#the shower scene will forever be superior

[travichughes]

Top 5 Travic moments and why?

i thought you'd never ask... these choices change every day but currently:

shower scene (4x01)

genuinely anyone who knows me knows that this is my favourite scene. i think it has just the right balance of comedy and softness. it has the first direct 'i love you', the hug is amazing and both travis and vic's heart eyes during the scene? ohhh i cry every time. it really shows that travis can be stuck in one single thought for ages, not being able to see another side, but when vic is there, she can get him to think differently. shower scene supremacy

2. the bunk room scene (7x06)

i rewatched this scene yesterday and it is simply perfection. season 7 was not good to them (7a specifically) but oh my godddd having this wonderful resolution after vic had a breakdown in front of everyone was just perfect because I'm not being funny, if this scene happened with someone other than travis i would have been livid. how intimate it was... it wouldn't have worked with anyone else. its no secret that travis knows vic. travis knows vic more than anyone, he knows her more than he knows himself sometimes. he knew that she was hurting way before anyone else did. he knew that after her breakdown she needed some weird analogy, some comedy, but she also needed to know that she could 'be the baby' and get taken care of. his soft voice as he spoke to her? lives rent free in my mind. 'i love you and i will always take care of you' is soooo important to me, and then the cheek rub, forehead kiss and the hug... i will never recover. travis, vic and their fans needed that scene.

3. the airport scene (7x10)

there has not been a single day since the finale aired that i haven't thought about travis saying 'so as it turns out, my life is wherever you are'. that scene, their whole arc in the finale eps, was the perfect ending to travic's story. travis realising he's stuck, having vic ask him to move to dc, saying no but later changing his mind, leading to him surprising vic at the airport?!?!!? its just amazing. we all know travis isn't a very romantic guy, but I'm not being funny, him turning up at the airport and surprising vic is the most romantic thing he's ever done. they both need each other so badly and I'm so glad he realised before it was too late. and no, he is not 'codependent' on vic. there's a difference.

4. first meeting (4x09)

4x09 is a masterpiece of an episode, the best episode in the whole show in my opinion. the entire episode should be highlighted but their first meeting is just so special to me because we see two people meeting for the first time, not knowing that their lives are going to change forever. travis probably was gonna leave firefighting because it was too painful for him until vic showed up. vic made a damn joke, not even a funny joke, and she made travis laugh. she had no idea what the significance of that was. she had no idea she changed his life with one joke. it's just how travis assigning her a locker changed their lives. and now they're in dc changing the country. together.

5. slowdancing at marina's wedding (4x16)

travic went through a lot in season 4, individually and together. but how peaceful this scene was, it was the perfect send-off for the best season of travic there ever was. travis was prepared to put aside his grief and his anger for his best friend because he wanted her to be happy. 'i love you. you're my person. and you always will be' changed so many lives. she's his person. no guy, no fight, no job will ever change that.

honourable mentions: travis taking vic to see ripley for the last time (2x15), travis waking up from the nightmare (6x12), all the travic scenes in 2x01, vic reassuring travis that she's okay after her electrocution (5x05), suuushiiii for breaakkkffaaasstttt hug (7x10)

thanks for reading and pls feel free to discuss in the comments!!!

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

[sashi-ya]

𝑺𝑬𝑿 𝑭𝑶𝑹 𝑩𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑲𝑭𝑨𝑺𝑻 「cuts of freedom: part 6」 soshiro hoshina x f! officer! reader

a/n: I know I said this will be the last, but guess what? I couldn't let this story go just yet! also, sorry for the delay, I've been really busy these last few weeks. But, to compensate, here you have a mostly smut chapter before -what i think will be- the last chap! enjoy 💖 tw: mdni! sex explicit scenes. mentions and depictions of wounded skin, cuts, bruises and dried blood. sex for breakfast. shower/bathtub sex. oral. impregnation kink. wc: 3k // part 1: cuts of freedom // part 2: かんぱい！// part 3: stuffed // part 4: side B: relax // part 5: mirror, mirror... // masterlist

“Can I answer you that tomorrow night?” “Yes… take your time”

While your bodies still shivers to reverberating shocks and aftershocks of climax, and your skin burns melting one against the other, those words feel like the sharp blades that once gave you freedom… now, they are painfully severing every string of little hope left inside, mixed with ecstasy. Trapped, once again…

Soshiro’s foreheard rests on your shoulder, his hands gripping the countertop as he normalizes his breathing.

Your hands gradually stop the soft caresses you were giving to his back, and your legs stop pressing his body against yours. Your muscles still tremble, spasms left with blushed cheeks…

“Let’s go to bed, come on” he murmurs, lifting you up to help you stand. “Yes…” you whisper back, feeling perhaps the warmth of words telling you that at least for tonight you two will be actually sleeping together.

Sweet and soft, and despite the fact of him wanting you to be naked forever, he closes the yukata around your waist. Soshiro then lifts your hair up, untucking it off the inside of your clothes.

He grabs your hand and both return to his messy bed; still warm from your concupiscent actions before that detrimental call.

Soshiro flops on his bed, squinting as he -once again- forgets about the wounds scatter all around his body.

“Be careful, Soshiro…” you say, hopping into the bed to take care of him. Probably, there isn’t much you could do to ease his pain, but he definitely enjoyed the “baby” treatment.

“Would you take care of me, (Name)?” he asks, smiling with his sharp teeth. Happiness being genuine, and at the same time feeling like he had found something he has been longing for a very long time.

You take some air, of course you will take care of him. Of course you want it, too.

A sudden thought, suddenly, crossed your mind as you asked yourself whether he deserved an answer right now or not… why do you have to wait for one, but he doesn’t?

You, however, couldn’t lie to him… despite anything you could say or do, you are far too infatuated with him to let your pride win, and chose instead a softer way to let him know you are completely his…

“Yes… always, fukutaichou” you mumble; adressing him as your superior didn’t leave him satisfied, but Soshiro is shrewd enough to understand why you used such word instead of his name.

He suddenly bursts out laughing, snatching you -in a much delicate way he is used to snatch Kafka- to “humble” you down.

“Don’t get that cocky! You are still a brat to me, my sweet little officer! Obbey your vice captain!”  he scoffs, forcing you to bury your nose into the crook of his neck.

Oh, how wonderful he smells. The scent of that skin, this time uncleaned and a little sweaty, brings you to the deepest pit of sinfulness. You can’t help but take a big breathe of such perfume, forcing him to shiver just a little.

This time, even Soshiro won’t say a thing. He, himself, felt a little shy to such neediness show off coming from you. Instead, the modern samurai that slashes his way through difficulties, limits only to hug you even closer to his body.

Slender and beautiful fingers sliding down the indentations of your spine, up and down the curves, in slight touch. It makes you shrudder just a little, and a sensation of pure pleasure coming from your core instantly spreads to every corner of your insides.

Your right leg rests on top of his, your hip turns just enough for your sex to land on his thigh. Your cheek, plastered against his pecs; And your hand landing on his left shoulder. Like those nights you slept guilty considering your pillow his body, this time you do with the warmth of his strong flesh.

For some time, you simply forget about everything, and only bodily sensations -specially exhaustion- take over.

Soon the both of you set sail to the oneireic waters of sleeping seas…

A sweer kiss on your forhead filters through the still sleepy conscious of yours. You slowly open your eyes, letting the sun soak in into your pupils, but there aren’t any traces of it.

“What time is it?” you ask, rubbing your eyes. “Five thirty, my sleeping beauty… go back to sleep” Soshiro informs you, energetic and ready for a new day. You, however, the least you feel like is that way.

Some minutes pass and you finally gain strenght to stand up.  You sit on his bed. The silky yukata sliding off your shoulder, slowly down your arm. Your hair, a mess. Your eyes, squinted. Soshiro, is nowhere near you.

“What…?” you ask yourself, closing the yukata properly and thinking that you could most definitely use the shower.

You hear some noises coming from outside the room, enough to make you curious. Truth is, you would have preferred to wake up right next to him.

Bare feet touch the cold floor, taking you to the source of the sounds. There he is, right in front of you, wearing his classic black compression shirt while holding a short blade on each hand.

Focused, like he always does when training, Soshiro breathes ready to attack. An imagery you’ve been told happens quite often on the base. Now, you are the one ready to enjoy it.

“Wh- what… is there a Kaiju emergency? Do we have to go back?” you ask, shaking your sleepiness as best as possible.

Soshiro instantly puts his blades down. He turns around, with a drop of sweat garnishing his temple… your legs almost failing to such spectacle.

“No, I was just training like every morning… specially since tonight we have plans and I won’t be able to” “Training? With your wounds?!... uh…plans?”

He laughed it off, putting his blades into its sheaths and walking up to you. No matter how hurt he might be, how tired or worried he is like a machine… and its fuel it’s the need for your flesh.

“Let’s take a bath” he commands, this time sounding more like your superior than your… boyfriend?

“Yes!” you insitinctevly answer, causing even more laughter in your vice captain.

His hand wraped around yours, pulling you to follow him to the bathroom. You walk behind like a little girl, trusting him without knowing what awaits for you next.

