#i want my memory to be immortal. to last forever

[thoughts-and-all-that]

you gave me the best weekend of my life, you know.

my dad was going on a business trip in a state that was right next to yours, though i remember it still took you guys 5 hours to drive to the city, and 9 hours for me and my family. isnt it crazy how big this country is? we arent even on the larger half of it, either.

when i first saw you, i was scared. i was paranoid and young, and you were the first person from online i had ever met in person, despite my years of befriending people online. im glad it was you. it couldnt have ever been anyone else.

i was scared maybe i was lied to, that somehow it wasnt you, but i knew it was. i was a scared mentally ill kid and i was in the beginnings of something we both know got worse, and ill never stop being sorry for how i treated you when it did. you never deserved that, and it was never your fault. i shouldnt have done what i did, i shouldnt have.

i remember that first while was awkward, but itd be weird if it wasnt, right?

our first stop had to have been the bird sanctuary, i believe. so many birds of all kinds, and there was even bats! both of our favorite animals in one building, though i dont think the specific breeds we loved. that was okay. it was my first and only time seeing my favorite animal in person, it was amazing.

i remember there was a flying simulator in there, a both high budget and low budget game, if that makes sense. i mean, we had to lay on a t shaped person sized controller, which was wild! but the actual graphics of the cityscape we were meant to fly through were low quality. it was amazing. i remember you crashed, but i didnt. ive always dreamt of being able to fly.

and i remember that the penguin habitat had a dome in the middle that people could climb through a small tunnel into, and we were in there together, and looking at the penguins.

it mustve been that night that you came back to my hotel room, and we watched my favorite show on the couch, using my much too expensive laptop. i remember the deal we made that i didnt keep up my end of, where we watched eachothers favorite shows. im sorry i didnt like yours. i was glad you loved mine.

i dont remember if we saw eachother for most of the next day, i hope we did. the timeline blurs for me, but thats okay, because the timeline isnt what matters.

the boat ride matters. i know i wasnt originally meant to go on it with you guys, but i hope you think of it fondly like i do regardless.

i didnt like really any of the food they put in front of us, but thats not new for me. it only mattered in that single moment when it happened. when dinner was over and everyone was free to go about the boat, we mustve seen so much of it.

your mom and my mom were talking the whole time, trying to keep an eye on us, and taking pictures of us. i hope my mom enjoyed the boat ride, she didnt get to have many experiences like that the last few years of her life. i hate that that only happened 3 years before she died, and its been almost 6 years for me. time is a curse.

we kept trying to avoid them at the time, of course. we were teenagers on a trip away from our homes on a boat ride together down a river, we didnt want our moms watching us. we had to keep traveling about until they finally stopped watching, and it led us to sitting on the top deck, staring off of into the beautiful night lights of that mountain city.

i even remember that at some point the announcer pointed out an abandoned asylum against the river, and we thought it was one that was featured on our favorite ghost hunting show, though i now believe that it wasnt, as when i tried to find it later, i couldnt find that episode. i love the excitement we had, though.

we talked so much, in our special way. i remember i even asked you such a silly question, if people could walk on water when time is stopped. they definitely cant, but we made a whole thing of it.

we even kissed a few times.

at some point we traveled back to the main hall, and it was empty except for the guy in charge of the music. we cuddled together on a seat against the window, watching the city go by. i remember i had you ask if he had any songs from one of my favorite artists, though he only had her most popular song, which i guess makes sense.

i dont think my mom wouldve been upset if she had seen us, but i know your mom wouldve been. does she still not know youre queer? she doesnt need to know, anyway.

you had to go back home after that night, and thats okay. i missed you so much when you did, and all i did for the remainder of the trip was sit in my hotel room and play on my laptop.

maybe its simple looking back, maybe youve had better times since, but for me it was everything. it still is, but only because ive never had better.

i still think of you when i hear breakup songs and think of relationships, even though we never dated. never the angry ones, i promise.

i know youve moved on, and im glad you have. youve been with him for a while, and i hope that means he treats you well. you deserve to be treated well.

i havent moved on because ive been stuck in the past in so many ways for years. when you started talking to me again a few months ago, it drove me insane for the first few weeks, but ive gotten better since. ive been dealing with my past a lot lately, trying to heal.

not heal from you, of course. you never did really anything to hurt me, it was all me. there was only one thing you ever said, but it was my fault it even came up. i know you dont even feel that way anymore.

i feel bad for my future partners, i wonder if they can even top that, honestly. i hope they do, because it would be weird if i constantly compared them to a relationship i had when i was a teenager, but i just wonder. i also dont want to have peaked back then.

but really, regardless of all of that, im glad it happened. ive had good memories and ive had tons of bad, but you gave me my best. youre the person ive been closest to in my life, ever. we arent close anymore, and we never can be again the way we used to be, but thats okay. as long as youre happy, thats okay. i hope i can be happy too.

thank you. for everything.

[edible-emerald]

Ok so PVP civilization??? I HAVE SOME THOUGHTS???

Spoilers for episode 5 btw

So first off the REVEALS THIS EPISODE??? And the fact that most of them were to the viewer and not to Evbo???

The first reveal I want to talk about is PRINCEZAM REVIVING. HE CAN REVIVE TOO. This means WAY MORE THAN YOU MIGHT INITIALLY THINK.

Princezam's character, in nature, is selfish. He talks highly about how Evbo repeatedly dying is heroic, and while he may be subjecting himself to endless torture, he's saving so many lives, he's a hero, he's a good person. It's implied that Zam believes, if he were in Evbo's position, he would do the same; that he would let himself die to save others. But it's a lie. Because he IS in Evbo's position. HE CAN REVIVE TOO. But he kept it a better secret than Evbo, which is the only reason why he hasn't been endlessly farmed yet.

The second reveal Princezam gives that also shows more about his character and motives is that Evbo has a limited number of revives. He isn't immortal. He's on his last life. If he dies again, he'd be gone forever. And Zam knew this.

And I think something is really, really interesting about this. Because in episode 4, Zam's motive is to make Evbo die over and over indefinitely so he can keep increasing durability of the iron swords and increasing life span. Still an interesting character, but him KNOWING that this solution is temporary, and him KNOWING that Evbo will die permanently soon, changes everything. His motive wasn't to save the iron swords, I actually think he couldn't care less about them. His motive was to kill Evbo.

What else would it be? Why else would Zam KNOWINGLY make Evbo die over and over with every death coming closer to permanent death? Because for whatever reason, Zam wanted to get rid of Evbo. But why? Yes, it's true he was the chosen one. But that leads me into my next point:

Is he?

The only real thing that made Evbo special enough to be the chosen one is that he could revive himself after dying. But he isn't the only one who can. Zam can too; and I believe Tabi and a few other people can as well. So IS he the chosen one? Personally, I don't think he is. I think that someone else is the chosen one, but I'll get to who eventually. What possible motive could Zam have for wanting Evbo dead, if he isn't the chosen one?

Evbo was a diamond sword.

OKOKOK HEAR ME OUT

Evbo was a diamond sword who's memories were erased. He was threatening to like do something (maybe become a netherite sword?) that Zam and others didn't approve of and maybe he was working with Tabi, so both of them were killed and revived in the wooden sword level. But Evbo's memories were erased in the process so Tabi decided to manipulate him and get to the top without him this time. That brings me to the next point.

Tabi has history with some of the diamond swords. Specifically, Ferre. We don't know what yet, but I believe like I said above that she and Evbo were previously diamond swords, and were trying to do something and ended up being killed. Evbo's memories were erased but Tabi's weren't.

I think the reason the diamond swords were willing to let Evbo back in and not Tabi is because he lost all his memories. Maybe, he'll get some back and realize that the diamond layer is corrupt or evil in some way, and team up with Tabi to defeat them. But I don't think so. I think Tabi is evil and had either roped in Evbo, or worked with Evbo but losing his memories made him change.

Anyways, on the topic of reviving, I think it's also safe to say Zam was a diamond sword. First off, he seemed to know the diamond swords personally and disliked them, calling them 'bottom feeders' (which by the way is so fucking funny I giggled so much at that line) also we know he can revive as well so safe to say he was killed and revived there. Maybe he was in the plan (that may or may not exist idfk) with Tabi and Evbo and was killed as well. But I doubt it, considering how he treats Evbo, but then again, his character is very selfish and antagonistic. I think his ultimate motive is to rank up to a netherite sword (which may be godhood like in parkciv?? but we don't know) and he's trying to kill Evbo to take out the competition.

Also this is a minor thing but now we finally know why Zam kept his door closed in episode two, because he had an armor stand too and didn't want the secret to come out.

Now for the final reveal: Parrot has a backstory. And I think I know what it is.

Parrot is the real chosen one.

Ok my evidence for this is mostly speculation but also if Evbo isn't the chosen one than who?? Parrot is a really odd character, like every time he talks it just feels like there's something off about him. He talks a lot about the chosen one, but he acts. Weird. Around Evbo when he finds out that he's the chosen one. Also, for someone so devoted to the chosen one, he's still very much alive; and I point this out because he has a mansion AND a video journaling machine. That costs a lot of swings and I have a feeling he hasn't really ever paid respects to it. Even though he says he has. And why would he? BECAUSE HE'S THE CHOSEN ONE.

If Parrot isn't the chosen one, either one of two things are probably true:

he was a diamond sword

he was a/the netherite sword

I don't really know how these would work in the story the same way the chosen one theory would, but yeah

Thank you for reading my ramblings :33 hopefully I didn't miss anything lmao

ALSO??? WEMMBU AND MINUTE IN A EVBO VIDEO???? HELLO???? IS THIS REAL LIFE????????

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

[if-loves]

goodbye, my king 

// Mydei

sum: you knew this day was coming, that your time with him was ticking; but you'll always wish you could've had him for a little longer.

wc: 991

warnings: 3.1 story quest spoilers, ooc mydei, written before mydei release

a/n: ok maybe i did have stay a little longer and die with a smile playing when i wrote this

likes & reblogs are appreciated :)

You had a dream once, a long time ago, around the time you and Mydei had first unofficially gotten together. Most of your memory of it has been eroded by time, but you remembered one part of it quite vividly. Mydei had left, and he was never coming back.

The days following it were plagued with a relentless anxiety that took hold of your fragile state of mind, waiting anxiously for his return from his latest battle. You know death evades him now and forever, but you also knew that if death could not take him away, then he'd be the one to do it himself.

However, even before this dreaded dream, you felt as if you already knew deep down that he was going to leave you one day, even before you would die. You knew the weight of the crown that yearns to rest on his head and the burden he carries for being unable to lead his people home, and that one day he'd finally allow himself to bear its weight atop his head. You just didn't expect it to be today.

On your way back from grocery shopping at Marmoreal Market, you had overhead some gossip that started floating around. 

“I heard Mydei will be leaving Okhema.”

“Leaving? As in, permanently?”

“That's what the rumours say, that he is bidding farewell to all those dear to him.”

It had frozen you in your steps, the crowd fading into nothing but muted sounds. You could see your hands starting to shake, and you suddenly felt as if you were drowning. Your vision had started to blur, the telltale sign of tears blurring your line of sight. With your head down and anxiety clawing up your throat, you make it home and break down into silent sobs the moment the door closes.

~~

Mydei had thought long and hard about this decision of his. He could accept leaving behind most, in the name of reclaiming his home and protecting what remains of his people and the Okhemans, but if he had one regret that truly gnawed at his immortal existence, it would be leaving you behind. You, who loved him sincerely, with every beat of your mortal heart, who always waited for his return regardless of how much time had passed, who always cleaned his wounds gently even if he insisted that it was of no use. You, who did it because you loved and cared for him. And now, he has to leave you too.

The walk to your house is agonising. He finds himself taking his time, taking in the sights of Marmoreal Market, the eternal sunlight and the bustling crowd one last time. He thinks he can take the silence in Castrum Kremnos, but he doesn't know if he can take the lack of you. 

Mydei stands in front of your door, hesitant. He wants to, he has to, knock on the door. He needs to see you one last time, to feel your lips on his again, to say goodbye even as it devastates both you and him. Because you deserve at least that much.

He raises his hand, and finally knocks. You don't answer, but he opens the door anyway. He knows your schedule like the back of his hand, and he knows you're home right now. He's proven right when he sees you standing in your kitchen, your back towards him as your arms rest on the counter. You don't turn to face him, and it hurts. He deserves it.

