact that people in Twelve take his word very seriously, managed to save the lives the inevitable explosion would have otherwise cost.

Through the outpouring of gratitude, and the overwhelming media coverage my whole family was abruptly bombarded with, my parents made the decision to pull me and Prim from school for a while, to hole up in the remodeled cabin, where no one could find us because of its illegal location.

I’ve never ask and I don't ever want to know when my parents conceived Archer. But about nine months after the vacation from the world, my mother gave birth to a little boy who looked identical to me and my father.

“Sorry,” Peeta whispers with a chuckle, collapsing beside me. “I’ll make it up to you.”

He moves to kiss my stomach, to trace circles on my hips like he always does. But I shake my head, a different request—or more like it, demand—on my mind.

“Tell me the story of how you first fell in love with me?”

Peeta rolls his eyes. Very dramatically. “You mean a year ago?”

“I mean in kindergarten,” I say with a smirk and then let out a shriek of surprise when he pounces on me, his lips attacking my neck.

“Aren’t you tired of that story yet?” He asks, his voice edging on exasperated.

“You never tire of a classic.” I give him a pout, knowing he never refuses me anything when I pull that trick.

I’m right, as per usual. “Fine,” he relents, but his eyes tell me that he enjoys telling this tale more than he leads on. “Come here.” He holds open his arms and waits for me to crawl into them, to settle against his chest.

I lay there for a long moment, my pointer finger running up and down the center of his bicep, as my ear rests against his heartbeat, patiently waiting for him to begin.

“It was the very first day of school. You were wearing a red, velvet dress…”

/

Read the rest on AO3 

[mycrofts-gunbrella]

Fred Weasley x Reader- The Worry of Wealth

Hey! As promised, I will be posting my three part Fred story in celebration of reaching 100 followers so quickly! Feedback is always welcome!

"Fred? Fred? Freddie? Hellooo? You're staring again." Fred was snapped out of his thoughts by his twin clicking his fingers in front of his face.

"What?"

"Y/N. You're staring at her again, it's getting a bit creepy if you ask me." George tugged his brother's arm out to the courtyard.

"Yeah well I didn't ask you." Fred quipped back, slumping on the wall. George raised an eyebrow at Fred's tone and nudged him. "It's just so bloody frustrating Georgie. I like her. Like I REALLY like her." He groaned, hitting his head back on the bricks and closing his eyes in annoyance as you walked past him and gave him a small smile.

Y/N L/N- the most gorgeous girl to ever grace the grounds of Hogwarts. You were clever, beautiful and one of the funniest people Fred had ever met- some of your pranks even leaving him in awe. If that all didn't already make it hard enough for Fred to catch your attention you were part of the L/N family. The one family that was even more wealthy than the Malfoys. You could have anybody you wanted. Poor old Fred fell for you hard the moment he was paired with you in second year potions and you kept catapulting random ingredients into everyone else's cauldrons so you and him had the luxury of being the first to finish and escape Snape's words of wrath, all while enjoying the confused looks of the other students who were adament they had followed the recipe step by step. That was 4 years ago. He'd always noticed you before then but never really paid you too much attention, knowing from the get-go you'd never be interested in a Weasley. He opened his eyes and looked down at his clothes. His shoes were his dad's old ones, the soles tearing from the leather and scuffing at the front. His robes were fraying and his jumper sleeves both had holes in after being both Bill's and Charlie's before he got given them and grimaced.

George just looked at his brother and frowned. Y/N was genuinely one of the nicest people he had ever met but he'd be lying if he didn't think his family's financial situation would stop her from seeing Fred in any way more than just a friend rather than embarrassing herself by dating the guy from the poorest family at Hogwarts. Still, he'd always try anything to help his brother get what he wants.

"Come on Freddie, we've got quidditch practice next. That'll take your mind off her for at least a little bit." Fred still sulked and wouldn't move. "Oi." George slapped Fred's arm. "I'll race you. Last one there is a soggy mandrake." And with that George started to run. Fred rolled his eyes and jogged behind him. All of a sudden a huge crash was heard as George tripped and fell straight into the group of you and your friends, sending the books and papers you had stacked in your hands flying through the air and landing on the ground. "Ooopppss." George spoke childishly. "Sorry Y/N, gotta run. I’ve got a race to win." George finished continuing to run to the quidditch grounds after shooting a wink in his brother's direction. Fred immediately went to help you.

"Sorry my brother is such a bloody idiot. If you think this is bad, imagine living with him." He attempted to joke as his piled your discarded papers in his arms. He offered his hand out to you to help you up and felt his face flush as your skin came into contact with his. You just laughed it off and stood.

"It's fine honestly. I have 3 sisters, I'm used to it." You grinned, taking the pile of books and papers from him. He nodded in response and wiped his hands on his trousers, noticing they had become clammy. "Thanks Fred." You smiled, leaning up to kiss his pale cheek, trying to hide your amusement as you watched his face become redder than his hair. Fred zoned back in from his little daydream and opened his mouth to speak.

"Uh do you want a hand? With the books I mean. Not that I'd give you a hand with anything else. Obviously. Unless you wanted me to. Then I-" Your giggling cut him off.

"I'm actually free next period. Do you want to help me carry these back to my dorm? We could hang out for a bit after if you wanted as a thank you?" You asked, feeling your own heart beat a little rapidly for finally asking out the boy you'd been fawning over since you were 14. You watched as his face dropped and panicked. "You don't have to don't worry.."

"NO! Uh I mean.. I'd love to... but I can't. I can help you carry your stuff but there's quidditch practice I've got to go to since we have that big game against Slytherin in a couple days." Fred shouted inwardly at himself. The one bloody time he had an opportunity to be with you for a bit and he couldn't go. Although he was tempted to drop everything then and there for you.

"No worries! How about you sneak me into practice and then we can go grab a butterbeer afterwards?" You tried again, mentally crossing your fingers for luck. Fred nodded, for once in his life being completely speechless. He knew he shouldn't get his hopes up and that this was just going to be an innocent drink among friends but he was still excited. He took all of your stuff from your hands, despite you saying you could carry a little bit before thinking through what you had said earlier and turning his head towards you.

"Hey Y/N?" You hummed in response. "How did you know I was Fred anyway? I'm pretty sure no one said our names when George rugby tackled you." You grinned and felt your cheeks warm a little. After having a soft spot for Fred the last four years you could tell the difference between him and his brother in a heartbeat.

"You're my favourite." You answered innocently.

"Right. Yeah okay. Makes sense." Fred swallowed deeply and carried on walking beside you.

In the distance George watched on and grinned to himself.

"Oh George Weasley you genius. 10 points for supreme wingmanery." He grinned to himself, actually making his way to the quidditch pitch now.

Barely 10 minutes had passed before Fred came sauntering out onto the quidditch pitch.

"Oi what took you so bloody long? Do you want us to lose?" Ron shouted at his brother. Fred said nothing and instead turned to face the stalls, giving you a quick wave and kicking up on his broom. "Bloody hell is that Y/N? As in THE Y/N L/N?" Ron's eyes widened as seeing your face in the distance.

"Freddie here is just a boy in love." George teased, making kissing noises as he flew around his twin.

"No way. Sorry Fred but it won't happen." Ron quipped, tightening his grip on his broom. "Have you seen her? She's gorgeous." He trailed off. "Not to mention stinking rich."

"Well rumour has it that Fred is going to Hogsmeade with her after practice for some butterbeer as 'friends'" George grinned.

"How did yo-"

"Eyes and ears everywhere Fred." Before anyone else could say a word Madame Hooch came out to begin training.

Spending 60 minutes ogling Fred Weasley was definitely one of your best choices of time wasting. You hadn't even realised they had finished until Fred came flying over to you, red faced and sweating slightly.

"Could you give me like 10 minutes to get cleaned up then I'll be ready to go if you're still up for it?"

"Of course I'm still up for it. It was my idea after all." You grinned.

"Wicked." He turned to fly back down when you called him back.

"Fancy giving me a lift down there? The stairs are a killer, I'll look like I've played 12 rounds of quidditch by the time I reach the bottom." You joked, slinging your small bag over your shoulder.

"You'd still look gorgeous." Fred muttered; realising quickly he said his thoughts out loud and coughed, hoping you didn't hear. "Uh I mean yeah. If you want. I'm a bit sweaty, mind and my broom's not the best but I reckon it could take your weight too.." He stopped and groaned. "Bollocks that's not what I meant. Obviously it would take your weight, you're perfect.. I mean, not perfect. Nobody's perfect. Not that you're NOT perfe-"

"Fred you're all good." You blushed a little at his words and his nervousness. He nodded and turned around and shuffling forward a little.

"Your chariot awaits Madame."

Fred stiffened as you used his shoulders for balance to climb behind him on the broom. You wrapped your arms around his frame and squeezed a little, both faces burning from the close proximity as you made your journey to the bottom of the pitch near the other players.

"I'll see you in a minute?" Fred asked more than anything, still not quite sure if you were going to go through with going out with him. You nodded and smiled, taking a seat on the bench there as the team walked through to the changing rooms.

"Not even been on a date yet and she's already ridden your broom."

"Bugger off George."

/./././././././././././././././././././././././././

The journey to The Hogshead was silent. Not awkard but equally not NOT awkward. It was unlike either of you to have nothing to say so this was definitely a new experience; you just hoped the conversation would pick up when you sat down with your drinks. Thankfully, it did.

"You know, I'm kind of glad your brother launched me in the courtyard. I've been wanting a good enough excuse to talk to you outside of class for a while." You admitted, awkwardly wiping away the condensation from the side of your butterbeer glass. Fred's cheeks dusted pink a little and he smiled.

"You didn't need an excuse; I'd have said yes anyway. Unless of course you like getting thrown to the ground before every date." OhshitFredsheneversaiditwasadate. "Not that this is a date. Is it? I wouldn't not like it to be. I get if it-"

"I've never heard you stumble over any of your words before. To be fair, I don't think I've heard you finish your own sentence for a while. It's cute." You grinned. "This can be whatever you want it to be." You finished. Fred tested the waters by reaching his hand over the table to hold yours, rubbing his thumb along your knuckle.

"Thank Merlin for that. That could have been bloody awkward." With that interaction dealt with, the two of you spent the next hour chatting about anything and everything, neither of you having laughed so much before. Why hadn't he just manned up and asked you out sooner? You were just so amazing it enchanted Fred; enchanted him enough the past 60 minutes that he forgot he only had enough money for one butterbeer until the waitress came over with the bill; he had just finished his third but now he was sure he was going to throw it all back up. What was he going to do? Fred felt his hands sweat and his cheeks burn.

"Fred? Hey, are you okay?" You asked, placing the money for your drinks on the receipt.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Fred croaked, pulling his hand out his pocket to show his few measly coins that he had. Mixed in it was 2 buttons and a piece of gum, none of which Fred was sure would work as accepted currency.