Despite you knowing his bathroom, you still haven’t reach for the “shower” part of it. A pleasant surprise awaits to see it is not just a shower, but also a very luxurious yet minimalistic tub.

“I need this to relax my muscles after training” he murmurs, sensing you what you -actually- were thinking about the place.

“Of course…” you answer in awe, watching him open the faucets to fill the tub with lukewarm water.

A couple of minutes later, he takes his shirt off as well as the shorts he was wearing, nudity on its full bloom... exposing his tiny waist still makes you shiver and wet, but you instantly stop the lustful thoughts when he finally takes his bandages off.

Some dried blood still covers cuts that have been patched up with Izumo tecs techniques. Those scars have also blueish and purple spots around, as wells as big bruises on his back. The price of overheating and taking the suit to the max, has to be this… not every member of the JAKDF is able to tolerate such terrible damage.

“Soshiro…” you breathe, worried. You slowly walk towards him, taking a closer look at those injuries. “You should rest, not fight, not train and specially not… fuck” you continue, depositing a finger ever so slightly near the start of one of the wounds on his chest.

“It is… difficult to resist, even the touch of your fingertip makes me incredibly needy of you” he susurrates, grabbing your wrist to take it to his lips and plant a kiss.

You swallow. You just can’t… you don’t have the heart to see those injuries and still indulge once again into his hot sex.

“Please…” you painfuly express; as if a moaning slipped out of your mouth, you are not sure if you are only suffering for him or if you are torn in between a guilt dillema of succumbing to intercourse while knowing he is in pain or resist it.

He smirks, letting just the tip of one of his fangs shine with a weak orangey light barely filtering the little bathroom window. His hand unties the shash around your waist to let the silk covering slide down the floor…

“What are you begging for, (Name)? why are you saying “please” for?” he teases you in such sexy way, you feel the need to bite your lower lip.

And your lower lip is exactly what he pinches in between his fingers, so delicate, so lustful and perverted. His fingertips barely wet with your saliva go down your chin, lifting it up, pulling you towards his lips, clashing with yours like in slow motion.

“Mh…? You haven’t answered me yet, babe… though I might know what you are asking for, you are dripping wet…” he mutters, lips against your lips, his free hand reaching down your core.

He smiles against your mouth, grazing it with his sharp fangs. It takes nothing to manipulate your body that seems to move on its own, following him into the water.

“Soshiro we shouldn’t… you are not fully recovered” “Ok, ok… I promise I’ll behave…”

Soshiro carefully lets you sit down in the tub first with your back against one of the walls. And then he follows, sitting in between your spread legs, allowing his perfectly sculped back to rest on your chest.

You are absolutely satisfied with this, in fact it feels like a dream… to have him this way… Soshiro is not heavy, his weight is not crushing you, in fact it feels like a pleasant pressure on your body. He is lean, and still muscular. He is not built big, but he has the strenght of a demon.

Your hand comes out of the water, that in fact comes as a blessing for your sore muscles, and reaches for his bigger wound. You don’t touch, you just graze.

“Does it hurt, Soshiro?” you ask, whispering right into his right ear. “Ngh… how do you expect me to behave this way?” he complains, as your warm breath caresses his earlobe and your palm right on the healthy parts of his chest.

You would lie if you said you aren’t secretly enjoying a little torture, a little bit of the taste of dominance.

“I could give you some releif…” you susurre, planting a peck on his nape. “Oh… could you?” he smirks, devileshly. Though, his voice trembles despite the hard attempt to remain dominant.

You hum, nodding while your hand slides down his lower stomach. It makes him flinch just a little when your palm graces his injuries with the delicacy of a feather.

You can’t help but scoff a little bit as the moment your hand surrounds his hardness makes him moan sexily. His cheeks turn pink, Soshiro is probably not used to being pleasured this way…

“Relax, fuku taichou…” you murmur as you begin pumping unhurriedly, and so deliciously.

He lets the back of his head fall on top of your shoulder, enjoying the jerking off motions that prove to be of great expertise coming from you.

“Mhh… I might need you every night after training babe…” he moans, smiling in pleasure and looking you from the side with just a little bit of his purple eye showing.

“Every night, Soshiro? I wouldn’t mind… but what will the rest think of my absesence?” you ask, unaware of the following revelations.

“Well, babe… it’s probably time they know” he lets heavy words scape his lips, making you stop for barely some seconds those delicious hand motions.

You resume, however, the pumping quickly enough for him to notice any type of reaction. Not sure if you wanted to brush it off because you couldn’t process it, or because you swear you hear him wrong. There must be something inside you telling you that’s too good to be true.

Oh, but Soshiro notices very well… there isn’t a keener soldier than him.

He smirks, knowing that little hint about whats coming for you, left you startled. And what you thought had only been a couple of seconds of awe, were in reality a fatal blow to turn the dominance back to him.

He doesn’t really need to say much, he lifts your hand from his body and turning around just enough yo clearly get the message. Standing up, he guides you to sit on the edge of the tub.

With his body still inside the water, Soshiro urges you to spread your legs. He relishes and gloats to your entrance being fully on display right in front of his face; breakfast is served prior to him, and he is going to feast on such delicacy.

Tongue dances in between your folds, drinking from your honeys, slurping on your wetness. Your knuckles turn white from holding for dear life on that edge, while your body shivers, accepting you have lost a silent fight… now there is only one thing left to do; enjoy.

When you feel brave enough, just a single hand holds you while the other tangles in Soshiro’s purple hair. Pulling the closer you get to climax, letting him know it’s time to finish the work with his hardness deep inside your core.

Hoshina fukutaichou stands up, drips of water traveling his deliciously beaten up body, giving you the perfect show off of a warrior ready to impale you…

Pumping two times, his hands getting coated with precum, his shaft getting even harder, a single vein popping…

“Don’t understimate the strenght of your vice captain, I already told you that…” he lets you know you are about to get fucked as hard as always despite any wounds. And maybe, even, harder.

Your toes curl, and your back arches. The way in which he rams into you can be only compared to a Kaiju attack, a blow dealt with the violence of deadly intentions but tinted in lustful desperation.

His thrusts are fast but precise; every time he goes inside, he does it deeper and harder. Your eyes turn white from pleasure, with walls clenching around his saft, milking, pumping, wanting to get once again bathed by the Hoshina seed.

“You keep stroking me with your cunt… ngh… what you want, (Name)? You. wanna. Get. Pregnant. From. Me? Hmmm??” he spits, biting your lip after. He pulls and kisses, and lets his tongue violate your mouth. Saliva driping down, as you are unable to close your mouth, there is so much to moan about.

“Soshiro… I… fuck… yes, fuck…” you are only able to answer, you don’t have a chance to say no either way.

“It will be my pleasure, babe” he answers back, bestialy burying his fangs into your neck as he lets his hips go as fast as his sex desires. Giving his body the natural freedom of using intercourse for its main purporse.

Shooting creamy release into your core sets the deal, once again taking the risk; once again primal prevailed reasoning. And oh, how good it felt.

“Now let’s have something for breakfast, we are running late… plus, you need to go back to the base to get ready for tonight” “Yes, fukutaicho... though, what’s with tonight? I’ve been wanting to ask about it” “Didn’t I told you I was going to answer the question you had last night? I always keep my word, honey” “Oh…”

[to be continued]

[falsebeginnings]

“daisy od’ing and waking up alone, wet and cold in the shower is the superior scene compared to the tv version because she saved herself in that situation” is a take that i’ve seen from some people in the djats fandom and that is forever baffling to me. both the book scene and the tv version serves the same purpose! her eventually coming to a realization that nicky sucks and would have let her die instead of calling an ambulance!!!!!

it does not make her a weaker or lesser character that in the tv version someone who actually genuinely cared about her found her and was actually there for her in her worst moment especially when the show has emphasized multiple times how deeply lonely she is and how much she wants to be loved!!!!!!!!!

[ernicvibes]

It was a foggy night in Paris , the moon was playing hide and seek whith the clouds, and as a background you could hear the city slowly dying.

Restaurants are closing and a drunk old man is singing old french songs , reminishing his youthness while slowly approaching the way home.

There is a middle aged prostitute in a side of the street ,she smokes a cigarette ,but it seems more like that the cigarette it’s smoking her , there are no emotions in her eyes .

She fix her lipstick while she watch the Senna flowing under the under the bridge.

She wears a pair of louboutin , an old client bought those for her , Reginald Dubois, Remì for the close friends ;

what a weird man she thought, sometimes he booked an appointment with her not to have payed sex , but just to have someone to talk to; at least he was well mannered .

She reach for her handbag mirror , but while doing so her purse falls to the ground , a young man sees the scene and intervenes , kneeling down and taking the bag for her .

They look at eachother for a second but it seems an eternity, he’ s not only watching her , he is studying her trying to cross the terrestrial phisical dimension and reach her soul.

She is feeling like her heart is stopping for a long second , she is feeling young again , an animalistic passion is burning inside of her , “What is it lavender?” she says sniffing his neck, she has no control on her action in that moment .

“You like it ?” he says , his eyes got some type of magnetism because she can’t stop looking at him, she is feeling like a teenager with her first love; “I gotta calm down”, she thinks .