“(Y/n),” your name leaves his lips in a sound that's all too pleasing to your ears, but you resist the desire to turn around, to see him standing in front of you. 

“Mydei.” His name leaves your lips, and he wishes that he wasn't going to do this. 

Silence settles over, Mydei not daring to push you and you not daring to face him. 

“...It's true, then? That you're leaving forever?” You force yourself to speak, desperately holding back the sobs that threaten to shatter your voice. 

“Yes, that's why I've come to see you, one last time.” He is straightforward with his answer, because he knows that time is not and never on his side. He wants you to turn around, even if your face is stained by tears.

He takes a tentative step forward, unbecoming of a king like him. Gently, he takes you in his arms again, in a silent apology. You finally let your tears go, turning around to bury yourself in his chest, your tears running down your cheeks only to land on him. 

You don't know how long you've stayed there, crying like a child in the arms of your lover. When your sobs finally calm down into hiccups do you speak.

“Stay a little longer, please?” You plead in your broken voice, your watery eyes meeting his. “Please, just until I fall asleep.” 

Mydei has never been one to deny your requests, and he doesn't plan to start. He leads you to your room and settles on your bed, pulling you on top of him and holding you with a tenderness only you have had the privilege of seeing. 

Even as your tears continuously fall, he doesn't say anything. All he does, and all he can do, is to just hold you one last time. 

“Goodbye, my king.” You murmur, before he hears your breathing even. He waits a few moments before he manoeuvres himself out of the bed, taking great care to not wake you. He pulls the blanket over you and looks at you, trying to carve your every feature into his head. You'll always be beautiful to him, your visage forever home in him. He kneels by your side one last time, and lays a gentle kiss on your lips, savouring the feeling.

When Mydei steps out of your house and finally starts his path back home, he allows a tear to fall. 

[overadores]

･ ⟢ ⋮ without warning ゛༝. ✦ sophia laforteza

“We had the stars, you and I.

pairing.ᐟ sophia laforteza x sick!reader

about.ᐟ Sophia and Y/N’s college friendship blossomed through a shared love for adventure and literature, leading to countless spontaneous road trips. Unbeknownst to Sophia, Y/N carried a heartbreaking secret. As they created unforgettable memories, time quietly slipped away, leaving behind a final gift and a love that would last forever.

genre.ᐟ heavy angst, hurt no comfort.

cw.ᐟ major character death, friends - supposed to be lovers, language, sickness (leukemia).

wc.ᐟ 1353 words

a/n.ᐟ and another one :P i forgot to post today FUCKKK, i was too busy playing im so sorry TT and manon story for the fluff. pls i need more friends on airbuds.

And this is given once only.”

Sophia Laforteza met Y/N in college, an instant bond forming between them over their shared love for literature, adventure, and their equally extroverted nature. Their first encounter was playful—Sophia, being the new girl, had wandered into the wrong classroom.

"Hi, is this Literature 101?" she had asked as she carefully took her things out.

Y/N glanced around before smirking mischievously. "I don’t think so. This is Biology."

Sophia’s face paled, and she immediately stuffed her things back into her bag, ready to bolt, but before she could reach the door, Y/N called out, barely containing her laughter. "I’m kidding, new girl! This is Lit 101."

Sophia turned back, eyes dead serious, as she returned to her seat. "Ha ha, so funny," she muttered sarcastically.

Y/N grinned, offering a hand. "Oh, come on, let me have a little fun with you. I'm Y/N."

Sophia shook her hand, side-eyeing her. "Sophia."

"You're a feisty one, Sophia. Enjoy college, pretty."

That was the start of something beautiful. Y/N’s teasing and pestering became a constant in Sophia’s life, and strangely enough, Sophia never complained. She loved it. When Y/N invited her on a spontaneous road trip, Sophia—being the people pleaser she was—agreed without hesitation. One trip turned into many, and soon, Sophia bought a digital camera to capture their adventures. A sunset on a hiking trip, Y/N’s excitement at Six Flags, the quiet serenity of an empty beach at dawn—each moment immortalized in photographs.

At first, Sophia didn’t question why Y/N was always so eager to travel, but curiosity got the best of her one night. "Why do you always go on these trips?" she asked as they lay on a motel bed, scrolling through pictures on her camera.

Y/N hesitated before answering, "Fulfilling my bucket list, Forteza."

Sophia thought it was just Y/N’s way of romanticizing life. She didn't press further.

But in reality, Y/N was sick—dying, even. The spontaneous trips weren’t just for fun; they were a race against time. She knew she wouldn’t make it until forty, but if she had to go, she wanted to go with beautiful memories. And with Sophia.

There were only three things left on her list:

Try to fall in love again, give love another chance.

Watch the stars and have deep emotional talks.

Maybe, just maybe, try to make it until 40.

As days passed, Y/N grew more tired. She noticed her body weakening, but she pushed through. She had to. One evening, while strolling through the park, Y/N watched as Sophia played with a golden retriever, laughing at the way its tail wagged excitedly. Y/N smiled, storing the image in her heart.

Another memory to cherish.

"Soph, can we go now? I'm starving, darling," Y/N said, waiting for her to finish petting a golden retriever.

Sophia looked up, grinning, and linked arms with her. “Alright, alright.”

They walked side by side, chatting aimlessly. Sophia, unable to hold back her concern, finally pointed out, "You’ve been looking paler lately. And thinner. Are you okay?"

Y/N brushed it off with a laugh. "I’m always like this when I’m stressed. No big deal."

Sophia frowned but nodded. "Just… take a break sometimes, okay?"

"Yeah," Y/N murmured, guilt pooling in her stomach.

Later that night, they lay under the stars on the rooftop of Y/N’s loft. Pillows, a picnic cloth, and food were all prepared by Y/N. Sophia was surprised by the effort. "You really went all out," Sophia chuckled, settling beside her.

"Of course. I promised myself I’d watch the stars with someone special."

Y/N broke the comfortable silence. "Do you like the idea of soulmates?"

Sophia turned her head, furrowing her brows. "What do you mean?"

Y/N shrugged. "Do you get excited by the idea of finding someone that completes you?"

Sophia pondered before admitting, "I do get butterflies at the thought."

"What about you?" Sophia asked, turning toward Y/N.

Y/N inhaled deeply. "I like to believe that there's someone out there who will love me no matter what, even if I die." Sophia stiffened. "Why would you say that?"

Y/N just shrugged. "It’s comforting to think love doesn’t end, even when life does.

Sophia sat up slightly, watching Y/N’s face intently. "What would you do for the love of your life?"

Y/N smirked. "Maybe the usual romantic clichés—kissing in the rain, writing her letters, learning all her favorites and surprising her with them, 3 AM car rides. Maybe have a little fun."

Sophia giggled, pinching her side. "Hey, don't be dirty now."

Y/N laughed with her, closing her eyes as Sophia’s warmth surrounded her. This was enough. Even if it all ended too soon. 

Then, on the last day of exams, Y/N was nowhere to be found. Sophia looked around campus but gave up when their professor excused Y/N from the session. Concern gnawed at her.

She rushed to Y/N’s loft after the exam, only to find it eerily quiet. No music, no humming, no laughter. Sophia pushed open the bedroom door and saw Y/N lying there, breathing heavily, shivering, and burning up with fever.

Panic surged in Sophia’s chest. She shook Y/N desperately. "Hey, wake up! What’s wrong?!" Sophia shook her, panic flooding her veins. "Please, wake up." No response. Her forehead burned under Sophia’s touch.

She called an ambulance, hands trembling as she cradled Y/N. "You’re gonna be fine," she whispered, voice cracking. "Just hold on."

The hospital smelled sterile.

Cold.

Empty.

Sophia sat outside the emergency room, fingers digging into her palms, praying that it’s just a worsen flu, but the doctor’s words hit her like a train.

"The leukemia is progressing. She needs to stay hospitalized."

Sophia’s world shattered.

Sophia’s world tilted. "Leukemia?" Her voice came out broken. "She… she never told me."

The nurse handed her Y/N’s phone. "She’s awake. You can see her now."

When she was finally allowed to see Y/N, she walked into the room, eyes glistening with unshed tears. Y/N smiled softly and patted the space beside her.

"I'm sorry I didn’t tell you," Y/N murmured,

Sophia sniffled. "You should’ve never kept this from me."

Y/N sighed. "I just needed to be ready." leaning her head on Sophia’s shoulder. Sophia sat down, holding Y/N’s frail hand. "You should’ve told me. I would’ve… I don’t know. Done something."

Y/N chuckled weakly. "You did enough. You made my life beautiful."

Tears slipped down Sophia’s cheeks. "Don’t talk like that. You’re going to be okay."

They sat in silence before Y/N whispered, "I have a surprise for you, but you’ll only get it next week."

Days passed, and Y/N grew weaker. Then, one morning, Sophia entered the room and saw the monitors still. The beeping had stopped.

Y/N was gone.

Sophia broke down, her cries echoing through the hospital room. The person who had filled her life with adventure and love was gone, leaving behind nothing but memories.

A week later, Sophia received a call to pick up a package. When she arrived, a golden retriever puppy was waiting for her, a polaroid of their first road trip, and a tiny collar, along with a letter in Y/N’s handwriting.

Dear Soph,

I wanted to give you something to remember me by. Someone to love, the way you loved me. I hope you look at him and see the best parts of us—the laughter, the adventures, the love.

I never told you, but I did fall in love again.

With you.

Thank you for giving me the happiest moments of my life. Don’t cry too much, okay? You still have so much living to do. I’ll always be with you, in every picture, in every adventure, in every sunset.

Thank you for being my greatest love story, even if it was shorter than I wanted it to be. Take lots of pictures for me.

With love, always, Y/N.

Sophia clutched the letter, tears streaming down her face. She looked down at the golden retriever, who wagged its tail at her, and she couldn't help but laugh through her tears.

Y/N was gone, but her love remained—in the dog, in the photographs, in every adventure they had shared. And in Sophia’s heart, forever.

[serawritesthings]

SPELLBOUND

Pairing | Legolas x Reader Summary | Your bittersweet love will surely endure until the last of your days. Word Count | 1.1k A/N | Hello lovelies! Ever since I was young, my love for Tolkien has been my greatest inspiration when it came to writing and world-building. But, also all the fantastic writers out there that had me plastered to my computer at 4 in the morning, staying up all night reading wonderfully written stories about all the characters. So, because of this, I am taking a tiiiiiiny step into the community with this short story, hoping some of you will enjoy it. If you do, I'll happily write some more, and if you have an idea you would like me to write, feel free to send me a message!

“Our love cannot be.” 

Her words had echoed in his mind since the moment they left her blushed lips, at first only mindless words lingering in his mind as he stared thoughtlessly, then excessively nagging at him with every chance. Obsessively and utterly spellbound, he could only stare into your teary eyes that never hid from him, taking your trembling lips to his longing ones in a silent protest and carefully surrendering to the prospect of a love that might be possible if you loved hard enough. 

How naive you were, for you said the words too late. What good did it bring to only now speak of what you should have said a long time ago?  Perhaps it could be a testament to yourself that you at least tried to cease what you had, however weak the attempt might have been. Furthermore, you might have wished for him to be stronger than you, more sensible–but perhaps you were too alike in that sense.

“How can you say those words when you already know how my heart longs for you?” You could only close your eyes as he spoke, words dripping like honey over your troubled mind. Momentarily, you bathed in the golden glow, feeling the tenderness soothe the aches and hurt. How could you give him an answer that wouldn’t cause pain when his very words pierced you so–when his care for you extended further than you could have ever expected?

Devastated by the uncertainty that clouded your mind, shaking fingers jerked away from their hold on the silk that covered his forearms. You gasped when his hands didn’t hesitate to grasp yours, placing your palms against his heart that thumped heavily beneath the layers of fabric. 

“Do you feel that?” He spoke softly, leaning his head down to try and meet your avoidant eyes as his other hand found your cheek. “It does not beat like this for anyone but you.”

Unshed tears gathered in the corner of your eyes at his confession, overwhelmed by the idea of being loved by someone who would surpass the short time you had yet to live. Time was a cruel hand, one you couldn’t help but fear deeply, for he, bound to centuries, had a timeless plight while you were made to fade in the fleeting light.

“Our love is naught but a flame caught between two winds,” you say in sorrow, eyes closed to spare yourself the guilt you would feel if you gazed into his sky-blue eyes, the usual vibrancy muted–as if the stars that danced within them had momentarily dimmed. “It’s fragile and fleeting, how will it last?”