"Don't worry about it, I got it." You smiled, taking out some more money and setting your purse back in your bag. The waitress gave Fred a look and smiled at you before walking away. Fred had never felt so embarrassed- now he remembered why he didn't ask you out before. Then he felt himself doing something he hadn't done in years- his eyes started to water and he had to get out of there.

"Sorry I've uh. I've got to go. Thank you for the drinks." And with that he all but ran out of there, turning multiple corners until he found the side street next to Zonko's that led to a small seating area he could be alone for a while. What was he thinking? Did he honestly think going out with the richest, most popular girl in school was going to work in his favour? Stupid, even for you Freddie. He hung his head in his hands and groaned, so lost in thought that he didn't hear someone walking up to him, only startling when he felt a small hand on his shoulder.

"Fred?" Oh god, it was you. Let's play a game called 'How Many More Times Can Fred Make Himself Look A Complete Moron'.

"Hey. I should be able to pay you back in a few months after my birthday. Sorry again." He muttered, standing up to get ready to leave again. You tugged him back by his sleeve.

"Don't be silly Fred, you don't have to pay me back at all. You paid me enough just by agreeing to come with me." You smiled, slipping your hand from his sleeve to his hand, lacing your fingers with his. Fred sighed again and gave you a weak smile.

"You could literally have anyone el-"

"What if I don't want anyone else?"

"Then you're weird."

"You're weird too."

"Mean.."

"Kiss me."

"What?"

"Kiss me." Fred still just stood there dumbfounded so you rolled your eyes and pulled him towards you, wrapping your arms round his neck and kissing him. After the shock settled Fred kissed back, bits of confidence coming back to him as he placed his hands on your waist, pulling your body as close to his as he could. Eventually the need to breathe called and you pulled away, resting your foreheads together.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that." You both said at the same time and started to laugh. "Second year potions?" You laughed again and pecked each other's lips once more.

"You know I can't take you out to fancy restaurants and buy you expensive gifts right?" Fred breathed, still trying to recover mentally from what just happened. Christ George wouldn't believe it.

"Fred you could take me to a junkyard bin diving and as long as you called it a date I'd love it because you'd be there."

"You're giving me some good ideas here. Hold on a sec, just need to grab my quill." He laughed, taking a step back from you but reaching for your hand to still keep you close. You slapped his chest with your free hand and laughed. "So it really doesn't bother you? Genuinely? I won't be offended. Although after that kiss I might cry a bit." You smiled as you made your journey back to Hogwarts hand-in-hand.

"Not even a little bit."

././././././././././././././././././././././

"No way. Harry, give me your glasses." Ron slapped his best friend's arm as he watched you and Fred walk through the courtyard holding hands.

"What?"

"Jammy git he is. Look. Fred and Y/N. Holding hands." Ron stated, pointing obviously towards you two. Harry stared too, equally surprised.

"That, Ronald, was the creation of yours truly." George appeared from nowhere. "This morning I ran into Y/N, knowing little lover boy would help her. She asked him out as a thank you. I'm practically Cupid." George beamed, genuinely happy his plan worked for Fred's sake (and for his own bragging rights).

"Bloody hell. We've got divinations next, fancy tripping Hermione down the stairs?"

"Ron!" Harry exclaimed.

"What?"

[depressedkakashihatake]

The character au ask thingy

Pick what you want to do ♡

Sukea, "no agency wants to hire him, but he's the best in the field" Spy au?

Shikaku, "I'm to old and tired for this shit, but someone has to do it right" Hokage au

Ibiki, "only one besides the Hokage, that knows all the creatures living in Konoha, and looks after them" Shifter au

Sukea-Spy Au

Sukea is a well known name in the spy community. He’s efficient, leaves no evidence behind except for some purple markings on a mirror or wall nearby what he was doing, and has never been caught.

He has never even been seen. No one knows what ‘Sukea’ looks like, which make’s it easy for him to slip in and out without detection.

No one wants to work with Sukea because he’s constantly thwarting their own missions, or just being kind of a big jerk to them, but at the same time he’s one of the best spy’s they’ve ever seen (but also not seen XD) and it would be terrible if he joined another organization.

So while no one wants to work with him, they do want him to work for them. It’s better than having him as an enemy.

Problem is, no one knows who he is so they have no idea how to find him or offer him work.

It’s kind of a whole mess, but they keep trying.

the funniest part of it all for Sukea, is that he works at the cafe that Gai and Tenzo all like to frequent at separate times, and flirts with each of them whenever they’re in.

They just don’t recognize him because they have no idea what he looks like.

Shikaku-Hokage Shikaku Au

After Minato and Kushina’s death, Shikaku decides he has had enough. Even during his short time as Hokage, Minato was starting to make some real good changes to the system. Not perfect, but good.

He does not want to go back to Hiruzen’s way of doing things, so when Hiruzen says he’ll to back to being Hokage Shikaku protests and puts his name forward as Hokage.

He may not be the strongest in the village, but he is the smartest and that has to be worth something.

It’s a struggle of course. There are people who support him, and people who don’t. In the end though, he has the unwavering support of the jonin’s and that’s what he needs to be Hokage. So Hiruzen steps down and Shikaku takes the spot.

Not his favorite job to do, but he’s here now and there is no turning back.

First course of action, Danzo.

It’s no secret Shikaku hates and doesn’t trust Danzo, so he wants to know what exactly Danzo is up. To do so, he asks one of his best Anbu operatives to help him out. Hatake Kakashi.

When Danzo approaches Kakashi about joining Root, Shikaku isn’t at all surprised. In fact, he expected it. Kakashi is a feared name already at age 14, of course Danzo wants him and others like him.

So Shikaku make’s a plan and plants Kakashi in Root.

It works perfectly, though it does take a few years. By the time Kakashi is 16, he has enough info to give to Shikaku that allows him to face Danzo head on, and the fun part of that is Shikaku is not alone. He’s not going to fight Danzo, danzo would win. But he will destroy him. Make sure everyone knows what he has done to ‘protect’ Konoha.

Danzo has almost zero support in Konoha after that, and is banished. Shikaku naturally doesn’t think this will be the end of Danzo, but it is the end of Root in Konoha and he’s ok with that.

Tenzo ends up joining them. Two years with Kakashi as a partner has given Tenzo the escape from Danzo he needed, and he’s more than happy to leave the old man’s side to join Kakashi and Shikaku.

After Danzo’s taken care of, he needs to deal with the Uchiha.

Thankfully, with Shikaku as Hokage the Uchiha weren’t ostracized more because of the Kyubi attack. He actually asks Mikoto to adopts Naruto, which she is more than happy to do.

Unfortunatlly, there’s still resentment and hatred. It was seeded into the ground long before he took over and now he has to find a way to fix it.

Part of his solution is replacing Hiruzen’s elder council members with members from various clans. Fugaku, Inoichi, Choza, Hiashi, and others.

Honestly, one of the good things about being hokage is putting Fugaku and Hiashi into a room and watching them argue.

It’s beautiful

Ibiki - Shifter au

Every shifter is listed in a database as soon as they are discovered. Partially to know what kind of specialized missions they might be used for, partially just to keep track of them.

This does unfortunately mean that people with ill intentions who get hold of that database can hurt those who are shifters.

Ibiki himself is a shifter, able to transform into a salamander (it’s cool i love them so much!)

He’s the first person on sight when a new shifter is discovered, wanting to make sure that they’re safe and that they know they’ll be protected from people who try to hurt or use them.

Unfortunatly for him, he can’t save every shifter. One big issue that sticks with him for years is Tenzo, who they didn’t even know existed at all for years until Kakashi dragged him out of Riot.

Some of the cases Ibiki handles hands on, picking missions for them and doing check ups on them, are Kakashi (a Shiba Inu dog), Maito Gai (a tortoise), Genma (a crane), Anko (a snake) and Kurenai (a Ussuri brown bear).

There are clans of shifters that take care of themselves, such as the Nara’s. As well as Clans that will protect anyone born into their clan that turns out to be a shifter (The uchiha won’t allow anyone else to take care of their shifters, for example. The Hyuga are also very protective of their shifters and hate non clan members trying to interfier)

Once every two weeks Ibiki scheduals a check up with every shinobi shifter under his care, while someone else takes care of any of the civilians who happen to be a shifter.

Kakashi is his most difficult one, because he refuses to talk most days even though Ibiki can always tell there’s a lot on his mind. Gai and Kurenai are his most relaxing, easy one’s.

He actually starts having his meet ups with Kakashi and Gai at the same time because he notices Kakashi opens up a bit more with Gai around.

[newobsessionweekly]

First time in love🌿

Arón piper x reader

a/n: I edited it and I like it. I’m not a writer, or at least I don’t think I am, and it’s my first attempt to write something like this. It felt good. It’s my first attempt to write something in English (English is not my native language) so I hope I didn’t messed up anything. Tell me what you think and tell me if I should do that again. I liked it though. 🌿

warnings: none, I am still not good at this

Word count: 3k

Y/n watches the first season of Élite with Miguel, her best friend and only friend here in Spain. They became friends in college in LA and the passion for ocean brings them closer and closer as the years flew by. Her biggest dream is to fly around the world and in their four years of friendship, they travelled together to the most unique places she never dreamed she would see, Indonesia, Himalaya, Ibiza. But the place she loved the most is Spain, Miguel’s native country; her obsession with the Latin country began at a very young age when her parents took her to Tenerife for her tenth birthday. She only dreamt of living there, because her parents were strict and planned a different life for her; they chose her high school classes over the years and even the college, wanted for her to become a successful actress, just like Miguel. But now she decided to take her life into her own hands after a big fight with the people that bring her into the world and raised her to be this amazing woman she is today. It didn’t take long for Miguel to convince her to come with him in Spain and to start a new life there, with him by her side. 

Staying with legs crossed in front of the TV from Miguel’s living room, he is trying to explain for the third time already every actor´s real name but she wasn't really paying attention to his words. In high school, though she was so obsessed with Spain, she just couldn’t understand this language and learned properly only a few words. And now she was desperate to learn faster a few phrases and focusing on TV, hearing the actors talking and keeping up with the subtitles she thought was helping.   Tonight she is supposed to meet a few friends of Miguel’s, and she didn’t understand the importance of knowing every actor from the cast of Elite in order to know at least how to introduce herself to everyone. He promised her a million times they are going to love her while they were dressing and again a gazillion times while he was rushing her out of the flat because the cab was waiting for them for ten minutes already.

  She was so nervous that the whole ride to one of the most luxurious clubs in Madrid, her hands were caressing her dress over and over as her bottom and upper lip were switching turns between her teeth. She is very insecure and wants to make a proper first impression, hoping that maybe after this night she could call them her friends, not only Miguel’s.    

  What she didn’t knew, was that Miguel already spoke to his friends and told them that his date is a little shy and is worried about not making through the night. Well, maybe to be more convincing, he used the words “she is fucking freaking out right now” with some laughing emojis. He subtle asked them to try and talk to her first and give her a chance, because she became one of the most important people from his life, he could already call her his little sister. They love each other, but there are no romantic sentiments involved; Miguel is over heels in love with Aitana and Y/n is secretly crushing over his co-star, Arón Piper.  