She suddenly push him and take back the purse , “merci” she says with a cold tone , “Now you can go…and stop looking at me like that , what is your problem?!”

“ You don’ t like it?” he says , a big smile appears on his face

She turns around ignoring him

“Give me a chance”

“Why should I” she reply , lightning up another cigarette

“Because our soul are connected, I don’t know ho to explain it , I just feel it.”

Tomorrow at midnight , le “Chat noire club” , Montparnasse , just me and you for one night ,then if you want I will disappear from your life forever .

His voice is trembling.

“You never been part of it petit and never will”

A car stops close to them , roll down the window , it’s Mr Remì ,he has little eyes that quickly move all over his visual and small elegant moustaches dancing on the border of his superior lip , his voice it’s very calm but at the same time shows an extreme inner fragility, “Mon dieu Claudette you are as beautiful as ever , you remind me of the spring ! Could I have the honor to take you on a ride ?”

“Oui monsieur Remì” she reply and enter in the car.

“Ciao Claudette” whisper the young boy slowly waving with his hand , then put it in his pocket and proceed to walk in the opposite direction of the car .

The car is moving and Claudette put her head outside the window , she look up to sky ,then she looks around , and scream : “Bonne nuit Paris”

The morning after Claudette cameback in her little apartment in “Le Marais “, the night with Mr Remì had been “alternative” as usual, they chatted for hours talking about “Paris dans la belle epoque” and old movies while drinking a lot of wine causing Remì to fall asleep while they were starting to have sex , so she left , taking with herself the money on the sofa and a box of strawberries that the old man had in the fridge .

She couldn’ t get some sleep that night becuse she was still thinking about that damn unknown guy she met the night before .His face was stuck i her mind as a terrible nightmare.

I must forget him , she thought.

For breakfast she had croissant , strawberries and cigarettes three of the five remaining in the pack , then she had a shower and tried to get some rest , another hard night was waiting for her .

She woke up at 8 pm with a terrible headache , she missed the appointment with mr Durand , but she wasn’t mad because he was an asshole , and always tried to choke her.

At 9 pm she had an appointment with Mr Fournier at 10pm with Mr Bernard and at midnight she took service on the streets as always , she was tremendously busy.

She was gettin ready in her little room , in front of the mirror , how could he ever love a woman like me? she thought .

Claudette was beautiful , she had big green eyes ,hairs black as the coal , and extremely long legs compared to the body which made her look like a “ Danseur”.

She was a mature woman but she had a youthful fire burning inside ; you could recognize an incredible sufference in her eyes , mixed with a little bit of apathy.

She was a beautiful rose that was slowly wilting inside.

Before going out she cried a little bit , turning off the lights , because she didn’t want to see herself in the mirror. It was one of those night in wich all the emotions come out and you can’t control it.

She cleaned her face , drank some other wine and then left home .

It was one of those nights in wich only her body left her house , Claudette was still in her dark room , alone with her thoughts.

She met Mr fournier at 9 pm following her agenda , she had sex with him in a small park near her house , she looked at the sky for all the time of the short intercourse, but unfortunately she didnt see any star , just some planes .

She would have really loved to fly away too , from all her problem , to hover in the sky , and not being Claudette anymore , but just a flying body in the space .

At 10 pm she met Mr Fournier, he was extremely rude and took her violently, for the first time in her life she didn’t even felt human , she felt like she was some sort of animal , totally dehumanized .

She cameback home, and for a brief second, she thought about taking her life.

“STAY STRONG CLAUDETTE , STAY STRONG CLAUDETTE , STAY STRONG CLAUDETTE ”

She screamed with all the voice that she had in her body covering her mouth with a pillow ,that made her feel better.

She had two hours before going back to the “streets” ; when she was sad she liked to watch “A day of rain in New York” , she liked rom-com , Timothée Chalamet and that aura of nostalgia .

She cried during the movie , she wanted some love in her life too , some happiness.

Her heart was in the ocean and everyday it sank deeper and deeper.

She thought about the unknown young boy, he had a special place in her mind , but she didn’t admit it to herself.

It was midnight, time to go back to work .

00.30, she looked up on the smartphone and sighed , she thought about the invite received, but as she always says she stopped believing in fary tales a long time ago.

After a few minutes a car stopped next to her work location, she was about to enter in the car , but then she noticed that he already had his pants unzipped ,his meat out and was vigorously touching himself, while looking at her like a lion watches the dead body of his preys.

In the meanwhile he was holding the money with the right hand pointing them in her direction .

She didn’t really know what clicked in her , but Claudette throwed up and started running , inside of her a mix of emotions , she was mad , sad , confused .

Only had one thing clear in mind :she had to find the unknown youngboy.

She called a taxi , “ Le chat noir Montparnasse s’il vous plait”.

She finally arrived after 15 minutes , she was feeling different , an inexplicable energy was moving her .

She opened the door of the club .

Some jazz music was playing , and extravagant people were smoking and drinking at their table while boldly discussing.

She looked for the boy for an entire hour , but nothing , she didn’t found him , so she cameback disappointed to her work place.

She smoked her last cigarette , but it seemed more like the cigarette was smoking her .

“Claudette”…. “CLAUDETTE “

“Who is looking for me?” she reply while turning around.

It was him. Her heart was smiling.

“I wasted an hour of my life looking for you tonight ”she scream.

“I’ ve been looking for you for all the streets of Paris where were you? he reply ,

Claudette run towards him and kiss him on the lips , then they stare at eachother for a few seconds , there is some magic in their eyes .

“I got something for you” he says ,

“what is it ?”she replies smiling

He pulls out a little box and a bouquet

“Lavender”.

It was a foggy night in Paris , the moon was playing hide and seek whith the clouds, and as a background you could hear the city slowly dying.

Restaurants are closing and a drunk old man is singing old french songs , reminishing his youthness while slowly approaching the way home.

There is a middle aged prostitute in a side of the street ,she smokes a cigarette ,but it seems more like that the cigarette it’s smoking her , there are no emotions in her eyes .

She fix her lipstick while she watch the Senna flowing under the under the bridge.

She wears a pair of louboutin , an old client bought those for her , Reginald Dubois, Remì for the close friends ;

what a weird man she thought, sometimes he booked an appointment with her not to have payed sex , but just to have someone to talk to; at least he was well mannered .

She reach for her handbag mirror , but while doing so her purse falls to the ground , a young man sees the scene and intervenes , kneeling down and taking the bag for her .

They look at eachother for a second but it seems an eternity, he’ s not only watching her , he is studying her trying to cross the terrestrial phisical dimension and reach her soul.

She is feeling like her heart is stopping for a long second , she is feeling young again , an animalistic passion is burning inside of her , “What is it lavender?” she says sniffing his neck, she has no control on her action in that moment .

“You like it ?” he says , his eyes got some type of magnetism because she can’t stop looking at him, she is feeling like a teenager with her first love; “I gotta calm down”, she thinks .

She suddenly push him and take back the purse , “merci” she says with a cold tone , “Now you can go…and stop looking at me like that , what is your problem?!”

“ You don’ t like it?” he says , a big smile appears on his face

She turns around ignoring him

“Give me a chance”

“Why should I” she reply , lightning up another cigarette

“Because our soul are connected, I don’t know ho to explain it , I just feel it.”

Tomorrow at midnight , le “Chat noire club” , Montparnasse , just me and you for one night ,then if you want I will disappear from your life forever .

His voice is trembling.

“You never been part of it petit and never will”

A car stops close to them , roll down the window , it’s Mr Remì ,he has little eyes that quickly move all over his visual and small elegant moustaches dancing on the border of his superior lip , his voice it’s very calm but at the same time shows an extreme inner fragility, “Mon dieu Claudette you are as beautiful as ever , you remind me of the spring ! Could I have the honor to take you on a ride ?”

“Oui monsieur Remì” she reply and enter in the car.

“Ciao Claudette” whisper the young boy slowly waving with his hand , then put it in his pocket and proceed to walk in the opposite direction of the car .

The car is moving and Claudette put her head outside the window , she look up to sky ,then she looks around , and scream : “Bonne nuit Paris”

The morning after Claudette cameback in her little apartment in “Le Marais “, the night with Mr Remì had been “alternative” as usual, they chatted for hours talking about “Paris dans la belle epoque” and old movies while drinking a lot of wine causing Remì to fall asleep while they were starting to have sex , so she left , taking with herself the money on the sofa and a box of strawberries that the old man had in the fridge .

She couldn’ t get some sleep that night becuse she was still thinking about that damn unknown guy she met the night before .His face was stuck i her mind as a terrible nightmare.

I must forget him , she thought.

For breakfast she had croissant , strawberries and cigarettes three of the five remaining in the pack , then she had a shower and tried to get some rest , another hard night was waiting for her .

She woke up at 8 pm with a terrible headache , she missed the appointment with mr Durand , but she wasn’t mad because he was an asshole , and always tried to choke her.

At 9 pm she had an appointment with Mr Fournier at 10pm with Mr Bernard and at midnight she took service on the streets as always , she was tremendously busy.

She was gettin ready in her little room , in front of the mirror , how could he ever love a woman like me? she thought .