“Have I not pledged my heart to you?” Legolas implored, his words dulled with sorrow at the distress residing in your eyes. “Have I not deserved to relish in the warmth you bring me?” 

“Legolas…” He heard you whisper, a gentle plea that fell on deaf ears as he drew you closer, meeting your lips in a longing kiss. In a stolen breath, he reveled in the taste as his forever gentle hands cradled your face, fingers tracing the delicate contours as if to etch it into memory–into the fabric of his immortal being. 

With each passing heartbeat, the glade witnessed two souls so desperate yet unsure, and as it held its breath, the air shimmered around them in the quiet night. Like a silent whisper on your skin, his fingers lighted a path like fire as they caressed, refusing to let you pull away. Oh, how you wanted to. Yet, your heart clamped something so fiercely when the thought passed through your mind, the feeling not far from making you double over in anguish from having to be apart. 

The desperation in his embrace pulled at your heartstrings, urging you to cast away the dark thoughts that rained over you endlessly and lose yourself in his arms that wound their way around you–shielding you from hesitation and fear.

Yet tentative, your response wasn’t passive; fingers seeking refuge in the strands of his silken hair, and with each strand that slipped through your touch, only felt all the more consumed.

“You say it can’t be, yet why can’t my body stop aching for your touch even though you are right here, already in my arms?” His voice was a soft murmur in the night, lips parting for only a moment when speaking to find yours, then again, refusing to let you protest. “Mortal you may be, yet my heart yearning does not know the confines of time.”

Your gaze softened by his sincerity, voiced by her uncertainty. “I can not help but worry about what happens when my time passes. What aching memories will it leave you with…” You trailed off as the thought crossed your mind, but as you felt Legolas brush a strand of hair away from your tear-stained cheek, a soft determination shone through his glossy eyes. 

“Then surely I will pass, for I couldn’t bear to spend the rest of my life in a world where I can not gaze upon the wonders of your spirit that light up the darkest corners of my soul.” Yet melancholy, the words rang true as his voice had a slight undertone of acceptance that confused you. 

He knew that when the burden of your parting would become too heavy, he would transcend the sorrow that bound him to this earthy realm and leave all behind in hopes of once more feeling your touch on his graying skin. He came to welcome the idea a long time ago. Yet, the sadness in your eyes hurt him terribly, and his mind didn’t know how to lessen your anguish and recover the gleam that continuously resided deep within them, at times almost bursting with wonder.

“Why do you speak so indifferently? The thought does nothing but pains me something so fiercely.” He only gave you a soft smile in return, grasping your cheeks between his palms, thumbs tenderly caressing the soft skin underneath it.

“Can you not see, my love?” Placing his forehead against yours, his eyes pierced yours warmly, reassuring you that he only spoke of the truth. “In the realm beyond, we will once more find the embrace of one another, and I will continue to love you as I do now."

“Fret not, meleth nín.” Placing a tender kiss on your teary cheek, he whispered in your ear, bringing your head to rest wearily in the crook of his neck. “For you shall have me for the remaining part of your days, and when your departure becomes a burden too heavy to bear, I shall find you amidst the stars.”

[desparaic]

To Hearken that Dreadful Silence - Muzan X Reader

Short drabble, somewhat of a sequel to "To Kill My Melody" but can be read as a standalone. Reincarnation AU.

Read To Kill My Melody here

TW: Angst, self-unalive, death, canon divergent where Muzan wins

You have lost.

The demon slayer corps have lost.

Here you were, legs trembling from exhaustion and endless injuries, knees and tip of sword digging into the bloodied dirt, all before the fully awakened demon king, his body spasming, dark blood coursing visibly through his veins, as he relish the newfound power of conquering the sun after eating the younger Kamado sibling.

You couldn't take your eyes off him. Not because you don't want to— rather that if you do, you'll have to face countless bodies of your comrades scattered around you. You still vividly remember the head of the water hashira, who you considered as your friend once upon a time, flying across your sight. The last time you've seen Sanemi, and that Kamado boy, they were missing limbs, and losing blood on parts that shouldn't be hit or punctured at all.

All you could hear was silence.

You're the only one left alive.

Someone? Anyone? Please, even just a groan of pain, a shallow breath— anything to indicate you're not the only one alive.

But as you hear the grotesque shifting of that…— that monster's body, adapting to the newly acquired power—

All you could hear was despair.

"Finally... Finally..."

... That monster finally spoke up, grinning and reveling in the moment. A ray of orange came out from the sky, bringing light. Then another. That used to bring you hope, relief, knowing that the fight would finally be over but—

"Aahh... To conquer the light of the sun... To walk in the day once again...!"

That hope is long gone.

He laughs. Laughs maniacally. Laughs so much it made your ears bleed. How dare he. How dare he stand tall and proud among the corpses of your comrades, of your allies. How dare he laugh at your misery. The mere sight of him, the mere sound of his breathing disgusts you.

And yet you can't take your eyes off him.

You've failed. Your sword cannot take his life, your only hope was the sun to burn him alive, but now that he has conquered it, he truly has become immortal.

His piercing red eyes turned to you, a foreign emotion swimming within.

"My love, oh my love, how I've waited for you to come back to me..."

He walked toward you, arms wide open as if he was awaiting a hug from you, "Finally... I have everything I have been waiting for, been looking for. I have achieved immortality and perfection..."

He stops at a distance away.

"and I finally have you by my side again."

Nausea builds up your throat. How dare he. How dare he even look at your way— how dare he utter even a single word right at you. He deserved to die in the worst way, boiled alive in acid, have his limbs torn to shreds—

In your blinding anger, you failed to register the hand resting on your cheek.

"So long I have waited for you to come back to me... I knew you wouldn't leave me all alone forever..."

What is he even talking about.

"Of course... You'll come back to me. You always do. You love me, after all."

Why is he lying. Why does he act as if he knows you.

"I'm sorry, (Y/n). I was a fool not to give you the love you deserved."

How does he know your name.

"But now we can finally be together forever. I can give you my blood! We will be equal!"

Why is he still talking to you. Stop talking, stop breathing. Just drop dead, die, die, die—

Wait— is he touching you?

Finally, you notice the ever-freezing, yet burning, touch on your cheek. You smacked it away, daring to challenge the devil of death before you with that bold act.

Yet, he remained unfazed, though his smile dropped, "I understand this may seem confusing. You don't remember, do you? That's fine. Once I share my blood with you, I'll make you remember with my memories. Perhaps I can even dig into your brain to stimulate it, maybe then it will uncover the memories of your past life— our shared life."

You jumped back, while slashing your sword across his abdomen. But of course, that is but a mere scratch, perhaps even less, to him. Even before you finished your attack, it had already healed.

There's truly no hope for you.

"Come now. It'll only be a while. It will hurt, that I cannot deny, but it is for the better," he stated, slowly walking toward you.

No. No. Whatever he was spewing about— that past life or whatnot— you don't care. All you care about is not falling into the hands of this monster. It's clear to you now he won't kill you, but rather to keep you by his side for whatever sick reasons he has.

That, you argue, is worse than death.

Perhaps, in another life, you would avenge your comrades, you would inflict every pain, every suffering that the monster has caused back to him. In another life.

But for now…

With no hesitation, with firm resolve, you smiled. A venomous, bitter smile— one that is alien to Muzan, so much so that he froze.

What a horrible expression painted on a canva he knew to be so innocent and beautiful long ago.

"I hope life gives you far worse torture than death, Kibutsuji Muzan. I will make sure your wish for immortality becomes your curse."

And with that, with the last of your strength as a hashira, you sliced your sword through your neck.

And for some reason, death sounds like a familiar tune to you.

[takaraphoenix]

March Schedule

As with last month, I figured I'd give a more detailed schedule. Though this time with shorter summaries, because writing this thing out took forever in February. If anything intrigues you, feel free to shoot me an ask about it to hear more ;)

03/01: Chapter 3 of Little Red and the Black Fox (Stetopher)

In this chapter of my superhero AU, Chris and Peter have to cope with the fact that Stiles used to be a model at Neckz 'n Throats... they cope by tracking down every single issue Stiles was a part of, of course

03/03: Mischief Monday's Stiles Stilinski’s Five Year Business and Romance Plan (Steter)

In this prequel to Welcome to the Mean Bean, we'll dive into how Stiles became an Emissary in training with the Hale Pack and how a certain wolf first caught Stiles' attention

03/05: Second Spring (Stetopher)

Medieval-esque fantasy AU set in the ABOverse, where alpha King Christopher agrees to marry the omega Prince Stiles of a neighboring country, because it's a strong alliance and because his love with his general and fellow alpha Peter is a forbidden one

03/07: Friday Ficlet Mission in the Jungle (Stetopher)

Chris, Peter and Stiles go undercover to the Jungle trying to track down the latest threat and Chris and Peter may get some sense talked into them by a group of overprotective Drag Queens

03/08: Chapter 9 of The Clever One (Steter)

In chapter 9 of my season 2 rewrite featuring True Mates Peter and Stiles building the pack together, we're finally hitting the rave and letting Stiles embrace his Spark!

03/10: Mischief Monday's Large and Satisfying (Steter)

The third installment in my Size-verse (where a freshly resurrected and still Alpha Peter takes care of Stiles after the Gerard take-down because they're True Mates and thus accidentally acquires two betas in Boyd and Erica) and we're finally hitting the Darach plot, more specifically the virgin sacrifices (listen, ONE of the fics in this unfortunately named series HAD to be a dick-pun, okay)

03/12: The Demon Wolf’s Distraction (Stalion)

The Alpha Pack comes to town to test the Hale Pack, but it proves to be dreadfully boring to Deucalion... until he finds a worthy distraction in a curious young Spark

03/14: Friday Ficlet Kitten Treats (Steter)

Listen, there's not that much plot to this one, @lunastories keeps very unsubtly making me want to write more pet play kitten!Stiles so we're gonna put a collar on that twink and make him meow for Peter, okay?

03/15: Chapter 1 of A Spark Into a Flame (Stetopher)

The real reason Gerard kidnapped Stiles is because Stiles is a Spark - a phoenix - and he wants some of that regenerative immortality, but when Chris breaks Stiles, Boyd and Erica out of the basement, Stiles has to deal with the fact that there are now people who know his best kept secret

03/17: Mischief Monday's Tutors and Trials (Steter)

The final installment of my Tutor-verse (a No Hale Fire canon divergence where Stiles is Malia's tutor and also Peter's True Mate but Peter is doing So Good at not giving in to temptation... until he learns Stiles turned 18 a few months ago)! Time for Stiles and Peter to finally seal their matebond!

03/19: Cowboyz ‘n Lassos (Stetopher)

Neckz 'n Throats is booking the Hale Ranch for a cowboy-themed shoot and Stiles, the model, and his husband Chris, the photographer, quickly catch the attention of ranch owner Peter

03/21: Friday Ficlet Lost Memories and Gained Trust (Steter)

The pack suffers temporary memory loss after a spell goes wry and Stiles finds himself trusting Peter blindly during that, something he has to reevaluate once the spell's effect wears off

03/22: Chapter 1 of The Alpha Pack’s Spark (Stetalion)

Deucalion comes to Beacon Hills because he heard about Peter waking up from his coma, just to find his former lover awake and freshly resurrected... and bringing along an omega who had apparently just been kidnapped and tortured by Gerard

03/24: Mischief Monday's Pollen Problem (Stetopher)

The pack is hit by a magic flower's pollen that makes them horny, but the pollen only acts to heighten already existing attraction and desires, but the pack doesn't know that so when Peter and Chris wake up with a freshly deflowered and sore Stiles in their bed, they are overcome with guilt for what they must have done to their boy

03/26: Run, Little Bun (Stetalion)

Stiles is an omega bunny shifter who kind of dreads the mating run because he doesn't think any alphas would give chase to him - the mating run has long tradition in their town, where alphas chase omegas to prove themselves worthy of the privilege to court them and Stiles doubts any alpha would want to court him, because no alpha ever pays attention to him (because they are all deadly afraid of the mated alpha pair who threaten anyone who gets to close to their chosen bunny)

03/28: Friday Ficlet He Should (Not) Be at the Club (Steter)

Peter owns a club and Stiles has lately been frequenting it, maybe partially because the owner is really hot and snarky and fun to talk to but it's all just friendly banter, right? Well, until a sleazy werewolf hits on Stiles a little too insistently and Peter's possessive Alpha nature forces him to intervene

03/29: Chapter 4 of Little Red and the Black Fox (Stetopher)

Part-time hero, part-time vigilante and full-time (paycheck wise, anyway) investigative journalist Stiles... might have gotten himself abducted while on the job... it wasn't his fault, okay?