  When they arrived, her hands started to shake and she was constantly telling herself that she wouldn’t survive the night. Miguel is different than Y/n, he is very dynamic, smiling maybe too much and he has a lovely personality so no one could resist to him, or this is what she thought. She didn’t believe him, she is convinced that his friends wouldn’t like her.  But Miguel rolled his eyes again at the sight of his dearest friend worrying so much; he finds her so funny and amazing, with a golden heart and the best in everything. Seriously thought, he couldn’t understand how she is can perfectly change a lighting bulb and also fix everything around the house, emanating so much seriousness and experience. And also he couldn’t understand how she is so smart, astonishing him with so many random facts about any subject he could made out, even the weirdest one and not so usual. He is so sure she would make friends easily that if he could give her all of his assurance, he would take her worries away without blinking.      

  Danna and Ester were waiting for them in front of the club, supposing about Y/n. Miguel had sent Danna some funny videos of Y/n and some cute photos since they live together and she could tell she’s as peppy as he is and there is no coincidence that Miguel calls her his sister, they are alike. Danna couldn’t wait to meet her and Ester is scrolling down on y/n’s Instagram and appreciates her beauty and let a few appreciative comments about her the talent for modelling to slip her mouth. They already like her.

  As they approaches the trio – Álvaro joined his girlfriend soon enough to hear a part of the conversation about y/n – that was waiting for them already for fifteen minutes, Miguel put a hand over her shoulders and smiled to her before turn to his friends and smile to them too. He shake hands with Álvaro and hugged him as he tells how much he missed him. Álvaro come to introduce himself and then followed two kisses on your cheeks – a very strange habit that those Spanish people have, but y/n finds it very sweet actually.

  “Well, Joder chica!” Danna exclaims as she approaches y/n and kiss her cheeks as greeting. “It’s so nice to finally meet you! Miguel talks about you nonstop!”

  She blushes at Danna’s words and accepts Ester hug. Y/n smiles bright that soon enough her mouth and cheeks will hurt her. She is happy, they all seem so nice and finally understood why Miguel tried to familiarise her with the names of Elite cast. She thought that he wants to introduce her to more surfing friends and when she asked, he refused to give her any details, fuelling her worries even more.     

  As the night flew by, her worries were found sinking in one of the many drinks, maybe in the fifth glass that once was filled with y/n’s Mojito. Danna is laughing at  one of y/n’s jokes and squeezes Jorge’s hand even harder. Everyone is laughing, starting with Miguel who is so proud of her for letting those worries away and continuing with Omar who couldn’t introduce himself properly and doesn’t even know the name of the funniest girl at the table. Even Arón is laughing while studying her face and the way she’s trying so hard not to burst into laughing while telling another funny story of hers.

  Miguel smiles bright at the sight of his best friend integrating into his group. He doesn’t have to worry anymore about her, she is surrounded by his dearest friends and already being part of the family. That’s what made her felt a little bit overwhelmed; y/n found herself standing beside these amazing people, so talented and so fucking kind for allowing her to feel again that family vibe she’s been missing, due to the fact she is so far from home already for an entire month.      

  Her eyes couldn’t move away from where Arón was dancing and singing to the remix hearing through the speakers, with a drink in his hand and, sometimes she saw him with a cigarette in the other one. Arón is the life of the party, she knows that, every other girls knows, even he knows that. He is a very good-looking man, that screams all the looks that are destined to him, but y/n can see beyond that. She can see how good friend is with other members of Elite cast, she can see how much fun everyone has around him and all she could do is to stand there and watch him with her mouth opened in surprise as Arón started rapping to one of his favourite songs.

  This is far from her favourite music genre, she couldn’t help smiling and enjoying that moment so much that she even considers listening to that king of music more often. Why everything sounds so perfect in Spanish? Why is everything so perfect in this country?  

  Y/n didn’t speak to Arón much, only few phrases related to his drink and her wanted to sit next to Miguel, but that was all. A few drinks later, Omar initiated a Poker game and though it was y/n’s first time playing, she surprised everyone – even herself – by winning too many rounds and collecting too many useless cigarettes, a bunch of them coming from Arón. That was Arón’s idea, to play with usual cigarettes instead of money, it makes the game more interesting to him.       

There were far too few hours until the sun rise when the party was over, and y/n is barely keeping her eyes open. Standing outside the club, saying goodbye to everyone, made her heart heavy; she didn’t wanted to say goodbye to anyone, she didn’t wanted the party to end because she is so sure she’s never goona hangout with them again. But when y/n felt Danna’s hand patting her softely on the shoulder, asking for y/n’s phone number, talking about a future gathering, maybe a shopping session, just the girls, made y/n’s heart skip some beats.

Arón didn’t remain untouched to her charm, he saw something in her too, and all night was trying to somehow catch her attention. He hoped that she is maybe more brave than he is, he hoped all night she would come to his side and start a conversation. But when the party ended, he realised he has to do something – however little – and not just let her go. He wanted to hangout with her again, to have a chance to speak properly and know more about the girl that beated the shit out of him at – what he thought poker was – his game.

Y/n watches as Danna get into the cab and from the corner of her eyes, she saw Arón approaching. Her hands started shaking so hard, she had to hide them in the pockets of Miguel’s jacket. She admits it feels weird to wear his jacket, but it was all his fault that she forgot hers back at his place, because he was rushing her. She never worked well under pressure.

“Nice played! I’ve never thought I’ll met someone who can beat my ass at Poker.” He admitted, scratching the back of his neck nervously. He has the most gorgeous smile y/n has ever seen and her legs almost yielded, but she put the blame on the beers and the high heels. Y/n hates wearing heels, but even she knows sneakers don’t really fit for clubs.

“I’ve never thought I’ll met someone with so many cigarettes. Like, the world is ending and you had to make your full?” she smiled as she watched him laugh. He has a beautiful laugh too and his face just lights up when he’s not putting on that bad ass face Y/n finds interesting and hot.

“Speaking of cigarettes, here, take them!” she handed him the packs she won at the game, excluding the ones that she owes Miguel because he shared his so that she would be able to play.

“I figured you’re not a smoker. Damn, that’s what I call a profit. I arrived here with like two packs and I’m leaving with three. And I smoked a lot too.” Both of them laughed, and Y/n just couldn’t believe he’s a funny one as well. Damn, this boy has the whole package.

When Miguel informed her about the cab’s arrival, Arón smiled and opened his arms. He likes hugs and likes hugging people, being affectionate to them. So doing this move to her, the fact that he was maybe into y/n couldn’t be recognised. She looked at him astonished, but accepted his invitation anyway. Since the first time she saw him, she wondered how it is to hug him, how does his body feels and how his cologne smells. It was neither a short hug nor a long one, just perfect for them to memorise each other’s shape of the body and to share their perfume on each other’s clothes.

—————

Y/n moved out from Miguel’s place a while ago, but she was around a lot so she’s not really missing many things. He often makes little comments about it, but he didn’t mind having her around; y/n and Aitana are very close friends now and them allying together to beat Miguel’s ass at some video game is going him nuts, they are sometimes successful.

Everything reminded her of Arón. Y/n even started at some point comparing the hugs Miguel gives to that one stupid drunk hug outside the club when she met Arón. Miguel is taller than Arón, but also much more imposing. Arón is tall too, much taller than she, but he’s body isn’t that worked out, she felt his biceps in that stupid hug and hurt pretty bad when she accidentally hit her head to his jawline. But despite that, she finds so hard to stop staring at his Instagram profile and not to be excited when he posts something new on his profile or he films something for his Instastory. She had to admit at some point, he’s a total snack, even though he doesn’t have a six-pack. Y/n didn’t like that kind of boys anyway, she finds Arón perfect as he is, with his beautiful brown eyes, those little tattoos that can be seen on his naked torso and his messy, curly hair. When Miguel told her that she had a type and that in the category fits Arón perfectly, y/n just ignored him and rolled her eyes. After that she couldn’t stop thinking about it; he did it to see how her face is changing and to strengthen his suspicion.

Arón was thinking about Y/n a lot lately, and the short videos with her laughing or doing something stupid or funny that Miguel shares on their group chat isn’t helping. He couldn’t focus on set, in the last few hangouts with his friends, he hoped to see her and hear her laugh again, he hoped this time would be able to look her in the eye and made a proper conversation. But she didn’t show up at any of them. Everyone was asking about her, but Miguel just waved his hand at them and told everyone y/n has her own life and her own problems; she didn’t have to show up beside him at every gathering. Arón soon enough found out that Danna was keeping in touch with her and asked maybe too often about her. When he texted Miguel and asked what is y/n’s Instagram, Miguel understood soon enough that Arón got the hots for y/n.

Y/n was going back and forth through Miguel’s kitchen as she was trying to make a healthy smoothie for her and Miguel, with his dogs following her everywhere. Miguel’s dogs are her favourite and she always makes fun of him saying that she’s around this much because of the dogs.       

“Aye, chica” she turned her head towards Miguel who was standing on the couch in the living room watching some boring Tv show on Netflix.

Y/n was dwelling on these dreams of Arón. He was hanging out too much inside her mind, being there with his lovely eyes, his bright smile and the dazzling cologne coming after her. She was one day walking through Madrid and somehow recognised it. It’s like he was following her everywhere.

“Sí” y/n answered back when she figured he wanted to capture his attention.

“Check your phone” he wickedly smiled and that made her raise her eyebrow at him, with only bad things running through her head because that smile of his means only trouble.

“Instagram: @aron.piper started following you”

She froze. What the heck is going on? Y/n stalked him maybe too many days on Instagram because she never thought he might find her through his endless list of likes or followers.

“Joder!” she almost screamed when he responded to her story. Miguel was laughing his ass out at her reactions, he thought she is very funny.

“I’ve never thought I’ll met someone who is more obsessed with this tv show than me”

“I’ve never thought I’ll met someone who can make me listen to that rap music kind of thing and made me like it. But then I met you” she responded.

And then they talked over and over and almost every night. On some point they ended up where he just likes her message, not knowing what to say more. And those moments made Y/n think “That’s it, the conversation ends here and I might never talk to him again”. She fears every times that happens this way that that might be the end of the most beautiful moments she has had in the past couple of months. And while he’s looking for any proper response, she’s clenching every time her heart between her teeth and allows herself to be a pain in the ass and just write him one of the many random facts she knows.  

She has never felt this kind of emotion before, neither one of them. She has never felt the love from another person. Of course, Miguel loves her, he’s her best friend, she laugh at her phone too when he sends her funny messages, but she never felt like she could fly any moment and never thought her cheeks could hurt so much from smiling hours and hours at a phone talking to this amazing man. He is so beautiful inside and out and her stomach hurts when she thinks about him and that stupid hug.

Arón’s not less than Y/n. He’s also confused by the feelings from his chest and the thoughts that are containing Y/n in every single one. He also wonders why does he smiles like a sociopath at his phone and why he feels the need to talk to her any moment of the day. Y/n fascinates him in a way he never thought any woman would.