Claudette was beautiful , she had big green eyes ,hairs black as the coal , and extremely long legs compared to the body which made her look like a “ Danseur”.

She was a mature woman but she had a youthful fire burning inside ; you could recognize an incredible sufference in her eyes , mixed with a little bit of apathy.

She was a beautiful rose that was slowly wilting inside.

Before going out she cried a little bit , turning off the lights , because she didn’t want to see herself in the mirror. It was one of those night in wich all the emotions come out and you can’t control it.

She cleaned her face , drank some other wine and then left home .

It was one of those nights in wich only her body left her house , Claudette was still in her dark room , alone with her thoughts.

She met Mr fournier at 9 pm following her agenda , she had sex with him in a small park near her house , she looked at the sky for all the time of the short intercourse, but unfortunately she didnt see any star , just some planes .

She would have really loved to fly away too , from all her problem , to hover in the sky , and not being Claudette anymore , but just a flying body in the space .

At 10 pm she met Mr Fournier, he was extremely rude and took her violently, for the first time in her life she didn’t even felt human , she felt like she was some sort of animal , totally dehumanized .

She cameback home, and for a brief second, she thought about taking her life.

“STAY STRONG CLAUDETTE , STAY STRONG CLAUDETTE , STAY STRONG CLAUDETTE ”

She screamed with all the voice that she had in her body covering her mouth with a pillow ,that made her feel better.

She had two hours before going back to the “streets” ; when she was sad she liked to watch “A day of rain in New York” , she liked rom-com , Timothée Chalamet and that aura of nostalgia .

She cried during the movie , she wanted some love in her life too , some happiness.

Her heart was in the ocean and everyday it sank deeper and deeper.

She thought about the unknown young boy, he had a special place in her mind , but she didn’t admit it to herself.

It was midnight, time to go back to work .

00.30, she looked up on the smartphone and sighed , she thought about the invite received, but as she always says she stopped believing in fary tales a long time ago.

After a few minutes a car stopped next to her work location, she was about to enter in the car , but then she noticed that he already had his pants unzipped ,his meat out and was vigorously touching himself, while looking at her like a lion watches the dead body of his preys.

In the meanwhile he was holding the money with the right hand pointing them in her direction .

She didn’t really know what clicked in her , but Claudette throwed up and started running , inside of her a mix of emotions , she was mad , sad , confused .

Only had one thing clear in mind :she had to find the unknown youngboy.

She called a taxi , “ Le chat noir Montparnasse s’il vous plait”.

She finally arrived after 15 minutes , she was feeling different , an inexplicable energy was moving her .

She opened the door of the club .

Some jazz music was playing , and extravagant people were smoking and drinking at their table while boldly discussing.

She looked for the boy for an entire hour , but nothing , she didn’t found him , so she cameback disappointed to her work place.

She smoked her last cigarette , but it seemed more like the cigarette was smoking her .

“Claudette”…. “CLAUDETTE “

“Who is looking for me?” she reply while turning around.

It was him. Her heart was smiling.

“I wasted an hour of my life looking for you tonight ”she scream.

“I’ ve been looking for you for all the streets of Paris where were you? he reply ,

Claudette run towards him and kiss him on the lips , then they stare at eachother for a few seconds , there is some magic in their eyes .

“I got something for you” he says ,

“what is it ?”she replies smiling

He pulls out a little box and a bouquet

“Lavender”.

[k-s-morgan]

I'm pretty curious: what are your thoughts on Bedelia? Because I personally really disliked her and was honestly shocked when I discovered how many people on tumblr not only disagree but actually see her as a role model? Like, for me, she has no positive qualities. You could say she's curious and brave but no, she's just indecisive. She's curious in theory but when real life comes it turns out she's not brave enough for what she was curious about and also not brave enough to get out of it, so

she's always stuck somewhere in the middle, constantly biting off more than she can chew and convincing herself that she's there by her own choice and calculation. I think that in many situations she wants to see herself and so poses as someone way superior than is the case. And ok, she is smart, but because of her other flaws, she doesn't act on it. People glorify so much her outsmarting Hannibal after Florence but like, she could've just get him arrested at any moment?

She didn't need all these charades, she wasn't supervised. Or of course she could've just shot him or call FBI in Mizumono. And then she tries to act all superior with Will, but gets everything wrong with who was behind the veil, and the talk about being naked? The fact that she shows different emotions doesn't mean she hidden them so well but rather that she doesn't have such devastating emotions as Will. She showed plainly how unprepared she was to go there and how despite what she thinks of herself she doesn't fit Hannibal's nietzschean superhuman concept. For me Alana for example is a strong woman here, who learns and works over her trauma. Bedelia is too self-absorbed to even admit she made any mistakes. I'm sorry this ask grew into such monstrosity but I felt the need to explain my point of view and I would really love to hear someone's else (whose analysis I really respect) perspective because it's been seriously baffling me for a long time now

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

Hello! This is such an interesting ask, I really enjoyed hearing your thoughts on Bedelia. I agree with your analysis, although funnily, it's because of this that I like Bedelia :D She's definitely no role model in general, and I disagree with Bryan that she's the smartest character because I don't think any of her actions indicate it.

You are right, Bedelia is a very self-absorbed character. She's also self-sustained: I feel like she could happily live her whole life as the only person on Earth. She's cold and calculating; she has a high self-esteem and a painfully strong sense of curiosity - the problem is, it's mostly theoretical in nature. For example, Bedelia enjoys the idea of taking life, and she seems to have enjoyed the actual moment of it, but what comes next terrifies her. She doesn't like the consequences, she doesn't like the blood; she's scared about being caught and readily asks for help from a man who set this whole situation up. What fascinated her in theory turned out to be much uglier in practice, so she quickly retired and chose to isolate herself to avoid doing something like this again. She follows the same pattern of behavior with Hannibal.

Bedelia always knew that Hannibal is dangerous, but she still continued therapy with him, genuinely trying to understand him, too fascinated to back off. She says she tried to refer him to another doctor, but based on their interactions, she truly enjoys sessions with him, likely because she feels in control. In S1, when Hannibal reaches out, she backs away, never letting him close but keeping him interested enough to keep him coming to see her. It’s like she’s playing a game of her own, getting to know this man in a person suit, understanding she’s the only one he can more or less confide in, and enjoying her power. But the balance begins to shift when Will appears and when Bedelia realizes she underestimated the depth of Hannibal’s depravity. Hannibal is focused on Will entirely now, he doesn’t need Bedelia all that much, and she doesn’t like it because losing Hannibal’s interest means becoming disposable. Things become too real, so she freaks out and runs.

Another shift comes when she sees him after Mizumono and agrees to escape with him. Bedelia thinks she holds control again: Will is gone, Hannibal is a wreck who desperately needs council, and she feels confident about her own importance. Hannibal tells her, “I never found you to be lacking,” which she likely takes as a certainty that she’s never been disposable, after all. In that shower scene, it’s obvious how she gradually relaxes and becomes lazily arrogant. She thinks she can step forward now, getting to know Hannibal even better, behind the veil, being the one who’ll gather the pieces of him, and also satisfying her curiosity along with a morbid and mostly latent fascination with darkness, as well as basking in knowledge that someone as dangerous and unique as Hannibal needs her.

All these motivations are gone as soon as she understands that Hannibal is not only not over Will but that he’s also casually planning to kill her (in E1 of S3). She didn’t expect it, based on her reaction, at least not this soon. That’s where Bedelia starts another game with the aim to survive. But like you mentioned, even then, she's not just fighting to win - she's fighting for a good and comfortable life for herself.

Bedelia is afraid of going to prison and she is afraid of alienating Hannibal. She doesn't know if Hannibal will actually be caught, and that's why she tries to stay in the middle: she's setting him up, but covertly, sitting in front of the cameras instead of going to the police directly. Later, she tries hard to stay interesting and get Hannibal to support her alibi - Bedelia has no desire to be on the run forever. She wants her comfortable life back. The second she has it, when Hannibal is locked away, she relaxes and exploits him to earn more money and get more attention. She doesn't need people, not really, but at the same time, she enjoys being needed by them.

She overestimates herself repeatedly, like she does with Hannibal and then with Will. She cannot bear the thought that Hannibal considers her disposable while worshipping the ground Will walks on - it offends her, so she's starting talking to Will to get a better grasp on him and see for herself how he's irrelevant and Hannibal is just stupid for being fixated on him. Alas, she's wrong, and this time, she becomes dinner because in many ways, Will is an even more dangerous opponent than Hannibal.

I love Bedelia, though - I consider her a very interesting character exactly because of her flaws. It's fascinating to me how she considers herself superior and yet ends up being fatally wrong about so many important things; I also find her preference of theory to practice, observation to participation unusual and interesting.