03/31: Mischief Monday's How to Seduce Your Best Friend's Alpha (Stalion)

AU where the Alpha Pack is a regular pack and, more specifically, a pack located in London and the one that Jackson joins when he moves there. After the Nogitsune, Stiles and Jackson texted and called a lot and became best friends, so after graduation, Stiles packs up to move to London... and gets to meet Jackson's new pack and his very handsome and charming Alpha, Deucalion

[sorceress-of-stories]

🩸 Blood of Origin - Alucard x Reader 🩸

P A R T 2

●○●○ AUTHOR'S NOTE ●○●○

Hey all :) Thanks so much for reading!

also, this part/chapter is a bit gory. Just an additional FYI in case :)

Enjoy!

[TRIGGER WARNING:]

this story and its parts/chapters may have the following content: violence, adult language, alluding to SA, gore, sexual themes, depictions of birth, talk of death, grieving

Viewer discretion advised :)

READ PART 1 HERE

🩸

Targoviste, December 22nd 1460

DRACULA HAD NEVER SEEN HIS WIFE SO BROKEN, SO DISTRAUGHT. For hours she sat with the girl, holding her close. It pained him to see her rocking the small child to her chest, silent tears streaming down her face as the young girl sobbed uncontrollably, gut wrenching sounds that twisted his stomach and rattled his bones.

Never, in his hundreds of years walking this earth, had he ever wanted to kill a human more than he ever wanted to then. Not only to avenge his wife's broken heart, but to avenge the child's as well. He knew well enough the darkness and pure evil that corrupted the hearts of men, it was one of the many reasons he did what he did when he did before he met Lisa. But this? Seeing his wife crumple and an innocent child orphaned? He could not abide.

"We will have justice," his voice was a low whisper for he did not want to startle you once again. "I swear to you, my love. Amara will be avenged."

He had never met the woman, had only known her through the stories Lisa told him over the years. They had met many years ago, the two women, in Targoviste. Because of one fateful, yet albeit embarrassing encounter, Lisa and Amara had been two souls connected, linked forever. And Dracula knew, without a shadow of a doubt, Lisa would want retribution yet would not take it. For she was a doctor and swore an oath to do no harm.

He had sworn no such oath.

"Will you be alright with the children?" he asked quietly. Lisa's hold tightened on you as your sobs began to ebb to small whimpers. Adrian was fast asleep in his chambers, sleeping off the sudden shock of canceled plans, a crying girl, and the sound of his mother's cries.

Over the last day his father had been taking care of him, knowing Lisa could not handle the needs of two distraught, young children. He knew she had to comfort you during this heavy loss, for no one else on the planet could take her place.

Lisa sniffled, her back turned towards him still. She knew she would not be able to let him leave if she turned around, for she would truly break. "How long will you be gone?"

He remembered his promise to her, to travel as a man and not an immortal. Given the distance of the city and church, it would be a couple days before he returned. Possibly more, considering what he had in store for those wretches.

"Four days, at most," he paused, "if I travel by foot."

She knew what he was asking.

Lisa tilted her head the tiniest amount, taking in your tear-stained face. Her heart shattered again in that moment, looking down at you, grieving the life you should have lived. Grieving the mother you should have had, the love and memories you should have shared. All of it gone, because of evil men, their evil deeds, and their evil religion in which they justified it all with.

"Then fly."

~

HE FORGOT WHAT IT FELT LIKE TO BE THE KING OF NIGHT. His power undulated underneath his stone flesh, eyes red and monstrous. He had forgotten what it felt like to hunt prey, to become the shadows, waiting for the right time to strike.

Dracula watched, with cold calculation, as the priests knelt before their tortured god. He floated above their heads, none the wiser of the danger lurking only meters above. The stench of incense filled his nostrils and his nose flared, but he kept still. They spoke their powerless words in Latin before their Bishop, an old portly man, clambered up the dais and raised the goblet filled with their mock blood of Christ.

"Brothers! God is good on this glorious day! The witch and her runt have been eradicated!"

The balding men in their ill-fitting robes shouted their celebratory statements and crossed themselves. A small shift in the corner of his eye brought his attention to the right, where the man who you called the bad man stood. He recognized his scent instantly, and those of the bastards that had surrounded your home, threw things to break the windows. It had taken everything in him not to chase them down in that moment as they scattered and fled at the sound of others approaching the cottage. It was only the sound of Lisa's blood-curdling cry that had brought him back to his senses.

From here he could see the nails and scratch marks along his hands, arms, and face, chunks of his red hair missing from his scalp. The last remnants that Amara fought as hard as she could to protect herself and her child. The final nail in their coffin.

He descended from the cathedral ceiling, inky blackness flooding the room, snuffing out any and all light. The men screamed in surprise, yet it did not last for long. One by one he ripped them apart, piece by piece, bit by bit, until there was nothing but intestines and gore and shredded pieces of cloth. Dracula called back his shadowy mist, leaving the only two survivors to see the fate they shared with their so-called brotherhood. They screamed, as he knew they would, before the sharp, tangy smell of urine filled the air.

"Y-You cannot enter in the House of God! Begone, ye Servant of Satan!" the Bishop shook violently as his eyes bulged. Saliva dripped from his chin and urine began to seep through his robes. It took everything in Dracula to not punch a hole through his skull.

"There is no god here," Dracula growled, "and he does not wield my power. You have the blood of innocents on your hands. And you will pay."

He lunged for the Bishop, his hand exploding through his chest cavity, his fingers encircling the still-beating heart. The Bishop made a strange noise, as he looked down at the gaping wound. In a split-second Dracula retracted his hand, the force of his power causing the chest to explode. Blood and guts spewed to the farthest reaches of the cathedral, and a smile etched itself onto his lips.

"Pl-Please spare me! Oh spare me King of Night! I'll do anything, please!" the bad man fell to his knees, shaking so strongly his limbs could no longer prop themselves up. Dracula could now see the fine details of his face, the scratch and claw marks upon his person, red and oozing. He felt then, a mere moment of solemnness for Amara. She fought, as hard as she could, until the bitter end. And he would be her vengeance, and Lisa's, and yours. That was his duty as a man, as a husband. As the fucking King of Night.

"You wish to plea? You wish to be saved?" Dracula grabbed the back of the man's head, long nails splitting the back of his scalp open. He screamed a glorious scream, desperately trying to claw himself away. Dracula flung him onto the ruined altar, his mortal body landing with a loud thud. Blood pooled from the back of his head, and even so, the man did his best to crawl away.

"Keep begging, call out for your god. The god who seems to care not for innocents, not for women nor children. The same god who will watch as I rip you to fucking shreds. Call out to him! Call out to your god!"

The bad man babbled and shook and wheezed as he slowly crawled off the altar and began to make his way down the isle, towards the main doors. Blood smeared on the red isle carpet, deep crimson that left a smear of retribution in its wake.

"God, please save me. I did your bidding! Save me!"

Dracula floated above him, broad shoulders looming, dark power emanating, crackling around him. With one smooth turn of his hand the man was flung back to the stone altar, blood spurting from his mouth on impact. The Vampire King's feet planted themselves firmly on the floor as he kneeled in front of the man. He was no longer coherent, simply a simpering mess of blood and pain.

With his dominant hand Dracula took his nails, claws made for mauling, and held it up to the man's face. The bad man shook his head and attempted to beg again before the Vampire King ripped off his manhood. The man howled, blood-foam dripping from his teeth. With the appendage in his right hand, Dracula opened the man's mouth with his left, as far as it could go, and shoved it down his throat. The man convulsed and tried to fight it, but he was too strong.

As the man finally took in his last breath, Dracula spat upon his corpse. Then, without another glance at the carnage behind him, he set fire to the altar and flew away.

~

"Thank you."

She spoke the moment she felt his presence behind her. You lay in their bed, your small body wrapped warmly in the thick quilts. It had taken a few hours to peel you from her body, to give you a warm bath, and feed you a small amount of bread. At least in this moment, you weren't crying. Lisa knew that was merely temporary. What you witnessed, what you had been through, would leave its mark on you forever. She would be damned to allow you to go through that alone.

"They are all dead. Each and every one of them." he spoke so quietly, so tenderly. Lisa knew that, of course. There was no way he would have left any of them alive. She didn't know exactly what he had done to them, and she needn't ever know. All she did need was the knowledge that your mother's tormentors were dead.

Dracula hugged his wife from behind, his dark eyes landing on your small form. You were still a baby, not even five years old, and yet you had everything taken from you in a blink of an eye.

"I cannot abandon her," Lisa began, "I cannot. I know she is not your child-"

"My love, that does not matter. This is her home now. Nothing will change that fact unless she herself wishes to leave. I swear this to you. We will not abandon her."

Her breath hitched and soon more tears began to fall. Dracula turned her to face him, clutching her frame to his body, grounding her in place.

"My heart feels like its cracking," her body wracked with sobs, "how could this happen? If we hadn't gotten there in time-"

"But we did, my love. The girl is safe. They are dead. Nothing will harm her, Lisa. I swear it."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[Taglist]

@brokeaesthetic

[justwinginglife]

The Start of Forever

25 Days of Simpmas: Day Eighteen December 18th: Ban, Rank 8 Anime: Seven Deadly Sins Event Masterlist

As the mayor of Delulu/Selfship Land, I would just like to say, guys, I'm back at it again, rewriting/ignoring canon lmaoooo. Let's just say Ban barely even met Elaine. Let's just say, he stole a sip from the Fountain of Youth on his very first try for the purpose of this fic, okay? Lol, IT'S FINE.

You were having the most bizarre reunion of your entire immortal life.

Ban was alive, nearly a hundred years after you first met him, looking exactly as he had when you last saw him. And he was laughing. You forgot just how much you missed his laugh.

“Still kicking and breathing, huh?” He teased. 

You grinned. “You know it. Can’t get rid of me that easy. So what’s your excuse for not kicking the bucket?”

He shrugged. “Ah, you know me. Stole a chalice from the fountain of youth.”

You laughed, shaking your head at him. Same, old Ban. “Sounds just like you.”

Some of your best memories were stealing things with him. You remembered, one year, you’d had a competition to see who could steal the most expensive thing without getting caught. And then you’d gifted it to each other for Christmas. You had both laughed, looking at your ridiculous reflections in the river. There you were, smudged with dirt, adorned in rags, and he’d gotten you a sapphire brooch. And there he stood, right beside you, clothes ripped and ragged, hair wild and unruly, and you’d gotten him a gold chain necklace. Even as absurd as you both appeared, somehow the trinkets you’d gotten each other just made sense. He was always telling you that blue brought out your eyes and you were always telling him that he had a heart of gold. So what, if your accessories didn’t match your tattered attire? They matched your ideas of each other. Even if you never had anything nice again, at least you had a reminder of his affection.

But your favorite memory of him, the memory to top all memories, was the day you first met him. 

You’d stolen a sack of apples, but discovered it was unreasonably heavy. Not wanting to give away your jackpot but not wanting to lug it around everywhere you went, you settled on hiding it in a secret location. Then you went about your day, bathing in the river, sneaking around town, foraging in the woods, just doing whatever you felt like. When you came back to have a midnight snack, you could’ve sworn that the sack felt lighter, but you figured you must’ve overestimated how much you’d stolen. When you came back the next day, it was even lighter than it had been before, but you figured you’d just forgotten how much you’d eaten; after all- you had been half asleep. It wasn’t until you checked it a third time that you started to wonder if maybe an animal had started snooping around your goods. You were lost in thought, wondering if you should just take the sack with you (after all- it was much lighter now) when suddenly a kid your age appeared, with a scowl on his face.

“You know it’s rude to take other people’s things, right?”

You scoffed, straightening to defend yourself. “This is my bag, what are you even talking about?”

He crossed his arms. “No it’s not. I found it a couple days ago, so it’s mine.”

“Yeah, well, I stole it a couple days ago, so it’s mine.”

He stared you down, debating if he believed you or not. “Well if it’s yours then why’d you leave it here?”

You gestured to your scrawny physique. “Do I look like I can carry a bag that heavy around? I just stashed it and I’ve been coming back to snack on it here and there.”

“Here and there? Wait. Are you the reason the bag felt lighter yesterday? And the day before? I knew I wasn’t going crazy!”