“You’re so in love, tonta!” Miguel smiled at her and rolled his eyes again. She has been neglecting him for the previous hours, and he is kinda pissed – he had to play alone their favourite game, for the countless night in a row – however he doesn’t make any comments. He has never seen her so happy; he is very proud,because two of his dearest friends managed to find someone right for each ohter.

For the first time, she’s in love. In love with the best person she could find, with a curly haired boy that smokes too many cigarettes but still manages to smell so good. Arón found out a few days later than Y/n that he’s heart had been stolen by the most brilliant woman he has ever met. But both of them are as scared of that.

[jamilelucato]

Stay — George Weasley

Pairing: George Weasley x Gryffindor!reader

Requested: yes

hello hehe, i saw ur recent post and can i request a hufflepuff/gryffindor reader? idk but completely uty, also! for song recommendations idk if youre a fan but maybe change my mind or 18 or once in a lifetime by one direction? ahh hope this helps

Summary: (based in Change My Mind, by 1D) y/N is Gryffindor student sad because she’s no longer a first year, but the Weasley twins promised to help her feel like every day is better than the last — and with George by her side, she thinks it’ working.

A/N: Not one of my favs because I just didn’t know how to end? I guess I’m just really bad at writing short fics lol

Words: 2.435

It's funny remembering when you were one of the first years, walking in Hogwarts surprised and excited, staring at every detail and corner, anxious to walk around and discover new things.

But now, as a sixth year, things were slightly different. Firstly, nothing was a surprise — in fact, thanks to Fred and George Weasley, you knew every corner of the castle. Secondly, because you were starting to get sad. You'd soon be leaving, and you loved the school too much to think about a day you wouldn't come back to Hogwarts.

You were watching the kids get sorted — two had already been selected to Gryffindor, and your table was cheering still — when George poked you.

"What's wrong?" he asked, in a low voice.

His eyes were sparkling joyfully, but he seemed worried about you. You shrugged.

"Can you believe that just six years ago, those kids were us?" you said, looking at the new Gryffindor boy, who was happy with his house, "And next year will be our last?"

George proceeded careful, noticing that it was a delicate matter to you.

"Don't think of it like that. We still have a lot to enjoy — it's only the first day of two long years to come," he pointed out with a sympathetic smile. "Stick around Fred and me, I'm sure we'll make every minute an adventure."

His lasts words made you smile. Those boys were generally trouble, but you would give anything to spend more time around them, especially George.

He had no idea of your crush, of course, because you would never gather courage for that. You liked the way you were; close friends to hang around and make jokes. You didn't want to ruin it for a thing you were sure was not mutual.

"Thanks, George," you sighed, giving in. "Do invite me to your messing around," you continued but regretted at the same time.

What were you thinking? That sounded incredibly odd!

"Yours and Fred's pranks, I mean," you quickly added, hoping to have fixed it.

He didn't seem to care, giggling even at your embarrassment.

"Sure, y/N, I'll be in touch."

***

You were thankful for having a friend in Ravenclaw. Anna was a short girl, with freckles all around her face, but she had an extra cute accent. She became your friend after being paired with you to the Transfiguration's classes, and seeing how untalented you were for that class, she offered to help you — in that way, your duo would never be behind.

You two were currently in the Library, going over the last thing Professor McGonagall had taught. We were actually doing well with those lessons, and even Anna was surprised.

"I think my help might be working," she commented, smiling.

Anna had left, she had some things to do, but you stayed in the Library, rereading everything she had helped you study, in hopes to stick the content in your mind.

Fred and George Weasley walked in, with confident smiles. They looked around, and you waited in silence, pretending not to be interested.

George did stick to his promise — every time he and his brother planned some mischief, they asked you to tag along, and you did, happily.

You had lost count of how many pranks you helped them with, but the funniest was, no doubt when they Engorgio Professor Flitwick —he was about to start the class; there wasn't a student that didn't start laughing.

You weren't surprised when they took a turn to your direction. Fred sat at your side and George in front of you, gazing at your eyes.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, gentlemen?" you asked, faking an accent you did not have.

"We need your assistance, ma'am," said Fred, his voice a pitch higher than his brother had become recognizable for you over the years.

"For, so, we have a problem," George continued, copying your fake accent, "and we heard around these parts that you are the one they say is good with the Potions."

You raised your brows, letting your lips shape a smirk.

"I might be able to help you, gentlemen," you said, diverting your eyes to each of the twins, "but I will need to be convinced I will be saved by your secrecy."

"We will make sure thou, miss, are protected," George responded, smirking too.

Fred sighed, giving up the play.

"Ok, ok, now that we have your 'yes'," he said, in a rush looking around to see if anyone could hear you, "we need to start as soon as possible."

The older twin got up, and, with the help of George, they packed all of your spellbooks that were over the table. Fred took the ones that were from the Library and walked to return them to their places, leaving you and George alone for a while.

George took your backpack, throwing it over his shoulder, and he pressed his lips together, as if he wanted to say something, but didn't know if he should.

"What have you guys planned?" you asked. You couldn't stay in silence around George, it made you too nervous.

"Fred wants to prank Malfoy," he said, shrugging, "then we are heading to the kitchen to get some food for Harry."

You stared at him, confused with what Harry Potter had to do with it.

"He had an excellent score at the first task of Triwizard Tournament, remember?"

You looked at him, squeezing your lips together while you shrugged.

"You stayed in during the task?" he asked, losing his smile.

"I had to study," you replied, not really caring about missing the spectacle.

"No, you didn't!" he raised his voice, seeming to be angry. "I thought you were with your friends, that's why I didn't go looking for you. But now I see I should've."

"Don't be too bothered —  I bet Harry was awesome, so I wouldn't have seen anything too new," you pointed out, trying to calm him down and being thankful when Fred reappeared.

"Ok, who's ready?"

***

The potion Fred and George wanted you to prepare was theoretically simple, but it would take at least two days to be ready, so they gave up on pranking Draco Malfoy that night, postponing it to when you managed to finish the potion.

George still looked bummed out for not noticing you weren't at the Triwizard Tournament first task, but he didn't scold you anymore.

The kitchen was rather quiet since the feast was over. Gryffindors were instructed by the twins to eat not much because they'd be able to do it at Harry's surprise party later.

You had a way with house-elves, they seemed to like you very much, and Fred thought it was good to have you around to get extra food.

"Stay away from these, do you hear me?" he said, pointing to some sort of candy he was dropping a liquid on top.

"Sure, chief" you giggled, scared of what magic could that be.

George still had your backpack in his back, even when you said you could carry it yourself.

You three walked in Gryffindor common room and came across a lot of students, wearing casual clothes, all possibly waiting for the party to start.

Fred took the snacks and started talking to Lee Jordan about where to organize everything, but you and George were left behind.

"I'm sorry I missed the task. I didn't know it was that important," you said, looking down, avoiding George's eyes, "I'll be there for the next one."

"You don't have to apologize — I just overreacted," he replied. "It's not up to me if you watch the Tournament or not."

"Don't worry; it's nice knowing you care," you smiled, trying to convince him you weren't mad at him.

He gave you your backpack back, and you rushed to your room to leave it there. Someone shouted Harry Potter was coming and you all stayed in silence, to surprise him.

You were next to George, sat down at one of the couches.

"SURPRISE!" someone shouted, followed by a thousand others, when Harry walked in, followed by Ron and Hermione.

That was the kick the party needed to start. Everybody started eating, talking, joking, some were playing card games by the fire. You didn't get up from the couch next to George, too scared of losing an opportunity to be next to him. But you two didn't stay there for longer. He put your names to the next round of games with cards, and after the game, you were playing judge for the twins — they wanted to see who could eat more in one minute.

"Sorry, Georgie, but Fred won," you said, checking your chronometer one more time.

George didn't look upset, but his twin looked beyond happy.

"I won! I won!" he shouted melodically.

"Maybe a glass of water?" you offered George as Fred walked away screaming.

"Thank you," George said after you gave him the glass. "maybe next time I'll beat him."

You giggled and said, "I hardly doubt that."

"You don't think I could have won?"

"Well, based on the way you were just now, no," you answered.

"You disappointed me," he pretended to be shocked, positioning his free hand over his heart as you sat down next to him. You both laughed hard.

***

The party went on until 1 a.m., but you and George were so focused on your game that you didn't even notice everyone gone.

"Are you guys staying?" Fred asked before going up the stairs.

"We have to finish the game," Geoge answered, not looking to his brother.

You looked at Fred and smiled, "He says he can win me, but that's a lie!"

It was just five minutes after Fred left that you won the match.

"I won!!" you shouted.

George looked worried at you. "People are sleeping, y/N."

"You're just mad because you are not the winner," you replied, crossing your arms.

"I let you win," he crossed his arms as well.

"HA! As if!" you shouted, rolling your eyes.

You both started laughing, so distracted at the moment that you didn't even care that it was late in the night. However, even if you had noticed it, you wouldn't have changed a thing — having George around was I you wanted, you weren't going to waste it.

"Maybe we should go," George said, getting up.

You didn't want the moment to end, so you stayed sitting on the floor, and hugged your legs.

"One more game, how about it?" you suggested, quickly thinking of a way for him to stay. "You can try to win me."

He paused, stopping close to the staircase. You couldn't tell what could be going on inside his head. Did he want to stay? Was he thinking of a polite way to say 'no'?

"Do you want me to stay?"

"Of course!" you answered without giving much thought to it.

Then it hit you. The way he asked — how his eyes gazed at yours with expectation. George wasn't just asking if you wanted to play again, he asked if you wanted him to stay. It could have sounded simple, but it was far from that — and even if he wasn't thinking between the lines, now you were, and your heart was beating so fast you thought that George had a big chance of winning, but not just the game.

He was still staring at you, but this time, he was sitting on the floor next to you. You slowly let your legs down.

"So, huh, the game..." you said, trying to diverge your eyes from his, but failing.

"The game, yes," he repeated and reached for the cards. "Aren't you tired?" 

Boy, I'm more than wake! you thought but said nothing, swallowing nervously.

"Tired? A bit," you gave in, "Which is lucky for you, 'cause you might be able to win me."

"Maybe I don't want to win you," he says, as if a confession, "not in the game, at least."

You didn't know what to answer. It couldn't be real; you were going to wake up in your room. George, the George Weasley, your crush since he helped you find your class in the first year, was now showing reciprocity?

"George," you used a warning tone, "if you don't mean it, please don't continue."

"What?" you had caught him by surprise.

He was very close to you, your faces just centimetres away and you wondered, looking at him so confused, you thought perhaps you were reading too much into it.

"If you are..." you elaborated, breathing hard with his proximity, "being a prankster right now, if you don't mean what you are going to say, then just don't. Please."

He swallowed. "I'm not pranking right now if that's what you wanna know..." he replied, "unless.."

"No 'unless'. If you mean me, I'm serious. I'm always serious."

"OI! JUST KISS ALREADY!" a voice shouted from upstairs, and you thought it was probably Fred.