[dahlia-coccinea]

A few thoughts on the scene of Catherine returning to the Heights after her stay with the Linton’s - it is commonly cited in discussions about her character and generally, the narrative goes that she shows herself to be vain and narcissistic in laughing at Heathcliff, and this honestly confuses me? I think that is quite selective in what details are noted about the scene and misses placing it in a wider context. To start I think its best to reference the scene in its entirety, sorry it is quite long (bolding is mine):

Heathcliff was hard to discover, at first. If he were careless, and uncared for, before Catherine’s absence, he had been ten times more so since. Nobody but I even did him the kindness to call him a dirty boy, and bid him wash himself, once a week; and children of his age seldom have a natural pleasure in soap and water. Therefore, not to mention his clothes, which had seen three months’ service in mire and dust, and his thick uncombed hair, the surface of his face and hands was dismally beclouded. He might well skulk behind the settle, on beholding such a bright, graceful damsel enter the house, instead of a rough-headed counterpart of himself, as he expected. “Is Heathcliff not here?” she demanded, pulling off her gloves, and displaying fingers wonderfully whitened with doing nothing and staying indoors.

“Heathcliff, you may come forward,” cried Mr. Hindley, enjoying his discomfiture, and gratified to see what a forbidding young blackguard he would be compelled to present himself. “You may come and wish Miss Catherine welcome, like the other servants.”

Cathy, catching a glimpse of her friend in his concealment, flew to embrace him; she bestowed seven or eight kisses on his cheek within the second, and then stopped, and drawing back, burst into a laugh, exclaiming, “Why, how very black and cross you look! and how—how funny and grim! But that’s because I’m used to Edgar and Isabella Linton. Well, Heathcliff, have you forgotten me?”

She had some reason to put the question, for shame and pride threw double gloom over his countenance, and kept him immovable. 

“Shake hands, Heathcliff,” said Mr. Earnshaw, condescendingly; “once in a way that is permitted.”

“I shall not,” replied the boy, finding his tongue at last; “I shall not stand to be laughed at. I shall not bear it!” And he would have broken from the circle, but Miss Cathy seized him again.

“I did not mean to laugh at you,” she said; “I could not hinder myself: Heathcliff, shake hands at least! What are you sulky for? It was only that you looked odd. If you wash your face and brush your hair, it will be all right: but you are so dirty!”

She gazed concernedly at the dusky fingers she held in her own, and also at her dress; which she feared had gained no embellishment from its contact with his.

“You needn’t have touched me!” he answered, following her eye and snatching away his hand. “I shall be as dirty as I please: and I like to be dirty, and I will be dirty.”

With that he dashed headforemost out of the room, amid the merriment of the master and mistress, and to the serious disturbance of Catherine; who could not comprehend how her remarks should have produced such an exhibition of bad temper.

Importantly Nelly specifies that Heathcliff isn’t just his usual level of childish dirtiness and unkemptness, which assumedly Catherine wouldn’t have noticed when she comes home eager to find him. She wasn’t expecting him to be so neglected and her worst fault here is carelessly misplacing the reason for Heathcliff’s dirtiness, and not recognizing the larger neglect done by Hindley and how laughing could very understandably have hurt him (I don’t think many 12 year-olds are particularly emotionally intelligent though). Initially, she doesn’t seem to notice his state since she runs to him and gives seven or eight kisses. What she does not do, is she does not come back and say she’s better than him, acts embarrassed of him, or indicates she doesn’t want to be friends anymore - she says “it will be fine,” he just needs a wash. 

Catherine’s presence must have been part of what kept him tidier as Nelly notes that it during her absence is when he fell into such neglect. This would be in line with Nelly’s previous description of the two of them of when Hindley first comes home: “Heathcliff bore his degradation pretty well at first, because Cathy taught him what she learnt, and worked or played with him in the fields.” Just as she would teach him what she learned and worked with him in the fields I’d say in this scene she’s simply consistently showing care for his wellbeing, even if she isn’t completely considerate when expressing it.

Not to get too off subject but I think this is pertinent - the line, “They both promised fair to grow up as rude as savages” might be another quote that is taken too literally at times - I don’t think they were just running around dirty all the time as Nelly noted that Heathcliff isn’t generally this uncared for. Also, this line ends up being understood as their rejection of all society and their resistance towards growing up which I think may only be partly true. While I love that Nelly calls them “unfriended creatures,” I don’t take this to mean that they are simply elements of nature. Along with @astrangechoiceoffavourites’ recent post about how “Heathcliff does not reject Culture. Culture rejects him,” I think it’s also often overlooked that they both admire the beauty of the Grange. He describes the house in great detail: 

“ah! it was beautiful—a splendid place carpeted with crimson, and crimson-covered chairs and tables, and a pure white ceiling bordered by gold, a shower of glass-drops hanging in silver chains from the centre, and shimmering with little soft tapers.”

He tells Nelly if they were in Edgar’s and Isabella’s position, “We should have thought ourselves in heaven.” Catherine is not more vain or materialistic than Heathcliff, or vapid just because she tells a 13-year-old boy who works on a farm and is only washing once a week he needs to wash more.

Still, Heathcliff has every right to feel hurt, he’s facing terrible physical and emotional abuse and as mentioned previously this has repercussions on his self-esteem for his whole life. Hindley in this scene is clearly trying to demean him to the level of a servant in the eyes of Catherine. A few months previously he was loved and cared for by Mr. Earnshaw but now any bright future is quickly disappearing. Heathcliff must know his situation won’t change under Hindley. The encounter with the wealth of the Linton family and Catherine’s acceptance into their world is also a stark example of Catherine’s ability to have something better than being with him forever. They both will grow up one day and she will eventually marry and there is no way Hindley would allow them to do so, nor would he give Heathcliff any means or education to provide for a family and have a home. 

Seeing Catherine obviously well cared for I think ignites a little jealously and fear that he is already losing her company. He seems at least mildly aware of Edgar as a potential rival as we see the next day during his conversation with Nelly when he tells her, “...if I knocked him down twenty times, that wouldn’t make him less handsome or me more so. I wish I had light hair and a fair skin, and was dressed and behaved as well, and had a chance of being as rich as he will be!” He did already note Edgar’s reaction to Catherine at the Garage saying, “Edgar stood gaping at a distance...I saw they were full of stupid admiration.” It seems easy to assume he is at least starting to be aware of her - three months prior he mentions to Nelly Catherine’s “beautiful hair,” “enchanting face” and says, Catherine is “immeasurably superior to them—to everybody on earth.” Catherine of course doesn’t necessarily know he feels this way and most likely isn’t fully aware of all his feelings about the situation he’s in. Seems reasonable to assume that she’s somewhat blind to his inner conflicts - later when talking to Nelly she seems to think that Heathcliff understands her completely yet its apparent they aren’t on the same page. She is as blind to the extent of his feelings, as he is of her’s. 

Anyway (getting a little off topic), Catherine’s subsequent reaction to this scene is totally out of line with the narrative of a wildly self-loving and cruel girl, and again we get a glimpse of a morose Heathcliff, nursing his pride and slowly pulling away from her. The fact that he storms off and they don’t immediately go back to their former relationship before her stay at Thrushcross Grange completely shocks her. After this encounter Catherine shows feelings of guilt and distress over the sour encounter. “She cried when I told her you were off again this morning,” Nelly tells Heathcliff the next day. And later again Catherine cries over Heathcliff’s mistreat by Hindley upon the Linton’s arrival. Later that evening when he’s locked in a garret Nelly details how she sneaks off to visit him:

“She made no stay at the stairs’-head, but mounted farther, the garret where Heathcliff was confined, and called him. He stubbornly declined answering for a while: she persevered, and finally persuaded him to hold communion with her through the boards. I let the poor things converse unmolested, till I supposed the songs were going to cease, and the singers to get some refreshment: then I clambered up the ladder to warn her. Instead of finding her outside, I heard her voice within. The little monkey had crept by the skylight of one garret, along the roof, into the skylight of the other, and it was with the utmost difficulty I could coax her out again.”

Later on she tells Nelly that his miseries have been her miseries - and she certainly isn’t ever as classist in her treatment of Heathcliff as her daughter is towards Hareton. When she misses Heathcliff for three years she’s only missing a “ploughboy,” as Edgar calls him. When he returns a gentleman she scoffs at Edgar’s suggestion that Heathcliff be let into the kitchen and mockingly gives the order: “Set two tables here, Ellen: one for your master and Miss Isabella, being gentry; the other for Heathcliff and myself, being of the lower orders.” And later tells him “Heathcliff was now worthy of anyone’s regard,” which shows she’s obviously blind to how many will always perceive him as an outsider and never a true gentleman.  

For fun, here is how this scene was adapted for the 1939 film - in the scene Catherine dreads seeing Heathcliff and upon seeing him makes no move to embrace him, then they have this AWFUL exchange: 

Heathcliff: Why did you stay so long? Catherine: Why? Because I was having a wonderful time. A delightful, fascinating, wonderful time...among human beings. Go and wash your face and hands, and comb your hair...so that I needn't be ashamed of you in front of the guests.

I have a lot of questions. Number one: how dare they? lol How did they extrapolate that from the book? This has become the lasting memory of her for many film viewers, and also somehow for people that have read the book. 

I know there are many conversations that could be had on Catherine saying it would degrade her to marry Heathcliff, or at various time saying he is a baby, a pitiless wolfish man, and a brute. I’m not trying to gloss over when she is demanding and not always kind to him or other characters but people really choose to be blind to some of her actions in order to paint her as the villain of the story. Catherine Earnshaw is a wonderfully flawed and human character and these interpretations make her so 2D. 