Suddenly you burst into laughter.

He raised a brow, looking you over curiously.

“I thought I was the one going crazy. I thought I imagined the bag getting lighter, it was really messing with my head.” You admitted sheepishly.

“So… I guess we were both taking from it then.” He laughed awkwardly, shifting his weight back and forth, as though he were nervous how you’d react to that information.

You took a step towards him and his posture stiffened, readying himself to go on the offensive at any moment. But then you smiled and suddenly everything was okay. “I don’t mind sharing if you don’t mind sharing.”

He lifted his chin to look away from you. Finally, after debating it, he grumbled, “Yeah, yeah, it’s fine. But just know, I’m gonna eat a lot more now that I know I have competition.” 

You laughed and his heart stuttered in his chest. “It’s not competition. If anything… we’re a team now. How about this? Whatever I find, I’ll share with you and whatever you find, you share with me. Honestly, it’ll be so much easier with two of us working together, so whaddya say?” You held your hand out for him to shake. 

He stared at it for a moment. 

“You’re supposed to shake it-”

“I know what it’s for! I was just thinking!”

“You take a long time to think-”

“I DO NOT! Did you ever think that maybe you don’t take enough time to think??” He demanded.

But you smiled at him again and there was that same fluttering feeling in his chest. So he took your hand. Shook it, and shook it hard. And he agreed to your demands. 

You both laughed about the whole thing later that night, once you’d stolen a cake from a bakery together and cut up some apples to garnish it with. You said it was to commemorate your friendship’s “birthday” and he rolled his eyes at how cheesy you were being but he went along with it anyway, pretending to blow out fake candles, even shyly singing the birthday song with you. 

You never forgot about that night for as long as you’d lived. And you’d lived a very long time by now.  

“So… immortal Y/N. What a terrifying thought.” Ban teased.

You snorted. “Oh please, I’m the terrifying one? Who’s the towering giant clad in red leather? I’d be significantly more afraid of him living forever. Also, I’m not sure how I feel about this color on you. I think you’d look better in-”

“-Gold?” Suddenly he pulled a necklace from his pocket. 

Your heart stopped. It was the same one you’d given him all those decades ago. So he still had it. “Maybe I was gonna say blue.” You turned to show him the brooch that was still sitting neatly in your hair like it had every day since he’d given it to you.

“How ‘bout that? You still have it.” He said, breathlessly.

“And you still have yours.”

“Course. I’d never lose it.”

“You did lose it once.” You laughed. 

He groaned. “A hundred years later and you still can’t let it go.”

“Hey- I worked hard to steal that for you. I can’t believe you dropped it in a river of all the places. Almost drowned trying to fish it out. ‘Member that?” You teased, poking his nose.

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll never do it again. So, you gonna tell me how you’re still alive? What’d you do, steal from the same fountain?” 

You fidgeted with the edge of your jacket. “Nah, my story isn’t nearly as fun as yours. Cursed by a demon. You know- the whole ‘doomed to watch everybody you love die’ thing.” As you spoke, the weight of your words hung heavy in the air. Your eyes seemed to dim even if only for a second. 

He wanted to touch you. To hold you. To make everything okay again. He didn’t know how to do it but he’d do anything for you. He’d never seen that look on your face before and he hoped you’d never have to make it again. 

In all his years, he’d never regretted choosing immortality; because of that, he’d never thought that maybe there were people who wouldn’t have wanted it, who wouldn’t have chosen it. But you’d had it forced on you. And then had to deal with its repercussions. What must that have felt like and who did you lose to make you feel that way? He confessed to feeling somewhat jealous; he hadn’t found anyone he cared about enough to mourn losing them to time. You were the only one he’d ever mourned.

You had spent every waking moment together as children, but once you’d grown, you’d both realized you wanted different things from life. He wanted to travel the world, do what made him feel good, what made him feel alive. You wanted to stop your shenanigans, maybe get an education, maybe settle down. In the end, you loved each other but it wasn’t enough. You parted ways as amiably as you could, but the “what-if’s” never went away, and when you had both finally realized how much time had passed, how much you needed each other, all you had left to cling to were regrets.

He’d regretted the way he’d left things with you. The way you looked as you watched him sail away, the way your lips quivered as you tried to send him off with a smile, the way your eyes nearly squeezed shut for fear of the tears spilling down your face. The way he tried to convince himself he was only seasick and not simply homesick. He regretted it all.

You’d regretted the way you’d left things with him. The way you hadn't tried hard enough to tell him to stay. The way you'd said goodbye instead of see you later, like you were fine with closing the chapter when you knew you weren't. The way you missed him but never looked for him, for fear that his life might be all too grand and great without you. You regretted it all.

But it was clear now that fate had given you a second chance.

And you were not about to waste it.

Neither was he.

He nudged you with his arm. “Well, I’m not going anywhere. Not anymore, not now that I have you beside me at long last.”

Your smile returned. 

God, he loved that smile, he loved it so damn much. That smile that crinkled the corners of your eyes, the smile that softened your cheeks into a rosy pink, the smile that was forever engraved into his dreams, into his soul. The smile he never thought he’d see again. And he wasn’t going to lose it- not again, not now that he finally found you. Thank god that he found you. Thank every god that did or didn’t exist that he found you. He’d never been the religious type but he’d get on his knees to praise whoever brought him this miracle. 

“You know, eternity’s a long time. Sure I won’t drive you crazy?” You teased. 

He chuckled. “You definitely will- that’s a guarantee. But I’ve missed it. And I won’t take it for granted, ever again. I won’t leave you, ever again.”

“Well then, I suppose we’d better get started on forever.”

Taglist: @pixelcafe-network @ouiouimochi @minasfwoopyponytail @inkytypewriter

[mssmars]

Landduo_One-shot fanfic

Here's a little one-shot fanfic about landduo(Foolish and Badboyhalo). Characters maybe a little bit or very much OOC but I wanted to give it a shot and make one anyways. I'm not really a writer nor am I good at writing the characters personality's right but feel free to make your own twist on this or build upon it if you want.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

-Landduo: The funeral-

Bad's POV:

Despite it being such a beautiful day everyone is in a melancholy mood and the tension is high. War might any moment, but we all were able to set aside a day to host a funeral for the king.

Bad sits on the roof of the bell tower at his cathedral, staring up at the vibrant sky in thought.

Immortality. A gift for some...and a curse for others. for me it's both. A gift that allows me to keep seeing new things...and meet new people but a curse that leaves me alone...watching everything that was created, whether it be by me or someone else get destroyed...or have me leading the dead to their afterlife.

I. A being that's been there since the beginning, that saw the start and end of the dinosaurs to the rise of civilizations. A being that started as a spectator now a pawn in the narrator's game have lived long enough to become...indifferent to my immortality.

However, there's been one constant in my life in every universe. another immortal being that always seem to come into my life. A totem shark hybrid by the name of Foolish.

A soft smile graces bad's face as he thinks of Foolish.

We've known each other for what feels like eternity...In every universe me and him. We always end up together. Either as friends, frenemies, enemies, acquaintances or whatever the narration wants us to be. He's always there, fate is funny like that.

Two sides of the same coin, yet we treat immorality different. I guess that's what lead us to this point. In every universe, even if one of us or both of us die. It takes a long time for rebirth...to reform. at least, that's what I assume. it could be different for each of us.

This time however it's different. This universe has us on three lives. three lives and then you reset. A 24 hour wait until you come back, either a new person or the same person yet changed forever by the death you've just experienced. A few people have already lost 3 lives and came back...I'm on my last life and it's made me wary. I don't want to lose this last life. I've lost a life before; I remember it a little bit...dying slowly in a flower field alone, feeling death consume me and then starting over again. My memory of that time is fuzzy, and I rather not go through that again especially if each death is 24 hours...each reset for me, might bring a different me...and it'll be an endless cycle that I rather not repeat.

Foolish on the other hand had all his lives...

Bad's eyes narrow in guilt and frustration

He had all his lives but I... I took two of them. not realizing how strong the blows my weapons would deal, would be fatal...and that brought about Foolish's idea to jump the broom and end his last life. We could've had one life together but NO. he suggested we both do it together, obviously I was against it, and I tried to talk him out of it, but he still went with it anyways. It eventually led to him being killed by Pili, a cat hybrid who was part of the hostile faction, who needed to kill someone, or they all lose a life.

I hate the fact that I couldn't kill him with an elaborate plan, both lives taken accidentally and the last life taken by someone other than me is frustrating. then another life was taken accidentally a day later by me... Maybe my immorality isn't a mixture of a gift or curse...maybe I'm just cursed to take lives and lead them on. to repeat the cycle, in a never-ending loop...

A voice from below interrupts bad's train of thoughts and as the "demon" looks down to see, the cat hybrid Pili shouting for him to come down. With a sigh Bad stands up, dusting himself off before shooting a teleportation arrow near Pili.

Pili: Bad, the funerals about to begin...are you ready?

Bad: Yea, I'm ready.

They both walk side by side as they enter the cathedral. neither of them says a word even as they walk by all the other members of the community who came to the funeral. Bad takes a seat near the front as he stares at the coffin in silence and Pili takes the stand to start the reception. Once everyone takes there turn to say a few words about King Foolish and had a moment of silence at the coffin to say they're finally goodbyes it finally became Bad's turn. As he stood up to walk towards the coffin, He thought of everything he wanted to say and everything he couldn't. He stops in front of the coffin staring at Foolish's body for a minute. taking in every detail for a minute before turning to the audience and begin to give his finally words.

Bad: My beloved...Our beloved king was a selfish tyrant who...died unrighteously by an unknown assassinator...and even though he has died...he will not be missed.

He gives a humorless laugh before continuing, unaware of the murmurs that begin to fill the crowd.

Bad: But make no mistake he will be back...

Pili speaks from the crowd.

Pili: Um bad behind you...

Bad: Yes, yes...I know my beloved king lays behind me but fear not he may not arise from the dead today, but he will...

Foolish: Um, what's going on? Who are you people?

Bad swipes a fake tear from his eyes.

Bad: you know...it's kind of crazy, but it's like I can still hear his voice...right behind me...

A hand drops onto his shoulder startling the "demon" out of his "Monologuing" and he turns to the owner of the hand with wide eyes.

Bad: What the fudge! Foolish you're alive!

The demon exclaims before pulling the totem into a hug, forgetting all about the audience behind them. Bad pulls back to look at the totem with a smile but the totem only stares at bad in confusion.

Foolish: Um I'm sorry but do I know you...?

The question freezes the "demon" to his core and his expression drops as he pulls back from the totem fully. His expression tight as he answers the question.

Bad: ...You did...I guess you're a blank slate this time around...

The expression the totem gives bad remains confused but before he could question it any further a cry from the audience catches his attention and then he's being pulled into another hug by Ros and any other member that was a part of his faction. Bad seeing the opportunity decides to give them all space and leave the cathedral for some alone time.

-Time skip later, that night-

Bad finds himself at the King's bridge. sitting on the edge as he stares up at the night sky, the stars shining bright, the fish making ripples in the water and the cold night air causing a slight shiver to run up bad's spine. Bad knows Foolish has long since retired to his bed chambers and he knows other people have done the same. He however couldn't help but want to watch over the king and the kingdom's grounds for a bit.

He sits out there for a few hours before he here silent footsteps approach and a familiar voice speaking up behind him.

Foolish: Couldn't sleep?

Bad turns to him with a slight smile. Bad: I suppose not...what about you?

Foolish walks closer to bad before leaning against the railing besides bad and looking up at the sky aswell, mirroring bad.

Foolish: You can say something like that...or you could say I had a feeling that made me want to take a stroll.

Bad glances to Foolish with a huff.

Bad: A feeling?

Foolish lips pull into a smirk as he meets his gaze.

Foolish: Yup! A feeling.

Bad: ...right? you mind sharing what that feeling is?

Foolish: Maybe, but I'm sure you may already know. After all you are the one who took both my lives.

Bad scoffs as he turns fully to Foolish.

Bad: First, they were accidents and...wait...you remember?

Foolish's smirk turns into a full-blown grin as he turns Bad, crossing his arms.

Foolish: Maybe...

Bad exclaims in fake annoyance as he slaps the other man's arms in turn Foolish puts his hands up in a placating manner.

Bad: You ragga-muffin! When did you get your memories back!?

Foolish: hmm, around evening, but I wanted to let you sit in the guilty for a little while...you know to think about your actions.