You and George exchanged looks, before giggling at his twin. And, catching you by surprise, George reached for your chin, pulling you closer to him. His lips met yours in what felt like an explosion — of anxiety, of desire, of passion.

George tasted just like you imagined it — sweet. But he wasn't delicate; he seemed hungry, hungry to pull you closer, to tie you in his arms, to hold you, squeeze you. You liked that passion, especially because it was something you didn't imagine George like.

His touch, all over your body, sent chills all over your spine, and you wanted more, more and more.

You didn't know how long you stayed there in the common room kissing, but you were thankful to be from the same house as him, in that way, the kiss could last more; you didn't have to rush to your house.

When you finally pulled way was because you were, officially, tired.

"Thank you," you said, pulling away.

"Thank you?" he repeated, in a mocking tone. "I should say that."

You giggled while getting up with his help.

"Same time tomorrow?" he proposed and you smiled, feeling your cheeks turn red as his hair.

You nodded your head a 'yes'.

"IT WAS ABOUT TIME!" Fred shouted again, and you started wondering if he could have watched the whole snogging session.

"Somewhere else, tho," you added, tilting your head towards the direction of Fred's voice, meaning that you didn't want him around.

"Definitely," George agreed, pulling you for just one more kiss before you went to bed.

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #455

“but you didn’t have to cut me off  /  make it like it never happened and that we were nothing”

Are you and the last person you kissed in a relationship or just friends? We're besties! :') Has anyone ever pointed out that your laugh was unusual? No. Would you get a lip piercing? I already have a vertical labret. I've considered getting spiked snakebites (they might be called devil bites?) too, though. With a vertical labret, it looks sick as FUCK. It might be a bit much too close together for me, though, idk. Nose piercing? I want my right nostril re-pierced. What are you currently waiting for? Girt to message me back. I've decided what I want out of our relationship and just want to see him. Do you have feelings for anyone? Hit me pretty hard through a lot of examination of my feelings that yeah, I do. Have you ever run over an animal? Oh my god no, I would be DESTROYED. Have you chewed gum after someone else already has? bro what the fuck When people sneeze do you say ‘bless you’? I do only out of expectation. I don't want someone to think I'm an ass or something for not saying it. When was the last time you were on a bouncy castle? A few years ago for my niece's birthday. She was scared of how loud it was and was very reluctant to get near it, so my fat ass got in there with everyone else to show her it was fine lol. I can't remember if she eventually got in. She loves them now, though. :') Have you ever went on a bouncy castle whilst drunk? No, but thanks for the idea, ha ha. Have you ever entered an art competition? Yes. What is one thing you will never do? Try hardcore drugs. What is one food that you detest? Asparagus. Did you have a rebellious phase growing up? Not really. What religion were you brought up with? Roman Catholic. Are you still that religion? GOD NO. Do you often find yourself questioning your future? That's my full-time job. How many friends do you have on Facebook? 124. What sort of music did you listen to when you were in high school? The same I listen to now. What pet names do you use with your significant other? I'm single rn, but usually, I go for "sweetie/sweetheart," "hunny," "love," "dear," stuff like that. What’s the name of the store you usually get your groceries? Wal-Mart. Have you ever seen a theatre show? Yes. What’s your favourite vegetable? Broccoli. Have you ever missed a flight? Yes. I was SO fuckin upset because it was on Sara's birthday and planned in secret, and I was supposed to wake her up. It still wound up being a big surprise to her when she walked into her room and I was chillin' at her desk, ha ha, but I still wish it coulda gone as originally planned. Do your neighbours have any pets? Have you ever met them? Yes; they have a yappy-ass dog that doesn't shut up. I haven't met them. What color is your bedroom door? White. If you were ever to become famous, would you grow annoyed at fans? This may sound very ungrateful, but I have heard A LOT of celebrities say it: it would get old, being stopped constantly in public for signatures, pictures, etc. Like yes, I still WOULD be grateful, but I'd miss just being off the radar and able to go outside carrying out chores and stuff like a normal person. Have you ever met your favourite band/singer? No. :( Are you embarrassed by any of the songs/singers/bands you like? Nah, not nowadays. Have you ever written a story? Yes, a kinda short one when I was little. Think of the last poem you wrote: What inspired you to write it? The breakup with Jason and the fact we're just strangers again. It was really short, but I like it a lot, honestly. Do you have a chance with the person you like right now? I think so. What’s the weirdest thing you were scared of as a child? A skeleton in my closet, lol. Literally. Are there any embarrassing stories your family tells about you? alkdsjflakjwle yes In your opinion, what is the funniest TV show? That '70s Show. 3rd Rock From the Sun is high up there, too. What is the maximum number of children you’d ever have? HYPOTHETICALLY, two, but I'm pretty damn serious about having none. I just always feel kinda bad for children without a sibling, but three would make me pull my hair out. Have you ever been concerned you had a serious illness? Yes. I overreact to even minor symptoms to ANYTHING. Are you comfortable with who you are? No. Pretty much everything about myself embarrasses me, even if it shouldn't. Would you date someone even if you knew you’d get made fun of for it? Yes? Others' opinions don't affect how I feel about someone. Does popularity matter to you at all? No, outside of trying to be a successful photographer. Would you ever consider homeschooling your children? If they really wanted that and it would benefit them, yes. Who told you about the band/singer you are currently listening to? I discovered them myself. Do you ever read fanfiction? Nah. Would you rather die in a plane crash, ship wreck or fire? Jesus. A plane crash, I guess, because in a lot of cases, it would be an immediate death. What are your top five favourite TV shows? Meerkat Manor, Fullmetal Alchemist (and Brotherhood; shut up, they go together), That '70s Show, Ginga Densetsu Weed, and Deadman Wonderland. What is your favorite superhero movie? Logan. If you died next week, what would be the cause of death? Uhhhh idk... I guess maybe a heart attack? Judging by doctor appointments, my heart is just fine, but the fact still remains that I'm technically obese, so that's always a risk. Have you ever taken a break from Facebook or other social media? Why? Facebook, yes. It was just depressing me. I was playing the comparison game REAL hard. Who is the most talented person you know? I dunno. I know many people talented in a lot of areas. Are you currently platonic friends with anyone you’ve had sex with? No. Where did you and your current interest go on your first date? Bowling. Have you ever experienced two people fighting over you (physically or mentally)? What happened? Jason and Juan pursued me at the same time. They'd known each other in the past, and Juan hated him for "winning" his ex-girlfriend. Then when Jason and I got together, Juan wasn't the happiest for sure. Have your parents ever thought you were gay? What happened? Before I actually came out as bisexual, I don't think so? Are your parents more liberal or conservative? Conservative. Mom is more open, but still conservative. I think. What year are you going into at the beginning of the next academic year? I'm not in school. How far away does your closest family member live? I live with Mom. If you’ve seen both, did you prefer the Disney version or the Tim Burton version of Alice in Wonderland? I actually strongly prefer Tim Burton's. Would you have sex before marriage? Why or why not? Yeah. I just want to be in a long-term, serious, healthy relationship to reach that point and be as safe as possible about it. Are you more liberal or conservative? Liberal, but I do have some conservative beliefs, too. Who is your favorite Harry Potter character? I don't have one, given I never got into that franchise. What’s the worst that could come out of letting gays marry? Not a goddamn thing. What’s the most sexual thing you’ve done? Done "the thing." Name something that you are against. I'll go with an unconventional one that's a problem as of the late: making owning reptiles illegal. Why are you against it? Because reptiles are perfectly capable of being brilliant pets and, most importantly, can tame people's fears of them. I think that it's very important to see the worth and beauty in all animals, and reptiles are one of the most unappreciated families out there. :/ Have you ever played the Tomb Raider games? I played some of either the first or second one. I could never beat it. Old games are hard, man. Do you like it or hate it when your partner is clingy? I absolutely believe that it can get to an extreme that I don't like, but for the most part, I don't mind a clingy partner because hey, I am too. Beatles or Rolling Stones? Stonessss. When was the last time you changed your opinion on somebody? It'd been on my mind for a while, but I *officially* realized that I really do like-like Girt a couple days ago. And since then it's gotten a bit hardcore and all I wanna do is talk to him bc fuck me and how attached to people I get. What was the last thing that made you feel proud and why? Every single time I go to the gym, I feel proud of myself because it REALLY takes a lot out of me. Do you feel uncomfortable when people you hardly know confide in you? Nope. I'm willing to be a shoulder to cry on for like... anyone. If you're hurting, talk to someone. I'll be there as an easy option. What was the last thing to fascinate you? It was... INCREDIBLY disturbing and almost nauseating even for me, but I saw a video of a dead whale explode. It was GRUESOME. Guts just kept coming and coming and coming and :x Is there a certain noise/sound which scares you? Hmmm... I'm sure there is, but what, it's not coming to me. Sudden, loud noises are an obvious answer. Do you have a favourite microorganism? ... No, I can't say I do. Out of the people you know, whose birthday is next? Girt's, actually. It's in October. If you have pet fish do you bother to name them? I did when I actually had them as a kid. Do you keep your eggs in the fridge? Ye. Have you ever owned chickens? No, but that'd be cool. Fresh eggs from a properly cared for chicken taste SO much better. When did you last listen to music? Currently. NOW I'm obsessed with Melodicka Bros & Violet Orlandi's cover of "Somebody That I Used to Know." It's done in a gothic metal style and is amaaaazing.

[discotreque]

Disco 3.08: The Sanctuary

This week IRL was a real mixed bag for me: a lot of messy and barely-manageable anxiety about my health, my day job, and uhhhh *gestures outside*—but also I’ve recently fallen in love (from a responsible social distance)—so it’s been equal parts re-writing professional emails to edit the panic attack out of my tone and gazing dreamily at Discord notifications with cartoon hearts in my eyes. It feels like my life is going to hell in the cutest, coziest handbasket—which is to say that Michael Burnham could not possibly feel like a more relatable character to me right now.

I continue to have issues with the writing at a strange medium-level—somewhere between micro, where the dialogue and characters are really good, and macro, where I’m digging the pace of the overall season, it almost feels like something went wrong in the assembly process, and the script ended up a little bit less than the sum of its perfectly good parts. Again.

But that’s such vague criticism as to be nearly meaningless, and it’s hardly the most interesting level to spend time on anyway. If I zoom out, the parallel season arcs of “getting used to the future” and “the mystery of the Burn” are hanging together wayyyyy better than the Red Angel saga did last year.

And if I zoom in? This episode was funny as shit, wtf.

The discourse re: Tilly these past couple of weeks has been bullshit, and I have a whole angry thing to say about it—but honestly, if you can’t appreciate Doug Jones and Mary Wiseman as a comedic duo, I’m not really mad: mostly I pity the lack of joy in your heart.

Everyone on this show is so funny. Doug’s prissy little delivery absolutely slaughters me (“Execute!...?”), Mary will make a face sometimes that has me screaming laughter into my hands, and I’ve gone on before—and will again—about Sonequa Martin-Green’s egregiously underrated comedy chops.