I feel like a lot of these views are an expansion on this discussion as well as this other post (credit to @princesssarisa) about the relationship between Catherine and Heathcliff before he leaves - I’ve found so few critics talk about them in a realistic, rather than metaphysical, way. Fewer yet discuss Heathcliff’s role in their failed relationship. More commonly they assert that Heathcliff’s feelings for her are true and hers are based on a shallow self love or whatever. So I guess I’ll just have to write it myself lol.

[irisofpurple]

Hi there! This week’s newlywed’s round will be a short one (but hopefully a fun one). This week we’re playing:

What Would They Rather?

Note: The setting is back to Ethan x MC being married/together. They have to guess what their partner would choose from the options. Dialogue is entirely up to you!

MC, what would Ethan rather?

Beer or Wine

A Cruise or Camping

Horror Movie or Chick Flick

Stay at home or Go out in the rain

Get up early or Stay up late

Ethan, what would MC rather?

Cook dinner or Do the dishes

Diamonds or Pearls

Live in the city or Live in the country

Walk on the beach or Dance in the club

Travel overseas or Explore locally

MC, what would Ethan rather?

Beer or Wine

Lana: If those are the only choices, he'd definitely pick wine. I'm trying to get him into Team Beer but it's hard to get him to drink anything other than his fancy scotch.

Ethan: *smirks* More like she's Team Scotch now.

Lana: *rolls her eyes* I've always been a whiskey girl, long before I met you but I'm not as obsessed with it as you are. Also, I couldn't afford the fancy stuff in my college days so beer was my best bet.

Ethan: I'll admit beer isn't the worst choice but..

Lana: Oh my God. Approval! After all these years! Victoryy! *gets up and does a victory dance*

Ethan: *shakes his head and watches her with an amused smile*

A Cruise or Camping

Lana: Definitely camping.

Ethan: *beams at her* Lana is a nature lover. We went cruising on our honeymoon in Paris which we definitely enjoyed a lot, but the camping experience when I proposed to her remains far superior and closer to our hearts.

Lana: Sleeping under the stars.. feeling like we're the only people on earth.. it was magical.

Ethan: Indeed. But not more than you.

Horror Movie or Chick Flick

Lana: *thoughtfully* I'd say horror because I've caught him sneakily watch me play Resident Evil 7.

Ethan: *blushing in surprise and embarrassment* That's- that's because the protagonist character is called Ethan.

Lana: *smirks* You must've watched quite a bit to even know that.

Ethan: Hrm.

Lana: *bats her lashes at him* Would you fight a haunted house full of monsters to rescue me? Even if I was turned into one of them?

Ethan: *angrily* Why would you ever say such a thing?!

*softens and laces his fingers with hers, looking into her eyes and swallowing*

Ethan: You know I'd go through hell and back for you. I- I've been pretty close to losing you once, I hate to even think about it.

Lana: *kisses him passionately* I love you. I'm so sorry.

Ethan: *gently kisses her forehead*

Lana: *wiping away tears and perking up* You know this reminds me of the first time you took me to the Opera, the story of Damarion and Alessandra. You held my hand and narrated their tragic love story to me.

Ethan: You held my hand while I was trying to be a gentleman and help you understand it.

Lana: Same thing. *pecks on his cheek*

Stay at home or Go out in the rain

Lana: Stay at home, while it's pelting down outside. It's the perfect mood for our favourite adult activities. *winks*

Ethan: Why get wet like that when there's a perfectly nice shower in bathroom?

Lana: That's it. The next time there's a downpour in Boston, I'm taking you dancing in the rain.

Ethan: No.

Lana: Come on. You'll love it, I swear. It's the best feeling.

Ethan: I'd rather stay home and not catch a cold.

Lana: You won't. I'll convince you one way or another. Just you watch. *smiles devilishly*

Get up early or Stay up late

Lana: Get up early, unless I keep him up late. *winks*

Ethan: *blushes deeply*

Ethan, what would MC rather?

Cook dinner or Do the dishes.

Ethan: She hates doing dishes so definitely cook dinner. She's a really good cook once she's learnt the recipe thoroughly.

Lana: But he's far better than me so he's the head chef at Ramsey Mansion.

Diamonds or Pearls

Ethan: She doesn't care much about jewellery but I know she prefers diamonds.

Lana: *singing expressively* Shine bright like a diamond.. Find light in the beautiful sea, I choose to be happy. You and I, you and I.. we're like diamonds in the sky.. *keeps humming*

Ethan: *shrugs with a knowing smile* Yeah.

Live in the city or Live in the country

Ethan: She loves the country but sadly we can't live too far away from work.

Lana: I grew up in my grandparents' farmhouse before dad moved us to Houston. I am not complaining but a country life is much more wholesome and closer to nature. I do love it here in Boston though. Home is where the heart is and my heart is with Ethan so...

Walk on the beach or Dance in the club

Ethan: Walk on the beach. We had a beach wedding at Miami with family and close friends. Beaches have a special place in our hearts.

Lana: I'm not really into the club scene much but I do like hanging out with my friends in the club every now and again. And I love dancing. But given a choice, I'd rather spend a quiet evening in the beach with my husband. Bonus points if it's private so we aren't interrupted if we... *glances at a blushing Ethan* ...get carried away.

Travel overseas or Explore locally

Ethan: Both.

Lana: Exactly. Why choose one when you can have both right? There's always some cool place to discover in town. But travelling abroad is a whole different experience. I have a long travel list and I very much intend to get to the end of it.

Ethan: And afterwards?

Lana: Add more and repeat, of course!

I apologise for taking literally forever to this. I mean this was the shortest ask so far but it took me the longest somehow. Thank you so much Bree for sending these and bearing with me. 💕

Tags: @lem-20 @pixie88 @aleynareads @maurine07 @whimsicallywayward15 @lovingramsey @coffeeheartaddict @txemrn @shewillreadyou @aussieez @queencarb @quixoticdreamer16 @schnitzelbutterfingers @imaneditorthankyouverymuch @mercury84choices @thegreentwin @adiehardfan @custaroonie @headoverheelsforramsey @dorisz @chemist-ana

[mst3kproject]

Attack from Space

What, you thought I was out of Star Man movies?

In the distant Sapphire Galaxy, the ferocious Superians (I think) have set out to conquer our universe, beginning with the planet Earth.  The High Council of the Emerald Planet doesn't like that, so off goes Star Man to suss out the Superian spies who are sabotaging our space programs.  This story intersects with that Dr. Yamanaka, a rocket scientist who has been kidnapped by the aliens and brainwashed into building them a fleet of super-spaceships.  It's up to Star Man and Yamanaka's two brave children to save the day!

You guys, you're not going to believe this but I think this movie had a fucking budget. I mean, it wasn't a big budget, but there's much more action and plot and much less of children in shorts running around pointing at things!  There's two different miniature space stations and a rocket ship that's better than the one in Radar Men from the Moon. There's a single plot that runs all the way through the movie and what's more, unlike the other Star Man movies it's not immediately obvious where 'part one' ends and 'part two' begins.  When I think about it, it's probably the point where the rocket blasts off from the secret alien base, but that is purely a hindsight thing.  This may be the best put-together film of the whole Star Man quadrilogy!

Don't worry, it still sucks.

Also in hindsight, I realize that the aliens are probably supposed to be the Sapphirians, seeing as they're from the Sapphire Galaxy.  But the actors keep sounding like they're saying Superians, which also works, since they're supposed to be a 'superior' race... and a couple of times I swore I heard Severians... like they're going to be severe with us, which they were when they started blowing up cities.  Now I'm really confused.

Anyway, like the other films in the Star Man series, Attack from Space begins with a narrator giving us the backstory.  In Evil Brain from Outer Space, this served to gloss over the robot assassin killing Ballazar and his minions preserving his brain, which is something I really would have preferred to watch. In Attack from Space, it just tells us that the, um... Silurians?  Are on their way. There's a brief time-killing interlude in which Star Man has to pass on destroying their space station because of the inevitable meteor shower, but then we get on to the idea of alien agents on Earth and the story proper starts up.  So for once, the narrator doesn't outstay his welcome.

Besides the whole actual budget thing, the other way in which Attack from Space surprises is by making a fairly superficial but apparently sincere attempt to be feminist.  This is the first Star Man film in which we've seen women among the aliens. The, er, Cyberians?  Are a mix of stiff Japanese extras and a few very embarrassed white guys whose lip movements suggest they're speaking English but saying something totally different from the lines that have been dubbed overtop.  The women we see appear to do desk work and monitor radio signals, kind of like Uhura on Star Trek, but it seems they can also serve as security guards, since Dr. Yamanaka's teenage daughter manages to pass as a guard just by stealing a, uh, Spherian? Uniform.

Yamanaka's daughter (according to IMDB her name is Kaoru... I think the narrator might have identified her as such but the name is never used again) is actually one of the most skilled and proactive of the human characters.  She's not the one who comes up with the escape plan (her father's assistant, who was given a name but I can't remember it, did that) but she is essential to its execution and to the eventual positive outcome.  In the final fight she makes a noble effort to save herself and actually manages to hold off the attacking, uh... Sumerians?  Long enough for Star Man to get to her. It's not the same as giving her a personality but it is definitely something, especially in a genre that's usually so relentlessly male.