Bad's shoulder's start to shake from annoyance, anger and maybe a little bit of happiness as he stares at Foolish in silence, deep in thought. Annoyance that Foolish would take a chance to pull something like this (Even though he should've seen it coming) and happy that he didn't have to start over on rebuilding their complicated relationship. It was hard to figure out what exactly made him angry he figures that maybe it's just the entire situation itself, but he could dwell on that later for now things would go back to normal or at least as normal as it could be with the two of them.

Foolish watches Bad, watches the emotions flickering in his eyes and he can practically feel and hear his thoughts but before he could speak again Bad lets out a sniffle and as Foolish looks closer, he can see the beginning of tears form in Bad's eyes. With a sigh Foolish pulls Bad into a hug and they sit in silence in each other embrace.

Neither know how long they stayed like that, in each other's embrace, letting the small amount of vulnerability show in each other's presence before Bad speaks up.

Bad: You had me worried...You raggamuffin.

Foolish lets out a small snort before responding.

Foolish: In every universe, right?

Bad hums before pulling back away and staring at the stars again, two stars shine the brightest and Bad smiles before responding.

In every universe.

The End.

or is it?

Anyways um...I put too much effort into this.... I might make more...I might make shorter ones...this one shot been on my mind since 7am and ...idk...but like if you like it feel free to make something similar to this, build upon it or take inspiration. there isn't a lot of landduo Fics, and I felt like making one after reading one that someone posted on twitter the other day. It was really good to read, it's called no universe. Every universe by (cereuleanskies). They inspired this Fics and inspired me to actually go through with making it. Along with what some people have been saying on twitter about Foolish coming back with amnesia.

Anyways Thanks to anyone who read this, and I appreciate feedback lol!

[lexsssu]

Good Little Girl (Marshall Lee)

TAGS: Mashall/F!Reader, Original child character, parenthood, fluff Ao3 ver.

“Mishael Linus Abadeer, get your sorry butt down here already before your dinner gets cold!”

“Jeez, I’m coming down already, Ma”

“If you don’t hurry up I’ll eat your portion of fresh strawberries, kid~”

“Dad, don’t be so unfair when you already have your own portion!”

“Not my fault if you’re a slowpoke”

A handsome dark-haired youth flew into the humble dining room hurriedly, seating himself at his designated chair and clutching the small bowl of strawberries to his chest as if they were a priceless treasure. His skin had a grayish hue to them, pointed ears peaked from his ebony tufts of luscious hair while a pair of sharp fangs poked from his lips. The scowl he wore didn’t make him look menacing, but rather even more attractive than he already was in the first place.

“Now, now, now. Stop teasing our son already, Marsh. You know how he gets when it comes to his strawberries and besides, aren’t you already too old to be competing with him over food?” You stifled a laugh as you raised an eyebrow at your husband who merely grinned, shrugging in response.

“It’s survival of the fittest, babe. If our own kid doesn’t understand that then he doesn’t deserve the plump and juicy fresh strawberries you’ve painstakingly grown, picked, and washed straight from our garden”

The vampire king wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you closer, landing a quick kiss to your hair as your preteen son gagged at the public display of affection. “No spawn of mine will grow up ungrateful to their beautiful, amazing, spectacular, wonderful mama~”

Dinner passed by without much fanfare aside from the playful teasing your family generally engaged one another with. Though mainly it was just Marshall being the big bully that he was, something Mishael had already grown used to ever since he was young.

While you washed the dishes, you spotted your son fumbling with his phone as he floated back up to his room. A bright smile lit up his face as a tinge of red gave his cheeks some much needed color and contrast from the grayish hue he’d inherited from his father.

“Lemme guess, he’s probably hung up on Fiona & Evan’s kid...Evie, right?”

Years of being with Marshall had trained you to anticipate his sudden appearance at all possible times that you didn’t even flinch anymore when you hear his voice and feel the warmth of his breath on the back of your neck.

“Mhmm, he’s got it quite bad from the looks of it. Kinda reminds me of another lovesick vampire I knew back in the day…” The corners of your lips quirked upwards in a smile as memories of a time not so long ago flashed in your mind like a cinematic movie.

“Whaddya mean you ‘knew’ back in the day? I’m still very much YOUR lovesick vampire until the universe itself collapses and time ceases to exist, thank you very much”

Placing the last plate upon the dish rack, you wipe your hands dry on the dry dish cloth before gingerly taking the raven-haired male’s face into your hands and pecking his nose. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way, my bad little boy~”

A tender looked slithered its way onto the hybrid’s face, snaking his arms around you until your front was pressed flush against his own. You both floated a few feet off the ground, arms around your waist and your own around his neck as you stared into each other’s eyes.

Marshall Lee had his fair share of relationships over the course of his immortal life, but none had ever enamored him the way you do. None had ever made him want to come home so desperately, even if you were the one who gave him all the freedom he wanted to go off on adventures while waiting patiently for him. His once cold, unbeating heart felt the warmest, the liveliest as long as he was with you.

“Forever’s a long time, ‘ya know? But I’ll be more than happy to let you feel why being MY good little girl is worth it~”

[bb-bugspot]

The (My) NorthStar [Part 3]

( I'M SO SORRY FOR TAGGING YOU SO MUCH @mas-away, anyways, this is the last part people, enjoy!!)

Time was different for the divine, they could live years upon years, depending on exactly who you were talking about.

Gods were immortal, for them, a year could count as merely as a month or less, ten years could feel like only one or two, so it was no surprise that Hermes often forgot that little detail when he was focused on his duties.

He had only managed to visit Odysseus a handful of times, staying a few days before leaving, and every time he did, the mortal looked more and more old as time passed. Of course, that made the god remember how fragile humans were and that time was different for them in comparison.

He really tried to remember to visit more often, to make time and check on him and his family, but his perception was already something he couldn’t change, and with having to do so many things, he wasn’t able to keep up with his own promise.

The next time he saw Odysseus, it was in the Underworld, forty years later since his last visit. The mortal looked like if he was in his forty, from when he had come to Ithaca and had settled down again.

It didn’t surprise the god, often the souls took a final form of a time that marked them forever or was their favorite, it all depended in their mindset, so this wasn’t anything special.

Except that Hermes never got to meet the old Ody, not the one on the last four decades of his life. He swallowed, taking a breath, and tapping him on the shoulder from behind, giving him a grin even when his eyes held melancholy in them.

“Hey, Ody. Seems like I took quite a while in visiting you, huh?” He mused, descending to the ground, and resting his arm across his shoulder like he had done many times before. The feeling wasn’t the same, but then again, it had been a long time, and he was dead.

Odysseus laughed, nodding his head as his own hand came to rest on the back of the god, giving a few pats. “There is my north star again, I thought you might have forgotten about me again.” He accused, wincing as Hermes pinched his cheek with an irritated smile.

“Cheeky, are we? My, one would think that you would’ve gotten wiser with life.” Hermes snarked, cackling as his great-grandson scowled and pushed his hand away, rubbing his now sore cheek.

The god’s smiled melted into something more genuine, softer, his hand coming up to run his fingers against the brooch, not having changed it at all ever since Odysseus had given it to him. The man noticed, of course, and stared at it before smiling amusedly, now his turn to rest his arms across the god’s shoulders, something that seemed to make Hermes blink in slight surprise at him.

“Well, you’re my NorthStar, are you not? Why don’t you show me the way? We have so much to talk about.” Odysseus commented with an easy going smile, clearly making a bit of a show that he wasn’t feeling upset at the lack of visits from Hermes, nor being sad at all that he had died.

To him, he had done everything he had wanted and spent time with his loved ones, his wife had yet to part but he could wait for her.

Hermes blinked slowly at him, something in his chest constricting before smiling, swallowing, and shaking his head to get his cheery persona back on. “Of course, how silly of me. Let me guide you, and tell me, how was life?”

There was no rush for them to get to their destination, while they didn’t have forever, they had more than enough time to share the stories that had been pilling up in their own lives, more than happy to share with the other.

Odysseus felt content, sharing his own things, and even mentioning how he had managed to meet his grandkids, one of them being quite the trickster and it was clear that the little girl would be a troublemaker like her grandpa.

Hermes listened with a smile on his face, feeling like he could see the memories inside his mind, projecting the reactions and feelings, his heart swelling with contentment and almost spilling out like ambrosia in a chalice that just couldn’t hold all of it but still wanting to do it no matter what.

It was beautiful, painful too, the love that was palpable in Odysseus words, the care and beauty in life that sometimes Hermes forgot to enjoy because it would always be there, centuries and even millennia later on.

He wouldn’t have this again, not in the same way, at least.

Soon enough, hours for the soul and mere seconds for the god, they reached their destiny. Hermes felt disappointed that he had to let go of him, but understood that it was necessary, there were people waiting for him there and the god knew that soon Penelope would join too, given the fact that he hadn’t seen her soul yet over the years.

“Well, this is a goodbye.” Odysseus commented, breaking the silence as he let go of Hermes, taking a few steps forward before turning around again.

“Don’t miss me too much, although I’m sure you can visit at any time.” He added playfully, wincing when Hermes pulled a strand of his hair, a smile coming to his face at the disgruntled look that the man was giving him. “Rude.”

“It is a mere see you soon, Ody. I won’t let you get away from my delightful company that easily.” He tsked, almost as if disappointed that he would think such a thing. Hermes looked at him, really looked at him, and somewhere inside his mind, he wished he could give him something so he could remember him, but there was nothing that a soul could take back to the afterlife.

“Have fun, alright? I’m sure you won’t be that lonely here.” The god said flippantly, tilting his hat as he got ready to leave the realm and go back to his work.

“Hermes, wait!” Odysseus called to him, the former turning back and tilting his head with curiosity, almost like a bird. “Yes?” He asked, was there something he had forgotten to say? Surely not, he let the man rant all the walk towards here.

“Thank you.” Odysseus spoke, a glint in his eyes as he nodded to the brooch that Hermes was wearing. “You really are my NorthStar, huh?” He said with a chuckle, turning around and walking ahead. There was no need for a goodbye, they would be seeing each other sometime later, and this time they didn’t have to worry about being too late.

Hermes stared at him in shock, the claws of grief taking a hold of his heart before he smiled, something tender and yet that desperately tried to make itself turn into something more painful. "Yeah, and I guess you're my favorite sailor." He mused, running his fingers one last time against the brooch before turning around and leaving the Underworld.

He had never felt so light and yet, heavy.

[cosmicasteroids]

Qsmp lore hcs and thoughts !

This is mostly character techno based so I’ll use Q!techno and also based around chayanne and some other things.

Phil mentioned that techno helped guide chayanne in the fight against ender!phil that lasted for like three days and I already had some like small lore on where technos been in the events of the qsmp character wise. Techno was a conduit for the blood god due to this the voices and everything onlt got worse with time and even healthy outlets fell through. Techno took this as a personal mission to bring his fight to the blood god in the spirit realm and left his own cloak and a note behind for Phil before leaving to go fight the gods themselves.

Thing is when techno won that fight and the blood god was slain there was now a new champion to take on the rule of blood and war kind of like a, ‘you kill the king you now are the new ruler situation’, you topple the god off his tower and now the realms deem you to be that god. Techno didn’t anticipate this and now is bound to be and become the new blood god and carry out his tasks and deeds and keep the realms in balance as the other gods. Bros just kind of winging being a god he didn’t come out here to be trapped in the spirit realm forever and become a immortal being, tis was not the plan.

In present day techno uses his god hood to watch over Phil and the his new family he has when the fight with the enderking happened between Phil and chay techno stood in to help guide chayanne through the whole fight where to stand how to hold his sword what to dodge when to strike he knew Phil better then anyone after all. Thing is after days and nights of this fight techno accidentally claimed chayanne to be the new blood god conduit a little soldier much how he was his entire life. Techno tried to speak with the gods saying it must be some sort of mistake but the gods told him it was simply fate. So techno took it in his hands to try to make chayanne better, stronger, and of more sound mind then he ever was using his mistakes of his past as simple warnings.

Of course when chayanne says he hears voices and has nightmares of war and slaughter and has this terrible need for violence Phil freaks out a bit. He’s seen all of this before he had a kid much the same toiled by blood and he’s watching closely to help like he did in the past nothing has changed.

Anyways besides story lore there’s also smaller bits of other little fun facts hc lore !