They were obviously casting for folks w/ jokes in the new season too: David Ajada is no slouch in the dry-delivery or the goofy-face department; his energy and chemistry with Sonequa are as suited to comedy as they are to romance (i.e. extremely 🥵). Anthony Rapp and Wilson Cruz we knew about, but Blu del Barrio—a certified tiny baby!!!—holds their own and lands every smartass whiz-kid one-liner just on the right side of “too precious to stand.” (I almost always at least chuckle, and never roll my eyes, and for a “teen genius” character that’s literally as good as it gets.) And living legend Michelle Yeoh is clearly having the time of her life, omfg.

Disco’s not funny-funny like Lower Decks, but they do funny-on-purpose better than any live-action Trek except maybe DS9. They have such a deep comedic bench they don’t even need Tig Notaro—they have her on just to flex, I presume.

(I don’t know if I’m predicting, per se, that Strange New Worlds—with Rebecca Romjin’s deadpan, Anson Mount’s twinkly eyes, and Ethan Peck’s twinkly-eyed deadpan—is going to have a tone somewhere between Disco S3 and LwD—but I mean... it kinda has to, right? And you know they kept the number for Rainn Wilson’s agent.)

***

At the start of this episode, I was “sure, why the fuck not” about First Officer Tilly; by the end, I was completely on board. And to everyone who’s still wringing their hands about “the real military” this (always from people who have no idea how actual militaries work, lol) and “Lt. Nilsson” that (she... already has a job on the ship? And no character traits besides “stoic” and “furrows brow”? Oh, I get it—she’s skinny and blonde)—y’all are kind of embarrassing me.

“Rank” and “position” (and “seniority” and “day-to-day duties”...) aren’t the same thing, in Star Trek or any IRL military. Yes, the permanent first officers of normal-duty Starfleet ships we’ve seen have usually been command-division officers with the rank of Commander—but not always. Star Trek: Discovery-A, if you will, is a unique show about a unique ship in a unique situation: “B-b-but that’s not how they do it on Star Trek!!!” isn’t a legitimate criticism, not of this—it’s the mournful cry of an entitled pissbaby who isn’t having their hand held all the way to the fireworks factory.

Here’s what an argument supported by the text of the first 37 episodes of Star Trek: Discovery actually looks like: Sylvia Tilly is nervous and lacks self-confidence, but once she gets over herself—which she can do pretty much instantly in a crisis, even when hilariously intoxicated—she is competent as hell. In lower-stakes situations, without intense pressure to focus her attention, she sometimes gets sidetracked by her own insecurities; at her best, she channels that anxious energy into ambition, drive, and being scrupulously organized.

The only person Tilly doesn’t always get along with is Stamets, and even Stamets’s husband thinks he’s an asshole. Since Season 1, we’ve seen her easily socializing with the rest of the crew, who seem to universally adore her. And she’s also happy to leave her social comfort zone at a moment’s notice: she aligned herself with Ash Tyler (miss you, Shazad!) when no one else would, and she instantly befriended Po even when Po was in Weird Feral Alien Princess mode and Tilly had salad in her hair. She doesn’t like confrontation, but she’s brave enough to initiate it anyway if she needs to, and she’s compassionate with other people’s feelings while still setting firm boundaries. (Her graceful dodge of Rhys’s tipsy kiss at the party in 1.07 lives rent-free in my head to this day.)

No, Tilly didn’t finish the Command Training Program—but she started it, which is almost certainly more command training than any of the lieutenants whose names we know, all of whom are Ops or Science personnel with, presumably, specialized non-command training of their own. The same could be assumed for any unseen ranking officers on this science ship with an entirely volunteer skeleton crew.

And seriously, about Nilsson: she’s my #3 background bae after Octopus Head and the lady on Pike’s Enterprise with the spiky red face, but her job is Spore Drive Ops, not personnel. If she’s running after Saru with a holo-clipboard, who’s going to look serious and push holo-buttons when there’s a Black Alert? *drops holo-mic* Drumhead!

***

The stuff on Kwejian, though. Ooof. Ol’ Two-Takes Frakes directed this one, and between the kinetic energy he always adds to the camera and the scintillating performances he evokes, things stayed moving so briskly I almost didn’t notice Book’s entire “homeworld” was a rental house outside Vancouver, a couple acres of adjacent woods, and like six or seven people.

It’s a hot mess in retrospect, but in the moment it gave us the intensity of Book and Kyheem trying to hurt each other’s feelings by poking at 15-year-old wounds, which as a sibling with complicated sibling relationships I found both funny and devastating—not to mention Frakes directing “shaky bridge” explosion falls at an obvious intensity of “10” on an outdoor location shoot. It falls apart at the slightest scrutiny, but I can’t lie, on first viewing I was totally along for the ride.

***

I’m dying to see where this Georgiou thing goes. It doesn’t feel like a stretch to assume she got Cronenberg’d a couple weeks ago, probably to get her under the thumb of this century’s Section 31, and that her arc is going to take Michelle Yeoh off this show in a way that sets up the S31 show. But also, I don’t care so much whether I’m right, I just want to watch Michelle Yeoh—and Sonequa Martin-Green, and also David Cronenberg tbh, and bring back Shazad Latif while you’re at it—get wherever they’re going.

It’s also a fun and interesting direction to take the comically-evil comic relief character and show that her performative moustache-twirling is partly habit and partly a transparent emotional defence against very real fear and vulnerability. We’re all products of our circumstances, and a radical enough change in circumstances can afford almost anyone at least the opportunity to change. I can’t say Emperor Georgiou would have been my first choice of protagonist for that storyline, but it’s not like Michelle Yeoh’s not going to fuckin’ crush it.

***

Miscellany:

So the Burn had an origin point, and now that point is broadcasting a signal that’s somehow both a haunting melody that everyone seems to know—but no one can remember learning—and a Federation distress signal. What the fuck, y’all. I have full-body goosebumps just typing that.

Saru workshopping his own captainly catchphrase with the aid of Tilly’s extreme sincerity and organizational skills is probably the funniest thing that’s ever happened on this show—followed closely by the uncomfortably lingering reaction shots when he’s trying them out on the bridge 😂 (And omg please give Rhys and Bryce the dumbass buddy-comedy C-plots they deserve next season, I beg you.)

I would do a little “prop watch” entry on those Kwejianian(?) bolt-throwing rifles, but I’d have to stop drooling over them first. “Curvy polished hardwood” seems to be New Trek shorthand for “extra sleek and futuristic” (cf. the bridge of the USS Titan in the LwD finale), and I have to say: I am fully into it.

Restating my prediction that we will not see Detmer and Owosekun get together this season, because we will find out that they’ve been together for ages. Everyone knew—Pike even knew!—it just never came up in front of the audience before. That would be one of the cutest ways to do it imho, and one of the funniest too, especially as a meta-joke about how much character development didn’t happen in the first two seasons. (That said, if we get to see their first kiss, I will be screaming with incoherent joy for days, so this is a real win-win for me.)

Speaking of cute: IRL spouses Mary Wiseman and Noah Averbach-Katz, both Julliard-trained actors (it’s where they met!), can’t quite hide their chemistry in the scenes between Tilly and Ryn. I loved seeing Tilly be a hardass when Ryn was rude to the captain, but that sparkle in her eyes didn’t quite match the context <3

And speaking of people who are VERY OBVIOUSLY IN LOVE: that last scene with Book and Michael, and his nervous little “yeah, I said it” eyebrow lift, and her irrepressible giggle as she’s walking away... it was almost too much. Especially right after the queer-family scenes with Stamets and Culber and Adira. My poor heart is going through a lot lately, and I guess I’m just glad Season 3’s emotional intensity is melting it with soft sweet scenes like that instead of kicking it down repeated flights of stairs like Season 1.

***

Next week: everyone stops caring about the Burn and starts trying to solve an even more important mystery—why is this (holographic) dude wearing an early-2360s uniform with an early-2370s combadge?

[trunkzbriefs]

Any Son and/or Briefs family headcanons? Spicy hot takes? Truths Toriyama and Toyotaro themselves can not handle? Straight up lies?

GODDAMN SORRY this took a while cause i suck at putting thoughts together. i apologize for my obvious briefs bias i have more hcs for them than the son family despite loving them both :pensive: anyway heres some random stuff

briefs hcs:

all of the briefs are pros at non-verbal communication. i hc that saiyans have their own language (and also in my own Mind Canon they still have their fuckin tails) and a lot of it is done through tail movement/body posture/grunts/etc. etc so theyve all sort of picked that up. even bulma, who doesnt have a tail, is pretty good at getting across what she means without actually speaking. they still do speak normally but it comes in handy sometimes considering that both trunks and vegeta are prone to running out of speaking energy or getting very frustrated with words, so having another way to communicate works very well for them

vegeta is fffffffffffffffffffurry. without getting too deep into my own General Saiyan hcs (thats why i made a whole ass four subspecies!!) i think that the entirety of planet vegeta tended to be very hot aside from the part where the castle was, where the temperature would drop. meaning that saiyans working in the palace would grow thicker fur around certain parts of their body, and in the royal saiyans theyd be Especially fluffy. he kept it down on earth, but he has thick patches of fur around the bottom parts of his arms and legs. kind of like snowy boots and gloves! he also has fur that grows in on his neck like a lions mane.

future trunks is an actions sponge, vegeta is a words sponge. vegeta will pick up words VERY quickly regardless if he fully understands the meaning of it or not (completely inspired by 'THATS RIGHT BOYS... MONDO COOL' in z) and future trunks will unintentionally mimic the actions of people - around people he looks up to he might take a few small mannerisms from but this extends to copying the disposition of anyone; he's just very adaptive. this is the most obvious (and funniest) when he's around vegeta bc it really shows like. yeah damn that sure is vegeta's son

vegeta & bulla have an intimidating bastard smirk naturally. their natural smiles are pretty frightening and they have to put effort into a 'normal' one. this also extends to current trunks, his default smile is the Vegeta Bastard Smirk but he learned to have a normal smile quicker than his father and sister. future trunks has a slightly unnerving natural smile (the fact that his pupils are always drawn so fucking small makes me hc that he just has a very intimidating look of 'cat thats about to pounce on an unfortunate trapped mouse' whenever he smiles) but he learned to look normal even quicker than current trunks since he's around humans a Lot and is sort of their uh, Hope. don't want to look scary to the people who depend on you!

bulma has some fighting knowledge and mildly good ki control. vegeta taught her it as a just in case so that she'd be able to defend herself against Bigger threats if he wasn't there and also so she could raise her own ki to alert someone to her if she had to.

vegeta is extremely clean and can not stand to have things disorganized for more than like... an hour before he has to tidy everything up. every time he goes down to the lab and bulma is passed out in a pile of bolts and circuit boards it kills him inside just a little bit

future trunks has little concept of power control. since his timeline was always in danger it wasn't really an important thing for him to learn. the amount of mugs he's accidentally crushed is impressive

vegeta tends to not sound like he's asking questions when he is. he doesn't add the proper infliction to the end of his questions and just sounds flat most of the time. it's confusing to people who dont know him well.