But as with the other films in the series, most of Attack from Space is just a relentless parade of what the fuck.  There are fight scenes set to circus music.  The, um... Submarines?  They have two different uniforms – the 'rocket ship' version is a standard Japanese Alien silver baked potato jumpsuit, while the 'formal' one is just a re-used Nazi uniform, complete with heil Hitler salute!  There's a 'Death Star' but it's just a planet where the rocks are on fire.  There's a bit where they throw a dude over the side of the space station.  Are we meant to think he just floats around in space forever, or does he fall to earth in a fireball like what happened when Mike dropped the Hubble Space Telescope?!

The two space stations are plastic model kit wheels barely better than their counterparts in Rocky Jones, Space Ranger! and don't stand up to anything like the amount of scrutiny the camera subjects them to.  When Star Man tears one apart with his bare hands, it doesn't look remotely like a feat of strength – it just looks like a dude ripping apart a structure made out of wire coat hangers. Outer space is very windy and surprisingly breathable.  If it were just the, uh, Siberians?  Who stand around on the outside of their space stations unaffected, I might buy that, but humans do it too. Either way, it was nice of Star Man to politely shut the airlock door behind him after he busted his way in.

The fight scenes are delightfully silly – badly choreographed, badly executed, and badly shot, and because of it utterly hilarious. There's not a single punch that looks like it lands.  The best bit in the whole movie is when Star Man kicks a guy up the stairs with the power of reversed film (this is the obvious choice for a MST3K stinger)!  On the other hand, there are also some rather surprising bits where Star Man picks up a gun and shoots some aliens, which seems very un-superheroish of him.

The movie's scientist, Dr. Yamanaka, lives in a bunker on an island and wears a lab coat all the time.  This is explained as being because of his work in rocketry, which is top-secret and dangerous and therefore must be kept away from population centres and the employees well-protected... but it's such a mad scientist trope that it's still a bit of a surprise that he's never revealed as working for the, um, Sulfurians?  The whole time.

I don't know if it's worth it to try any sort of actual analysis on the Star Man series as a whole, but I do want to note that out of four movies, three of them involve a threat to the Earth that comes not from humanity, but from an outside force.  The Salamander Men, Ballazar's Brain, and the... um... Sirenians?  Are all alien creatures that want to take over the Earth as the first step to a greater series of conquests.  In Invasion from Space we were told that Earth is 'the richest planet in the galaxy' but this idea doesn't come up in any of the other movies.  So why do all these would-be galaxy-conquerors want to start with little old us?

Well, there's the obvious fact that we wouldn't have a comprehensible movie if they didn't, but let's look for a reason in the universe of the stories.  One might be tempted to speculate that it's because Earth is easy to conquer by the standards of these spaceship-building, atomic-weapon-mastering, sorcerer-summoning aliens, but that may be a premature conclusion.  All these beings seem to have heard of Star Man, after all, and if they've been keeping up with his adventures as we have (which we clearly have, as Star Man is allowed to address the UN at one point) then they must know the Earth is under his protection.  There must be something else that makes the Earth special.  What is it, exactly, that we're rich in?  It can't be minerals, because none of the aliens are ever seen mining.

Considering that both the, uh... Shakespeareans?  And Ballazar's Brain are seen to have Earthling scientists working for them, I would humbly speculate that what Earth is rich in... is humans!  In Atomic Rulers, the human Magolians (or whoever they were) were able to figure out how to blow up the planet all by themselves, which is something none of these aliens ever even tried! Dr. Kurokawa and his brother of Evil Brain from Outer Space were somehow essential to the invasion plan, even though we never really found out what was up with that.  In Attack from Space, the aliens kidnap and brainwash Dr. Yamanaka and his family to build spaceship engines for them.  They never say they couldn't have done that on their own, but they don't seem very interested in trying.

Maybe this is why the Emerald Men (at least I can tell what their name is) think they need to keep sending Star Man to Earth.  Humans are a resource that needs to be nurtured, not conquered, and someday we can help the entire galaxy to advance!  Or is it more sinister than that?  Do humans need to be kept isolated and protected, so that nobody – including us – can use our remarkable brainpower for evil?  We are very good at evil.  With the right tools, we could be an unstoppable force even greater than that of the... Saggitarians?  Even Star Man would be unable to stand in our way!

I dunno about you guys, but that makes me feel pretty special.

[channoticedmeuwu]

Bloom | Chapter 20 : No Way Out

Pairing : kim doyoung x fem!reader

Genre : fluff, angst, arranged marriage au!, CEO doyoung! au

Started : 28.10.20

Finished : 18.12.20

Warnings : none aHAH I am superior :>

A/n : hello hello hIIIII. Sorry, whoops, I just randomly thought of this scene and wanted to upload it. It's so so so so sOOO FLUFFY AAAA but I'm so sorry this is so short :((( enjoy!!!

prev | next

bloom : masterlist

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

Doyoung yawned, leaning against the door frame of the kitchen as he watched Y/n sizzling something on a pan. The sunlight gleamed from the windows into the kitchen, shining off the silver metal. He saw his phone placed on the kitchen counter.

"Hey," he tried not to sound sleepy.

She turned her head around, and then smiled, "Good morning to you too. Well, afternoon, almost, but you get the point."

He chuckled, seating himself on a chair at the counter, watching her cut something on the cutting board.

"How did you sleep?"

"Pretty well," he yawned again, "but I'm still tired."

"Oh, happens when you sleep too less or too much."

"We came home at...what? 2AM? 3AM?"

"I think."

His phone rang, and he pushed it away, putting his head down and whined, "Y/n~ be a good princess and answer my phone for me? It's probably some business partner, apologizing for not coming yesterday, blah, blah. Just say I'm in the shower."

She hummed in response, picked up his phone and dug her fingers into his hair with her other hand, twirling it around in her finger, causing him to giggle.

"Hello?"

He listened to what she was saying silently.

"Mr. Kim? Oh, I'm sorry, he's not here right now."

He smiled.

"Where is he? He's in the shower."

He clicked his tongue. He's going to have to thank her later.

"Who am I? I'm his wife."

Silence.

"Wait, I'm sorry, excuse me?"

He raised an eyebrow, raising his head up sleepily.

"But, see, who are you to say that? Who is this speaking, may I ask?"

His eyes shot open. Could it be the same person who constantly calls him to break it off with Y/n? He tried to snatch the phone out of her hand, but she kept a hand between them.

"No wonder he comes home stressed all day. Hey, do us a favor, would you, my dear lad? Never call this number again. Yes, that's an order. Yes. Alright, have a nice day."

She slammed his phone on the table, pursing her lips as she crossed her hands, her foot tapping the ground, and he flinched.

"Who is this?" She gestured towards his phone.

"Um..." He bit his lip. What should he say?"

"Oh, God, Doyoung." She sighed, pressing her fingers between her eyes, "I mean, this? Really? The guy tried to blackmail me. And you've been picking up his calls, what, how many times? Do you think you'll be ok with the amount of threats he gives!?"

"Y/n," he pulled her down and sat her next to him, "First of all, calm down. I'm a person who's the son of someone who owns a big company. Getting these sort of blackmailing calls are normal for me. So don't stress."

"No, I will stress," she shook her head, "What do you mean don't stress? What if they know your location? How am I not supposed to stress? What if you go out one day and they just-"

"Hey, hey," he held her by the shoulders, "Relax. Alright? I didn't tell you because I knew you'd stress like this. I'm handling it, alright? I know what I'm doing."

"Doyoung, but you're careless," her eyes seemed to fog with anger, "You know this. You fall asleep on your desk and you regularly place your plates in the fridge instead of the sink because you're too lost in thought. How am I not supposed to worry?"

Her concern brought an unintentional smile to his face. He ran his hand through her hair as she stared at him, judging.

"See? You're not even listening now. God, you'll make me age with such worry. And you're smiling. I told you to listen to me, but noO. Doyoung? Stop playing around!"

He couldn't stop smiling. She cared for him. She was worried about him. Him. He wanted to hug her forever.

"Please don't worry, princess. I'll be alright. It'll be ok."

"But what if you have to lea-"

"I won't ever leave you. Alright?"

She didn't say anything. She just looked at his face, and for once, he saw her eyes shake with fear. His arms had a surge of energy to wrap around her and pull her away from any harm in the world.

"You're scared of my leaving, right, Y/n? I'm not going to do that. Why would I leave a diamond for some stone?"

"But...you never know what happens when people talk wrong stuff to you."

"Look, if I ever even speak of leaving you, give me a slap across my face and say "You promised, Doyoung!!!""

"Doyoung." She crossed her hands, trying not to smile, "That's not very nice."

"I deserve it for saying I'll leave you."

She scoffed and looked down. Then, in a whisper, she laced her fingers in his.

"I won't leave you either."

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

tags : @grassywoozi @hamaigad @stopitvpls @ruthiechanumon @jaeshatshop @guerillrah

send a dm or an ask to be in the taglist ;)))))

have a cozy shmozy day, everyone!!