Only conduits of gods can see other gods, Phil is more likely to be able to see techno if he wakes up for a second during ender kings possession, unlike chay who can see him all the time. Phil is less blessed by a god and more being used like a puppet so he doesn’t have the luxury to see the gods as easily as chay would be able too. Chay can see the enderking wrapping himself around Phil and he hates it.

Techno is the new blood god but as such he kind of claimed the blood gods old memories from thousands of years and his powers making techno not the most sound of mind 24/7 he tries to be generally calm and teach about protection and defense but sometimes the voices beg for war and he can’t help the things he’s becoming (aka techno angst is real)

Will emerald duo ever reunite stay tuned cause gods can’t keep promises and even if the gods reach out and hold tight sometimes words can’t be reached by mortals of light.

Anyways I will make concepts of techno and chay for my lil hc lore au qsmp thing lol but I wanted to shout my thoughts into the void even if no one sees them. And if you do hope you enjoyed my ramble hope it made sense. If you have any questions you are free to ask but no pressure.

[ink-perfect]

Hi Aspen. Can you write an romantic hurt and comfort (by comfort=bittersweet) of Zoro as the god of war. Who was in love with a mortal. Prince Sanji of the baratie, however the blonde died during the titan war. Letting the god of war grief and rage end the war in a single day.

Thousands years has passed since then. As the empty throne of the god of love were filled. And Zoro was suprise when he find out it was sanji- sanji who assesended to be the god of love.. however the blonde loses all of his memories about his mortal life. (Is a test from Luffy (king of god). Wether do he and Zoro love could withstand everything. Including a memory wipe)

back to you.

## request!

─ about: animanga/live action zoro x sanji ft. a lil luffy at the end⋆. romantic, fluff, angst-ish (?), 3rd person ⋆. gods au, established relationship, memory loss ─ a/n: thank you for the request!!!!! 🤍 this is my very first time writing character x character or a fantasy au, i hope it's semi-decent 😭

the battlefield was a graveyard, bathed in carmine under the dark sky.

the once proud fields of lush green, where the sun had shone down with warmth and peace, was reduced to a wasteland of blood and ruin. bodies littered the ground, crimson running down to nest in the cracks of the earth.

and at the centre of it all stood roronoa zoro, god of war.

the scent of iron filled his nostrils as he sheathed his swords, the thick silence pressing against him like a vice. his muscles, though worn and aching, held their strength, but his heart - his heart had long since shattered.

prince sanji was dead.

the war god had lived for countless years, fought innumerable battles, and defeated legion enemies, but nothing had ever hurt like this. zoro’s love for sanji, a mere mortal, had been the one light in a life filled with conflict, and now it had been extinguished. the blond prince, who had stood beside zoro against the titans, who had defied the gods themselves to fight for his people, was gone. taken by the very war zoro had sworn to end.

it had been a blur - the final battle against the titans. the cries of war, the clash of steel, the earth shaking beneath their feet. zoro had fought like a demon, tearing through enemies without hesitation, knowing sanji was close by, fighting his own battle. but then, there had been a scream, high and filled with a terror zoro had never heard from him before. he had turned to see the prince fall, his body crumpling to the ground, blood spilling from a wound too deep for any mortal to survive.

zoro had felt something inside him break at that moment: a sensation that he had never experienced before. he was a god - he was supposed to be invincible, untouchable, yet the pain of losing sanji had brought him to his knees. his heart had shattered, rage and grief twisting together into a firestorm that consumed him. the world became a haze of blood and fury as he did what no god had ever before - he ended the war in a single day. titans fell before him like leaves in the wind, their ancient power crumbling under the weight of his sorrow.

but even as the final titan drew its last breath, there had been no satisfaction. no victory. all zoro had felt was an empty, hollow ache in his heart where sanji had once been.

he had stood there for hours, cradling the prince’s body, his golden hair matted with blood, soulful eyes forever closed. he had wanted to scream, to beg the fates to give him back. but no one answered. no one ever answered.

that was thousands of years ago.

now, the gods had moved on. time had passed in a blur, the once monumental loss fading into myth. the world changed, new gods rose, and the titan war became nothing more than a story, a distant memory etched into the minds of the immortal. but zoro had never moved on. he never allowed himself to. his heart had become a fortress, a cold, impenetrable place where nothing else could enter. the god of war had become a legend in his own right - feared, respected, and utterly untouchable.

he had fought for millennia, leading armies, defending the heavens from any threat that dared challenge them. but all of it felt meaningless now. he was a god without purpose, without the one thing that had given him reason to fight.

zoro would catch himself at random times - on the battlefield, in the dead of night - thinking of sanji. he’d recall the way sanji’s eyes would spark with anger whenever they argued, the way his lips would curve into that smug grin whenever he teased zoro, or the way his body had felt against his, warm and alive, in those rare moments of tenderness. he had loved sanji, more deeply than he had ever allowed himself to love anyone. but that love had died the day sanji had fallen.

or so he thought.

the news spread like wildfire through the heavens - the empty throne of the god of love had been filled.

it was a matter that zoro cared little for. the god of love had been absent for as long as he could remember. the seat had been empty, and no one had seemed in a rush to fill it. love, after all, was fickle, fleeting - especially to the gods. zoro had scoffed at the idea of anyone taking on the role. love, to him, was nothing but a distant memory, a dream that had died with a mortal prince long ago.

but when he heard the name, everything stopped.

it had been spoken so casually, the news brought to him by one of the lesser gods as if it were just another trivial update, but the words hit him like a blade to the heart. it was a name he hadn’t heard in so long, it had become a ghost in his mind. zoro froze, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword as the god spoke.

“vinsmoke sanji has ascended to the throne of love,” the god had said, oblivious to the storm brewing in zoro’s chest. “it’s been a long time since we had someone take that seat. king luffy must’ve had a hand in it - no one else would’ve chosen someone so...unconventional.”

sanji. ascended?

zoro had barely heard the rest. he left immediately, his mind racing with disbelief, with fear, with something that felt almost like hope, though he tried to crush it before it could take root.

sanji, his sanji, the prince who had died in his arms, was now a god? how could that be? how could someone mortal ascend to such a place, to the very seat of love itself, after so many years? zoro’s heart pounded in his chest as he made his way to the grand hall of the gods, the place where the god of love resided.

he arrived at the hall, hiding behind the towering white pillars, his breath shallow as he took in the sight before him.

there, sitting on the throne of the god of love, was sanji.

his sanji.

zoro’s heart lurched at the sight. the former prince looked exactly as he remembered - his golden hair gleamed in the divine light, framing a face that had haunted the war god's dreams for centuries. his sharp blue eyes flickered with intelligence, with that same fire, that same spirit that had drawn zoro to him so long ago.

but something was missing.

sanji’s gaze swept over the room, eyes passing over zoro without a flicker of memory. those eyes - once filled with love and laughter and defiance - held no warmth, no recognition.

zoro’s heart dropped as he realised what was wrong. the man before him was sanji, but at the same time, it wasn’t. he had ascended, but the man zoro had loved, the man who had fought and bled and died beside him, was gone.

sanji had no memory of his mortal life.

the god’s fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tightening as the cogs turned in his head. he realised something yet again: this was no miracle. this was a test.

he could see the hand of luffy, the king of the gods, all over this cruel twist of fate. luffy, with his relentless optimism, believed in love as the most powerful force in existence. he believed that even death could not destroy it. this scenario had to be one of his experiments stemming from this obsession.

and it was torture.

zoro wanted to scream. to grab sanji and force him to remember, to shake him until the light came back into his eyes, until he looked at him the way he had all those years ago. but he couldn’t. not yet.

instead, he watched from the shadows, his heart aching in ways he thought he had long since buried. the sight was almost unbearable - the prince looked the same as he had all those years ago, every detail of him painfully perfect. and yet, nothing about the way he held himself, the way he looked at the world, was the same.

what was zoro to do?

several days had passed with zoro lingering in the hall, his gaze fixed on the god who bore the face of his lost prince. sanji moved among the other deities with familiar ease, his sharp tongue and fiery spirit intact. yet, a steely air clung to him - a wall that hadn't existed before. zoro's heart wrenched each time their paths crossed, each time sanji's empty, unknowing eyes swept over him. they were strangers now. the irony wasn't lost on zoro: the new god of love had no love left within him, not as he once did. it was a cruel cosmic joke, taunting him with what he'd lost.

on the seventh day of his silent vigil, zoro could take no more.

he approached sanji’s throne on impulse, his heart pounding in his chest, each step heavy with the weight of centuries of grief and unspoken longing. the hall was empty, save for the two of them - sanji, draped in the pristine robes of a god, and zoro, still clad in his war armor, hands fiddling with the swords strapped to his side as a safety mechanism. sanji looked up as zoro neared, his expression unreadable as he placed him.

“roronoa zoro, god of war.” he spoke after a moment, his voice smooth. “to what do i owe the pleasure?”

the words were so formal, so cold, goddamnit. it took everything in zoro not to flinch.

“i-” zoro hesitated, his mouth suddenly dry. how could he even begin to explain?

“y’know, you’ve been hanging around an awful lot, war god.” sanji helped him out, his tone light but unmistakably edged with irritation. “do you have a reason for hovering, or are you just enjoying the view?”

zoro’s lips twitched at that - a spark of something familiar in sanji’s teasing, though it wasn’t directed at him the way it used to be. the banter between them had always been a fond memory of zoro’s, but now, sanji’s words were just that - words. detached and impersonal.

zoro crossed his arms, his gaze locking with sanji’s. he took a deep breath in. “i came to tell you that...you remind me of someone,” he spoke carefully, keeping his voice steady despite the roaring storm in his chest.

sanji raised a brow, leaning back in his throne. “do i, now?”

“yes,” zoro smirked back, hoping this would mask the flips his stomach was doing.

“someone i once loved.”

the silence that followed was deafening. sanji’s teasing expression faltered, just for a moment, but he recovered quickly, shrugging as if zoro’s words meant nothing. “i see. well, i’m afraid you’re mistaken. i don’t know anything about you, or whoever it is you’ve lost.”

zoro’s fists tightened at his sides, a surge of frustration beginning to boil under his skin. he had known this would happen - that sanji wouldn’t remember - but it still hurt like hell to hear him dismiss it so easily. zoro couldn’t just tell him everything; he couldn’t throw all their history at sanji’s feet and expect him to understand. this was more than a simple loss of memory - this was a divine test. sanji had been brought back, in a form zoro needed to ease into and figure out how to reach.

the war god took a slow breath and shook his head, forcing himself to stay calm. “you may not remember,” he said quietly, “but that doesn’t change what happened.”

sanji’s eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping into his gaze. “what exactly do you think happened, then? what is it you’re waiting for? some kind of…memory?”

zoro wasn’t even sure what he was waiting for himself. was it a sign that the man he loved was still there, beneath the godly mask of indifference?

“i’m not waiting for anything,” zoro said finally, his voice rough. “i just… wanted to see for myself.”

sanji tilted his head, his gaze and tone hardening. “see what?”

zoro’s chest ached. he couldn’t put it into words. instead, he searched sanji’s eyes, now desperately hoping for something, anything, to show that the connection between them wasn’t completely lost. he almost considered praying, but quickly thought better of it.

the god of love was already busy enough.

zoro's jaw clenched. "you've changed," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

sanji gave a short, humourless laugh, running a hand through his golden hair. "i’d hope so. becoming a god tends to have that effect."

zoro stared at him, every fiber of his being resisting the urge to shout, to demand, to fight for what they had lost. but he couldn't - not yet. he needed to wait, to let things unfold slowly as he had promised himself he would earlier. it was a test, after all, and zoro wasn't one to fail a challenge, no matter how impossible it seemed.

"i guess it does," zoro murmured, his voice softer than he intended.

sanji’s eyes lingered on zoro for a moment longer than necessary, something unspoken passing between them, but whatever it was vanished as quickly as it had come. this was the final straw for zoro, and he turned around to leave.

sanji shook his head, the frustration clear in his voice as he called out to the war god’s turned back. “wait.”

zoro turned instantly, eyes ablaze with sheer hope.

“why don’t you just say it outright? you keep coming here, talking in riddles, expecting me to…what? suddenly understand something i never lived?”

zoro tried to hold back the surge of emotion that threatened to spill out. “because i don’t know if you can remember. but i do know you feel it. you have to feel it.”

sanji’s eyes snapped up to meet zoro’s at these words, the distance between them suddenly shrinking as the intensity of zoro's words hung in the air.