im not even gonna lie, im a BIG fan of the chill demon panchy headcanon so i love the idea that the briefs have a Lil bit of demon in them but just dont know it ghjnkm

[banging my fists on the 'hcs that not even got could take away from me' table] future trunks has OCD

vegeta doesn't really get labels but he's bisexual & "debatably a man", bulma is bisexal & bigender transfem (sometimes shes Wamen and other times its like "gender? no"), bulla is a nonbinary lesbian, current trunks is a bisexual trans man & future bulma forgot to explain the concept of gender and sexuality to future trunks so he's a little confused on that front and his gender & sexuality are "i have literally never thought abt these concepts in my life but i think men are nice. i refuse to think about gender though" (i actually have two main hcs for future trunks which are either gay trans man or more-feminine-presenting nonbinary bisexual)

son hcs:

goku is Not as fluffy as vegeta at all, but he does have fur on certain parts of his body. namely on the back of his elbows + ankles, down his back connecting to his tail, and on his shoulders. its inherented from gine!

gohan is learning saiyan language from vegeta! vegeta acts grumpy about it but he's glad to have someone to teach. when gohan learned that most of the history had been lost he basically wished shenron for a big ol book on saiyan culture and gave it to vegeta just as an act of kindness and vegeta was like [in an angry voice but very touched] "Ok. Sit down. You're learning." by extension gohan is also teaching the rest of his family!

i will take ox king being actually non-human to my grave so like, chichi has horns and a very short ox tail! gohan and goten both have horns, but they're hidden by hair. goten's horns are bigger than gohans.

goten also has a more ox-like tail, with a little puff of fur at the end. generally, gohan looks more saiyan-like and goten looks more ox/human-like.

although he keeps up his cheery demeanor very well, goku is still haunted pretty badly by like... everything that’s happened in his life. he still has frequent nightmares about cell & buu specifically.

gohan will freak out at worse, zone out at best, if he's even tapped on the neck. it reminds him of the whole 'getting his neck snapped on namek' so that area is pretty off limits to everyone

goten gets along really well with android 17. they both have a love for nature and 17s kind of like his chill uncle, so whenever he gets too stressed out or just needs a break you can find him face down on the ground outside of 17's place on monster island.

goku is really really good at remembering completely random shit. bulma uses this to her advantage whenever she's working and has him memorize random technology stuff. a week later goku can not remember what he had for breakfast that morning but as soon as bulma asks "hey do you remember what i told you last week" hes like "oh yeah sure i have no idea what it means but [blurts out three hours worth of technical garble]"

oh boy is this a headcanon that has a lot more depth to it than just a bullet on a tumblr post, but gohan has DID!

goku, like vegeta, doesnt get labels either, and does not even Try, ask him about any of it and hes like "i dont get the gender thing but i think lots of people look nice :)" gohan is gay and like vegeta, "debatably a man", goten + chichi are both bi nonbinary, & pan is a lesbian trans woman.

both:

bulla and pan are both into music! i think theyd mess around making their own stuff w/ launchpads

i have a general hc of ki mixing or shielding, essentially, if youre close enough to someone people wont be able to tell apart your ki and you can also 'shield' someone with your ki for a small amount of time. if vegeta has his energy low, his and bulma's energy are the same. same thing with goku and chichi! goten and trunks are near impossible to tell apart, and same thing with gohan and videl.

though goten and trunks are both protective over their younger siblings, gotenks is that protectiveness times a thousand. look at bulla or pan wrong for 2 seconds and you're going to have an angry gotenks in your face asking if you have any last words. i like to think that trunks and goten fused casually a lot, especially around the time where bulla and pan were young, so its basically goten and trunks own attachment to them PLUS gotenks' attachment to them as his own person combined.

i like to pretend end of z did not happen the way it did so uub, using nimbus, travels back and forth a lot. goku isn’t the only one who teaches him how to fight as goten, gohan and trunks all think of him like a little brother and love training with him!

fuck you letters to toriyama/toyotaro hot takes:

cell, as cool of a villian as he is, definitely should have had a creepier final form. or multiple- just something that really drives in the fact that he's made up of other's dna & fuckin ABSORBS people. also his first two forms should have had a different absorbtion method other than the tail thing (not the drinking thing thats fine) it just feels.   Weird. not good

it would have been far more interesting to keep the bitter attitude towards vegeta that future trunks had imo... in super trunks was going through a Lot granted but the fact tht he wasnt more confrontational to vegeta being a dick to him seemed kind of off considering his attitude in z i just.. think it would be interesting and far better if they had more of a back and forth 'family but lowkey hate each other' relationship

i dont want to rant about super so heres some super condensed takes, goku black arc specific because thats 90% of what ive seen of super:

mai is a fucking freak ass weirdo, why did they not just make another character to pair with trunks

trunks not flipping the fuck out at his timeline being erased feels... out of character. also trunks deserved the win against zamasu

future bulma did NOT need to die

trunks should have just stayed in the current timeline

please fucking let trunks and goten grow up. we SAW a version of trunks who looked 14 (history of trunks....) and the versions of goten & trunks we have r/n in super do not look 13/14 respectively what in the goddamn hell is going on in the character design department

super definitely should have taken place later down the line

supers version of bulma and videl look awful. why are they That stick like.

vegeta needs to kill frieza. just once.

fu has enough potential to be a very interesting mainline character and i am so sad he's not

i would actively enjoy a sdbh anime with more  budget that isnt just a promo anime and has a plot that makes sense... i think db should have more wild spinoffs

xenoverse deserved a better story that went FULL in on the 'what if' type of timelines- like they did in raging blast which is a FUCKING GREAT GAME

straight up lies:

dragon ball z is a good series

[captainjanegay]

hi kasia! could you try “quit staring! they’ll notice us!” for the drabble challenge? just a little fun prompt to try ☺️❤️ i just posted this one too— i shouldn’t but it seems fun!

OK so. This took an unexpected turn. And it’s also 1.5k. I hope there are no mistakes but I can’t promise anything. I really hope you’ll like it, love, I quite enjoyed writing it ;’)

.

Bucky noticed them about 10 minutes ago. It really wasn’t that hard, they were quite obvious, even despite all the precautions they seem to be taking. Maybe someone without enhanced hearing, years of tactical training and god ole paranoia of constantly being watched wouldn’t notice. But unfortunately, Bucky isn’t that someone.

He spotted them as he and Steve were taking their last laps around the Prospect Park. They stared. Bucky smiled at them in response. They run away. At first he assumed it was the last he’d seen them. But he was proven wrong quickly enough.

Now, he is very aware of the two little kids, currently hiding behind a tree about 20ft. from where he and Steve are sitting. They can’t be more than 7, maybe, although the girl seems to be a bit older than the boy. Every so often one of the little heads peaks from behind the trunk and takes a quick look at them only to disappear again. Bucky tries really hard not to laugh.

The funniest part is that Steve seems to have absolutely no idea. He has a little notebook balanced on his knee and there’s this slightly detached look on his face, the one he always gets when he’s sketching something. Bucky loves that look. Although he is kind of surprised and impressed by how Steve even managed to bring the notebook. His workout shirt is barely containing Steve’s body. The pants aren’t much better, really. It all looks ready to burst at the seams. But anyway, the point is—when Steve’s drawing, there are very few things able to shake him out of his zone. 

Apparently little kids don’t possess this kind of power. 

“I’m telling you I’m right!” Bucky hears the girl’s insisting voice.

“Maybe! But maybe not! And mum always says we can’t talk to strangers!”

“Captain America is not a stranger! And quit staring! They’ll notice us!”

Bucky snorts quietly, leaning back on the bench. Accidentally, as he tries to make himself comfortable, he nudges Steve’s shoulder. The other man sends a distracted glance his way but does a double take seeing Bucky’s smile.

“Why are you laughing?” Steve asks.

“It’s nothing,” Bucky waves a hand at him.

“You’re laughing at me, aren’t you? What did I do this time, you jerk?”

Bucky raises an eyebrow and chuckles again. “I wasn’t laughing at you! You’re paranoid, Rogers. Not everything revolves around your ass.”

“Oh really? That’s not what you—” Steve starts but Bucky covers his mouth with his hand before he can finish.

“Don’t be gross in public, please. It’s enough I have to put up with you at home,” Bucky says but his laugh betrays that he’s not being serious. “And I was laughing because there are two little kids hiding behind that tree,” he discreetly points this head in the right direction, “and they’re very excited about seeing Captain America.”

“Really? I mean I’ve seen them before but aren’t they just playing? Why do you think they even recognise us?”

In response Bucky raises his eyebrow and points towards the tree again. Just as Steve looks, a dark haired, curly head appears but hides quickly, noticing that Steve is watching.

“OK, you might have a point. So what—”

Before he can finish there is movement from behind the tree. The girl emerges first, a determined look on her face that seems oddly familiar to Bucky. She’s basically dragging the smaller boy by his arm and he—not having any options left, so it seems—trotes after her. She stops in front of the bench and squares her shoulders, jutting her chin out. It doesn’t seem to faze her in the slightest that both Steve and Bucky are staring at her expectantly. Bucky is impressed. The little boy is a bit more wary, partly hiding behind the girls back.

“Hello,” she says. “I’m sorry to interrupt but I just wanted to make sure. Are you Captain America?”

“Hi,” Steve answers with a smile. “Well, ye—”

“Or ex-Captain America, right? I’ve heard that the Falcon is now the Captain. So should I call you ex-Captain America or—”

Bucky tries really hard not to burst out laughing, seeing Steve’s stunned face. He only partially succeeds. He has to cover his mouth with his hand to hide his amusement from the kids.

“You can just call me Steve? But yeah, I am—I used to be Captain America.”

“OK, Steve. I just wanted to make sure I recognised you correctly. You were a great superhero. I’m going to be Captain America when I grow up, too,” she says, matter-of-factly. “Me and my brother go for karate lessons. He’s not as good as me, though, but he is still little, he’s only 6.”

Said brother is still quite wary of them but his annoyance wins and he elbows his sister on the side as she says that. Steve’s face gradually becomes even more confused.

“I was wondering - is the shield very heavy? I’m not that strong now but I’ll manage it when I grow up. How much does it weigh?”

“Um—,” Steve glances over at Bucky, looking a bit lost. “Oh, I don’t really—I’ve never really checked how much exactly it weighs. But it’s pretty light, even for someone without superstrength. It’s actually made of a very special and light materials—”

“Oh yeah, Proto-Adamantium, I know! I’ve read an article about it once,” the girl nods.

Bucky has never expected that from all the things Steve has ever faced—both before the war and the serum and later—all it takes to intimidate him is a little girl. Quite an extraordinary little girl, but a little girl nonetheless. It is the best thing that Bucky has ever experienced. He can’t wait to tell Sam about it. And warn him about the possible competition for the job.

Turning his eyes away from the pair for a moment, Bucky notices that the little boy is staring at him. It’s nothing new. People tend to stare at him, even after all this time. He can’t blame them for keeping their guard up around him. It sucks but he got used to this. Anyway, he smiles softly at the boy, hoping not to scare him more.

To his surprise, the boy takes a step to the side, emerging from behind his sister’s back and then another one that takes him closer to Bucky. He is wringing his hands nervously but his gaze is still focused on Bucky.

“I—I,” he tries quietly and Bucky waits for him to continue, still smiling encouragingly. “I really like—your arm, Mr. Bucky. It’s—it’s really cool.”

“Oh.” It’s the only thing Bucky manages to say. He looks to the side at his metal arm, sprawled across the back of the bench. Slowly, he lifts it up and rests it on his knee. “I—Thank you. My friend in Wakanda made it for me.”

“That’s so cool! Can I… Can I touch it?”

This too takes Bucky aback for a moment. Even adults aren’t really eager to touch his metal arm. It probably has something to do with the fact that they’re afraid of having their bones crushed or something. But he nods and the boy’s whole face lights up. He slowly reaches and takes Bucky’s hand in both his little palms and inspects the black metal closely. The gold parts glisten in the sun as the boy slowly twists Bucky’s hand from side to side.

“Whoa!” the boy says under his breath, watching the plates move with a quiet whirl. “This is the best thing ever!”

The only thing Bucky can do is to watch, completely speechless. The thing is—half of the time Bucky still hates the arm. Not as much as the previous one but it still brings back bad memories. For the longest time he preferred to detach it completely and just covered his shoulder. Even though all the wars have ended, the arm is still seen as a weapon and it makes Bucky see it that way, too, no matter how many times Steve kisses it and holds it. But seeing the pure awe on the boy's face, the way he holds Bucky’s hand without even a hint of fear. It isn’t something Bucky’s used to.

He tries to answer all the questions the boy asks—and it turns out that he can be as inquiring as his big sister—and he hopes his voice is not as trembling as he feels.

After a few more minutes the sister—who is clearly the boss around here—announces that they have to go. The boy pouts slightly but agrees. When he lets go of Bucky’s hand, he smiles up at him.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Bucky. You’re my favourite superhero!”

And then he runs after his sister to the other side of the park. Bucky just sits there, his brows furrowed in confusion as he watches the kids go.

“Buck? You OK?” Steve asks, nudging Bucky lightly on the side.

“I’m—,” Bucky tries to answer but his voice breaks weirdly. He blinks a few times, trying to get a grip on himself.

“For what it’s worth,” Steve says and he leans closer, wrapping an arm around Bucky’s shoulders. “You’re my favourite superhero, too.”

“Fuck off,” Bucky laughs wetly, half-heartedly trying to push Steve away.

And Bucky has never expected that after all the things he has experienced and done—both before the war and later—someone could still see a hero in him.

five word prompts

[welcometothebookreport]

Weekly Wrap up: 12/20/2020 - 12/27/2020

It’s the end of the first week here at this blog, though technically it’s only the second day that we’ve been live. On Sundays, I’ll be posting weekly wrap-ups with what I’ve been reading all week, my thoughts, and hopefully a graphic that I’ve spent too much time on. At least that’s the idea. School may not allow for blogging much, but I’ll wing it when I get there. 

In case the graphic doesn’t load, everything is mentioned down here again so there’s nothing to miss! Keep in mind, there will be spoilers for titles mentioned below the line, and also please do not spoil me if I’ve mentioned that I’ve not finished it yet. :) 

This week I read... 

In A Holidaze by Christina Lauren

This Time Next Year by Sophie Cousens

Serpent & Dove by Shelby Mahurin

Red Queen by Victoria Aveyard (in progress)

In A Holidaze by Christina Lauren

Rating: 5/5

Warnings: no hard warnings. This is a very light read. 

Thoughts about this book

I picked this book as part of my December box for Book of the Month Club and I almost didn’t read it this month at all. After finishing Serpent & Dove though, I decided that I really wanted some holiday cheer since I didn’t have any. It’s a good thing I did because this ended up being my favorite read of the year, and right at the final buzzer too. 

Our protagonist, Mae, ends up in a time loop when she makes a stray wish to the universe: Show me what will make me happy. I had my doubts about whether I would like the plot since it seems a little silly, and I wanted something with some substance. Pleased to admit that I was wrong about all of my thoughts at the beginning. Thing is, this book is silly. In fact, it’s downright hilarious and I laughed out loud so many times I lost track. It’s also serious in the right spots, but really it’s a tender story about getting your one true love. However, it’s not only a love story. 

It takes a while for Mae to throw caution to the wind. Approximately two return trips to the plane (with a courtesy whack to her brother’s face, actually) in, Maelyn Jones decides that none of this matters because she’s just going to start over anyway. In a fantastic outburst, she barks at her dad not to eat the cookie (he’s going to break his tooth on it), and a slew of other orders because she’s so fed up with it all. Then we see this woman start living when she hasn’t been, and to be completely honest, you don’t even realize it’s happening at first. 

She doesn’t realize it either. 

Andrew Hollis is the older brother of Theo (and Theo’s been carrying a torch for Mae, it seems) and also the brother Mae has spent years of her life pining after. They’re wicked close, wondrously hilarious together, and by the end of the book - No. By the time I was a quarter of the way through, I was pretty sure I was going to be in love with him too. Half-way in, I knew I was. 

I could go on and on about this book, but I’m going to spare you because a) I need to learn to be more concise with reviews and b) I really want you to read it and see if you love it as much as I did. 

The Funniest Moment for Me: 

I simply cannot pick one moment, but if I have to, I plucked the one out of my head that I thought of first. 

When they were kids, Mae painted their initials on the bottom of a mug. The full thing of MJ + AH and it’s adorable. Later, Mae admits it to Andrew, and he holds it up to the light in an equally adorable way and realizes that he can still see it, even though it’s been painted over. 

Favorite Scenes

I’d like to say the entire book, just for the record, but I can’t. Or can I? I kind of make the rules for my own posts, don’t I? 

Every single moment spent in the boathouse, even the ones that made my eyes water. They’re so perfect together, and I just love this couple, and this story so much I can hardly begin to explain it. 

What I learned from this story: 

Mae is stuck in a rut. In a job she doesn’t love, living with her parents, and without the love life that she wants. The shift in her is a dramatic one, and you have to root for her. I know I did because I saw too much of my own traits in her. A job I don’t love anymore, a position in life I don’t want anymore, the list goes on. 

Mae didn’t need the great love of her life to change everything, but she starts knocking down walls, and starts taking everything she wants. She tells the truth (that she has feelings for this man, that she hates her job,) and she tells Andrew. She quits her job in the twenty seconds of bravery that she’s always had, but has just unlocked. 

So, if there is something to take away from this, it’s that you’ve just gotta go for it. 

This Time Next Year by Sophie Cousens

Rating: 3/5

Warnings: Therapist Sessions, Mention of Miscarriage, A Garbage Parent, Depression, and Anxiety. Please mind that these warnings are for mentions inside the novel as well, and not necessarily something that happens to either of the leads.

Thoughts: 

This one was part of my November box for Book of the Month Club! I decided to read this since NYE is right around the corner, and bam, this one happens to open on NYE. 

I enjoyed this book. It was a fun romance, but it was more than that too. Minnie Cooper believes in a New Years jinx that started the night she was born, when her mother helps another woman through labor and delivery, and this woman wins a prize for the first baby born. Not only that, this woman takes what was meant to be Minnie’s name: Quinn. 

Listen, the joke Minnie Cooper was funny for about twenty pages before I really began to hate it. The book is over 300 pages. It’s one of those things I could deal with, but never really got past because it annoyed me so much. Moving on! 

A chance encounter leads to the meeting of Quinn and Minnie at a birthday party on NYE. As you can guess, it’s a party for Quinn. There are several encounters between these two through the book, and each one of them left me wanting to get to the next one. 

The main storyline is told in a linear fashion, but there are flashbacks from both characters too. At first, you may not realize that these two have met before. Or maybe you do realize it and I’m just so oblivious it hurts. Probably that one. 

I liked the romance, but what really caught my eye was the issues raised within the book. One character regularly attends therapist sessions in an effort to help themselves, in an effort to get better. The terrible issue of miscarriage is brought up (but this does not happen to either of our leads, but is still important!) and then we are living through a year in the life of these characters as they try to find what makes them happy. 

I liked this book, but I didn’t love it. It ranked as a ⅗ for me for a few reasons. I wanted more development. The romance felt a little lacking in some spaces, and I’m not sure if that’s because I had just finished In A Holidaze the day before, but it felt lukewarm to me. 

I appreciated the issues raised, and mostly enjoyed the way they were handled, but I wish some of them had been expanded on. I wasn’t a fan of brief time skips (where they could be a few months at a time) because it felt like a hole in the plot. 

Minnie Cooper. It’s hard to get into a story where I dislike the name so much. 

I just did not enjoy a part of the book that involved Minnie, her best friend Leila, and the proposal for Leila from her boyfriend that Minnie helped plan. It was meant to be funny, but it was more cheesy and it fell flat for me.

Serpent & Dove by Shelby Mahurin

Rating: 5/5

Warnings: Misogyny, violence in parts, religious zealots (in case that’s something that makes you uncomfortable like it did me), derogatory slurs toward women.    

This one has been on my TBR for a long time, and I finally dug into it. From the first day of reading, I was not sure I was going to finish it. Religion plays a central focal point to the plot of the first book, and one of my friends told me to press on, because it’s not as prevalent in book two. I don’t know about that yet, because I haven’t read it. 

I have so many pages marked in this book for how much I loved it. Truly. Lou is witty, quick to snap, and Reid’s character development is something I’ve marveled at. Going in, I knew there would be a forced marriage, but I wasn’t at all sure how it would come into play. I have to admit, it was a pretty creative way to go about it. 

Watching these two characters orbit each other, with each of their harsher exteriors beginning to come down has to be my favorite part, and the main reason I pressed through the parts that creeped me out. 

Reading Reid say the word fuck was a highlight for me. I have so much to say about this one, but I’m planning to write a proper review, and to show my annotations, so I’ll save that for another day!

Red Queen (Red Queen #1) by Victoria Aveyard

Warnings: None that I’ve seen yet. 

Rating: too soon to tell 

This is a book club read for my friends and I. It’s taken a bit for me to get into, but these are some of my notes up to where I was last night at page 93. 

It’s quite interesting, and books set in a dystopian world have never held my attention well. So, I’ve been struggling to really sink into it versus how well I fell into Caraval. 

The main character is beginning to grow on me more, and I’m curious to learn more about Cal and Maven. I’m certain that Cal is going to break my heart (don’t tell me if he’s going to) and also what will happen with Kilorn now that Mare will no longer be living in Stilts. 

I’ll finish it in the next couple of days, so hopefully I’ll have really grown to like it by next week’s post. 

What about you? What have you been reading this week? Sorry this is so long too. Eventually I’ll learn how to be more the point because nearly two thousand words is kind of embarrassing.