“feel…what?” sanji leaned in, his voice almost a whisper, as if he wasn’t sure he even wanted the answer.

zoro took a step closer, the words coming from a place deep inside him, where centuries of grief, rage, and love had been buried. he couldn’t hold it back anymore. there was no other route. he let the floodgates open.

“you and i - we fought together, side by side. we saved each other countless times. you were the prince of the baratie, and i was the god of war. we loved each other… fiercely. you died in my arms during the titan war.” he rambled.

sanji flinched as if struck, his eyes widening slightly. he opened his mouth to protest, but zoro pressed on, his voice growing softer, more desperate. “i couldn’t save you. and i’ve lived with that pain for thousands of years. but now…you’re here. you’ve been given a second chance, but you don’t remember. and i don’t know how to make you see it.”

the silence that followed was suffocating. sanji sat frozen, his eyes locked on zoro’s as though trying to process the weight of what had just been said. his brow furrowed, and for the first time since his ascension, zoro saw a flicker of something raw and real behind his eyes.

“i…” sanji began, his voice shaky. “i don’t remember any of that. i don’t know who you think i am, but-”

zoro interrupted, his voice breaking slightly. “it’s not about the memories, sanji. it’s about what you feel. deep down, do you really think i’m lying? that i’m just some crazed god trying to torment you?”

sanji hesitated. his lips parted as if to respond, but no words came out. instead, his gaze dropped to the floor, his fingers curling tightly around the armrests of his throne. zoro watched him struggle, knowing that the truth was buried somewhere deep within him, hidden under layers of divinity, under the weight of his new life as a god.

for a long moment, neither of them spoke. zoro’s heart pounded, his pulse echoing in his ears as he waited, hoping, praying that some part of sanji would break through. he couldn’t lose him again. not like this.

then, finally, sanji spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “when i look at you… i feel something. but it doesn’t make sense. it’s like…something is missing. like i should know you, but i can’t place why.”

zoro’s breath caught in his throat. he took another step closer, closing the distance between them. “that’s because you do know me. you know me better than anyone ever has. your brain might not, but your heart…it remembers.”

for a moment, the silence stretched again, but this time it was different. it was filled with unspoken understanding, with a quiet, fragile connection that hadn’t been there before. sanji looked up at zoro, his eyes searching for something, and for the first time since their reunion, he saw a glimpse of the man he had once known.

“i don’t understand why i feel like this,” sanji murmured quietly, almost to himself. “but i trust you.”

zoro’s heart swelled, a flicker of hope stirring deep within him. he hadn’t realised how much he needed to hear those words until now.

sanji stood slowly, stepping down from his throne, his movements tentative. he was still the regal, newly ascended god of love, but in this moment, he was also sanji - his sanji, the man who had once fought by his side, laughed in the face of danger, and loved with a fierceness that somehow rivalled zoro’s own.

zoro didn’t move, afraid that any sudden gesture might shatter this fragile moment. sanji stopped in front of him, his eyes still searching, still unsure, but there was something in his expression that wasn’t there before - trust, as thin as it was, beginning to take root.

“tell me more,” sanji whispered, his voice low. “about…us. about who i was. maybe if i hear it, it’ll come back.”

zoro’s throat tightened, but he nodded, his gaze never leaving sanji’s. he had waited centuries for this chance, and though he knew it wouldn’t be easy, the spark of hope flickering between them was enough to give him strength.

“you were a prince,” zoro began, his voice soft yet steady, the memories rushing back to him as though no time had passed at all. “you had your whole life ahead of you, but you gave it all up to fight in the titan war. you stood by my side when no one else would. you were stubborn, and a real pain in the ass sometimes, but…you were loyal. you always had my back, no matter what.”

sanji’s lips twitched into the faintest of smiles, his eyes softening as he listened.

zoro continued, the words flowing freely now, as though the dam of centuries-old grief had finally cracked. “we fought together, lived together…and we…we loved each other. you drove me crazy, and i wouldn’t have had it any other way. you were the best damn thing that ever happened to me, sanji.”

sanji’s breath hitched, his eyes widening as zoro spoke. he opened his mouth to say something, but his voice faltered. instead, he took a shaky step forward, his hand reaching out hesitantly toward zoro’s chest, as if drawn to him by instinct alone. the touch was tentative at first - sanji’s fingers brushing against the fabric of zoro’s cloak - but it was enough. zoro’s heart pounded in his chest as sanji’s hand rested over his heart, the warmth of his touch sending a wave of emotion crashing over him.

“i… i don’t remember everything,” sanji murmured, his voice trembling. “but when you talk like that… it feels real. it feels like i’m missing something, like there’s a piece of me that’s been locked away.”

zoro swallowed hard, his voice rough with emotion. “it’s real, sanji. it’s always been real.”

sanji’s gaze lifted to meet zoro’s, his eyes filled with something zoro hadn’t seen since the war - vulnerability, hope, and a glimmer of the love that had once burned so fiercely between them.

“then…i want to remember,” sanji whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

zoro’s hand came up, gently covering sanji’s where it rested on his heart. his touch was steady, his grip firm but careful, as if afraid that the moment might dissolve if he held on too tightly. “you will,” zoro said, his voice low, almost a vow. “i’ll make sure of it.”

sanji’s gaze wavered, and for a moment, he looked like the prince zoro had fallen in love with those many years ago - a little lost, but still brave enough to face the unknown. “i don’t know how,” sanji admitted, his voice cracking slightly. “but…if what you’re saying is true, if i was that person, then i can’t just walk away from this.”

zoro gave a small, bittersweet smile, the tension in his chest easing slightly for the first time in millennia. “walking away never really was your thing, even back then. you always came back to me no matter what.”

sanji’s lips quirked into a half-smile, but the weight of the unknown still hung between them. “then i guess i’ll have to trust you,” he said softly, his voice laced with uncertainty, but also with a quiet determination.

the silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable now - it was filled with the promise of something rekindling, waiting to be found again.

suddenly, the grand hall shifted. a bright, golden light filled the room, and zoro knew what it meant before the booming voice even spoke.

“oi, you two!” luffy, the king of the gods, appeared at the entrance to the hall, his wide grin practically glowing as he bounded toward them. his eyes sparkled with delight, as if watching the two of them like this was the best entertainment he’d had in centuries. “looks like things are finally getting interesting, huh?”

sanji blinked, clearly startled by luffy’s sudden appearance, but zoro just sighed, his annoyance thinly veiled. “what do you want, luffy?” he grumbled, though his tone lacked any real heat.

luffy bounced in place, his grin never fading. “i’ve been waiting for you two to figure it out! man, this was harder than i thought it’d be, but it looks like you’re almost there!”

sanji’s eyes narrowed in confusion, turning to zoro. “what’s he talking about?”

zoro exhaled deeply, ready to get everything off his chest. “this was all his idea. the memory wipe, bringing you back as a god…it was a test.”

sanji’s brows furrowed, his confusion deepening. “a test?”

luffy clapped his hands together, still beaming. “yup! i wanted to see if your love could survive anything, even time, even losing all your memories! you guys were always such a strong pair, so i figured, why not make it interesting?”

sanji blinked, looking between zoro and luffy, clearly trying to process everything. “so you…tested us? but why?”

luffy’s grin softened, his tone uncharacteristically sincere. “because i believe in love. and i believe in you two.”

zoro’s gaze met sanji’s as soon as those words were spoken, and in that moment, something seemed to shift. sanji’s eyes widened slightly as the pieces began to click into place. his fingers tightened around zoro’s hand, his grip no longer hesitant.

luffy’s smile grew even wider when he noticed this, if that was possible. “i thought this would happen,” he said with an excited bounce. “you’re starting to remember, aren’t you?”

sanji’s breath caught in his throat. he looked at zoro again, something breaking free within him, like the floodgates of memory had finally begun to open. flashes of battles, laughter, and shared moments flickered in his mind - moments that felt distant yet so familiar. the feel of zoro’s hand in his, the sound of his voice…it all started to make sense.

“i…” sanji’s voice was shaky, but there was a spark in his eyes now, a light that hadn’t been there before. “i think…”

zoro’s heart raced. he took a step closer, their faces only inches apart now, his voice trembling with hope. “sanji?”

sanji’s brows relaxed, his fingers interlocking with zoro’s in a swift movement. “you idiot…i never could get rid of you, could i?”

it was like a dam had broken inside zoro, a rush of emotion that was nearly too good to be true. the man standing before him was no longer the distant, cold god of love - he was sanji, the same sanji who had loved him in life, who had fought by his side, and who had died in his arms all those years ago. he was back. zoro’s throat tightened, and for a moment, he couldn’t find the words. instead, he pulled sanji closer, pressing their foreheads together.

“you’re back,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion. “you’re really back.”

sanji let out a shaky laugh, his breath warm against zoro’s skin. “took me long enough, huh?”

zoro couldn’t hold back anymore. he closed the remaining distance between them, capturing sanji’s lips in a kiss that was desperate, tender, and filled with all the love and pain that had been torturing him for millennia. sanji responded immediately, his hand gripping zoro’s armor, pulling him closer as if afraid to let go again.

the kiss was the culmination of countless years of longing, of love that had transcended death and time itself. it was bittersweet, but it was also healing, a reunion of two souls who had always found their way back to each other.

when they finally pulled away, breathless, sanji rested his forehead against zoro’s, a small smile playing on his lips. “i’m not going anywhere this time,” he whispered, his voice firm, a promise.

zoro chuckled softly, his heart lighter than it had been in thousands of years. “good. because i’m not letting you go.”

from behind them, luffy whooped in delight, clapping his hands loudly. “see? i knew it! you guys passed the test! love wins!”

zoro rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at his lips. he glanced at sanji, who was looking at him with the same fond exasperation he had worn so often in their past lives.

“love wins, huh?” sanji muttered, shaking his head. “you’re a real piece of work, luffy.”

zoro just smirked. “but he’s right this time.”

sanji chuckled softly, then leaned in, his lips brushing against zoro’s again, softer this time, but just as full of promise. “yeah. i guess he is.”

and so, as the world shifted around them, zoro knew that no matter what obstacles awaited them in the future, he and sanji would get through them together. they had conquered death, survived the loss of memories, and stood the test of time itself. whatever came next, zoro knew one thing for certain:

they would always find their way back to each other.

── ౨ৎ masterlist

[daydreaming-paradies]

Shine In My Memories

ᡣ𐭩 Summary: Loving an immortal is what people say is an wonderful feeling and experience but…Will it last long when you are just a mortal?

ᡣ𐭩pairings: Zhongli x Gn!Reader

ᡣ𐭩 Warnings: Angst, Reader died, Zhongli’s POV, having memories of you in his mind

How long was it? The last time I hear your voice, calling out my name with such fondness. How you tackle me in a hug. It has been years. Meeting you is a blessing. We have met in such interesting circumstances. You were a citizen from Fontaine. A strong yet hard working person..the type to never let not one mistake bring you down. You were friendly yet tended to get sassy when you want to be. 

You were straight to business but when it came to me, you seemed to lose your words and that strong personality of yours. I always knew that you had a crush on me…you are not very subtle about it. Huo Tao kept teasing me about you even if she was a bit of a handful, she was right. I slowly yet surely grew feelings for you. Every day, we hang out when we are free..whenever you vent to me about your promises and how I always comfort you. The day when I asked you out, you were so red in the face that I thought that you were having a fever but thankfully you accepted my confession. Having you as my lover is a wonderful thing, making sure that you were treated right, making your days on this earth memorable.

Until...that day, when you were killed during a mission by your former friend who grew jealous of you. The news of your death was delivered to me by Xiao and I was heartbroken. Why have they killed you like this? Why do they take you away from me? I remember needing space to myself...and just broke down. You, my feisty lover is now gone. I will never hear your voice, laughter…seeing you flustered...seeing those beautiful eyes shine and that smile…the warm genuine smile. I will never forget it. 

After your funeral, I have not dated anyone else. Why would I?...All my memories with you are still fresh in my mind. I have always visited your grave and placed your favorite flowers there because I know you love them dearly..every day…every night, I think of you. I dream of you. I can’t move from you. Everything reminds me of you. I know that I cannot do anything to get you back but you are forever my muse. You always shine in my memories. 

Maybe in another life, we can start over and I vow to protect you. Rest in peace, my darling.

~Taglist: @areislol @mikashisus @wystiix @dailypenpen @phinbie @yuan4i @husky-studies @worldsxtar @yoghurtsan @windblume-wishes