[moontheoretist]

Notes from tie-in MCU comics:

Part 1:

[DISCLAIMER: I was making those notes without actually writing down from which comic they come from, so now I am... well... confused about the proper placement of them, but I tried to discern them anyway.]

CAPTAIN AMERICA THE FIRST AVENGER:

Lol, Zola was developing exo-skeleton looking like Iron Man suit and Vanko's suit in 1934. I kind of think part of Steve's dislike of Iron Man was because of that exo-suit. Also, Steve just saved the guy in a suit.

"The chain is only as strong as its weakest link" said twice to Steve, once by military doctor and second by Schmidt.

Poor Erskine, his family was taken as hostages.

Howards says "carefully open the casing". Steve does smash instead.

Oh no, Red Skull said that weapon can always be taken from you so you have to become the weapon. It echoes the sentiment behind the creation of Iron Man too closely.

Lol, Roosevelt ASKED for Howard PERSONALLY.

"Car is bulletproof!" "and a convertible!" is a funny joke xD

Lol he has bulletproof car because of cigarette's girls angry boyfriends.

Ok, so Howard joined SSR because he HAD BEST FUN IN MONTHS.

Howard has rockets in car and "leaves best toys for himself".

First Steve saves a Nazi from a tank, now he obliterates them with said tank. Pick a side, Steve. I know guy in the armor was helpless, but c'mon. You either don't kill or kill. You cannot just willy nilly choose. BTW does it echo saving Iron Man or smth?

Call back to floating car by a joke about floating tank.

Aw, no, Erskine's family died in concentration camp from typhus. (Those camps were awful, but are not shown in the comics. You better believe that they weren’t very nice places to live even without being overworked and killed by the Nazis).

Oh no, Bucky was nearly killed by SSman! But Howling Commandos stopped him.

Bucky doesn't like his name lol. Also no Jimmy nickname for this guy.

Ok so Howard Stark was based on Hughes and Tony was based on someone Howard hated - Oppenheimer.

Ok, now Phillips made a foreshadowing for Cradle in the AoU. It even looks similar to Project Rebirth.

Oho my theory that Erskine heard Bucky talk to Steve and that doctor knew Steve lied is proved in this comics. They knew, they had a file on him and Erskine just picked him, saving his stupid ass from consequences.

Cap just threw a knife.

IRON MAN 2:

In the comics it looks more as if Obadiah sold Vanko instead of Howard, because Howard looks so surprised at what Vanko did, that it is impossible to assume that he was the one who sent the agents after Vanko. He looks surprised at the whole incident, Vanko betraying him and agents being there to apprehend him. One agent acts as if it was Howard's idea all along, but that line could be also read as just informing a bystander that they will deal with the issue instead.

Tony projected a drone which could clean whole desert full of mines with 100% accuracy and 0% detonation.

Also comics confirm that Tony cannot even have 12h break without Howard coming at him and demanding him to work when he is just a goddamn teenager.

Tony was just fighting for 19h, got a shower and has to go out again.

"If I hear of another innocent being put in a harm's way just to advance some pointless military agenda... there will be consequences" sounds like call back to Hulk.

Hm, Tony made 12 people work on one job? Also Natasha hates being called Nat and she drugged Samantha (the actual PA which applied for Stark Industries) to take her place.

 [As of now those comics confirmed to me that Captain America joined army out of selfish reasons and that Tony was overworking himself as Iron Man and when he wasn't he was either partying, probably to relax in that way, or making new tech which saves lives.]

Lol, Coulson was so excited to look for Captain. Nick even made a joke about finding his fav action figure.

Lol, World Security Council wanted to get Tony's weapons and nearly fired Fury for trying to make Avengers.

Fury is like Tony. He hates his superiors. He will do as they say but won't stop doing what he does.

Lol, Fury got a call Tony will be dead and he jumped out of his goddamn bed asap.

Fury was actively stopping Stern from getting Iron Man by scheduling his meeting with Department of Defense "when Stern is busy" xD

Lol Fury says no to Ross before he hears what he wants. This is so funny.

Ok, so Fury got Lithium Dioxide for Tony, asked if it could be made into permanent cure, how sweet of him, but also learned that it could INSTANTLY KILL HIM instead and still made Natasha basically inject Tony with it WITHOUT CONSENT! So I dunno if he really cared about him when he asked about permanent cure or it was just more optimal for his plans. Also he got the cure during Tony's and Rhodey's battle at the mansion, so we cannot say he had a cure and didn't give it right away when he could.

"Don't blow your cover unless Stark is going to kill himself". Hm. So he wants him alive.

And yeah, he ordered Natasha to stick him with lithium dioxide when he distracted him.

Lol, Fury yelled at Coulson for letting Tony leave the mansion xD

THOR??? (I got lost in my notes, I didn’t write which comic was which)

LOL CLINT CANNOT EVEN TAKE VACATION. Also the speed with which he responded to possible alien crashsite, epic. He jumped and went as if it was Christmas, aww Clint.

Why Clint is giving money back to some store which suffered due to their operation? I mean it was nice and all, but who will give the money back to Clint? Fury?

So it was Hawkeye's idea to let Thor loose.

In the meantime Loki was on scene and tried to get Mjolnir but it didn't respond.

AVENGERS PRELUDE:

Oho, poor Fury, didn't sleep in a few days.

Oho, Fury yelled at Natasha.

"Do not let Ross take Banner, dead or alive". How cute of you, Nick, to confirm that you do not care.

Blonsky is suicidal. Going at Hulk and kicking him in the face? That's a death wish.

Ah so Blonsky is enhanced.

Hahaha, joke about lifting a hammer but applied to the Asgardian sentinel, lol.

Ross literally accessed SHIELD databases.

Natasha was raised in Stalingrad lol.

After seeing Hulk, Abomination and The Leader Natasha finally says it is too much to handle for SHIELD.

Oho, so making Tony finish Howard's project was an objective, not saving his life. He wanted it for Tesseract.

I dunno if he is lying or really was doing this whole shit for the Tesseract. Also points for sticking in WSC's face that Ross nearly destroyed New York thanks to them.

Shield has whiplash suit and it's arc reactor!

THEY ACTIVATED THE SENTINEL AND THEN THEY WANT TO DISMANTLE IT AND MAKE DOZENS SMALL ONES!

Huh, implication that Natasha may beat the whole bunker of SHIELD agents up, because they're men, lol.

So Selvig used the element Stark invented to kick-start the Tesseract after all.

"Good for a laugh from time to time" lol. Clint the comedian.

Why that machine holding a Tesseract looks like Arc Reactor?

Huh so Selvig was Loki and he made a comment about Tony being strange for "badassium".

BLACK WIDOW BACKGROUND IN ONE OF THE COMICS, DUNNO WHICH:

Natasha talks about her cover personalities like vtubers about their avatars.

Fjodorov knows something about stolen bootleg technology of Tony Stark which he managed to acquire?

Natasha really likes narrating her story. Time slows when you have a training? Like roller coaster on first ridge?

"With some small regret, I bid farewell to Tatiana. She's outlived her usefulness" thinks Natasha after she took off her wig and no longer plays Tatiana. "If she were real. She'd be dead". "It's nice though, to pretend while it lasts... that I was ever as innocent as her".

Natasha really likes playing those roles.

Haha, Natasha holds one mission over Coulson's head forever even though he never failed as her control again.

"Part of the reason why I am so good at the undercover work is that I actually like being other people. There is a lot I've done that I regret. When I leave that other identity behind, whether I slip out from underneath it voluntarily or it's ripped away from my grasp, it always hits me like a shock. Like being awakened from a deep sleep, back to who I really am". "It's good to be home". Is she speaking about her slip into Black Widow again as home or is she referring to Russia?

Natasha left a guy dangling from a building and said it could be worse, he could be naked.

"Good man" says Natasha as if she was training guys to obey her will.

Oho, Natasha is interested in someone who wants to be her.

Also she is narrating that police in Russia would not suspect Tatiana to be so resourceful.

Natasha wants to save that girl from herself, because nobody did that for her when she was in the same position.

I mean, Natasha killed some people that day already so I don't get the point of her not killing those guys and saying that she changed, when in the club she killed a few of the goons already and later too. Where is the point of her change if she kills anyway? What is this change about Black Widow - Natasha Romanoff if she kills people but just not always? She cannot claim to change for the better just because she didn't kill two goons. And Sofia should see that not killing all of them doesn't mean she doesn't kill at all. But I guess leaving so many alive still counts for Sofia as Natasha going soft.

Coulson, you idiot, I am happy you came to save Natasha, but Sofia thought those guys were Natasha's back up. It all wouldn't happen if not for you making them appear there. You fucked up everything for Natasha, Coulson.

Uh, Natasha has the same weird shtick Tony does. She blames herself for the decision of her superior? Yeah, she enabled him to make that decision, but it was still his decision to send those men to find Natasha, so their death is on him, not on Natasha.

Huh, so Natasha's model persona Konn feels empty when nobody looks at her, because her whole life was being the centre of attention? It's kind of sexist cover.

She is a hand model and this guy is disgusting. Natasha I agree with those YUCK.

Natasha doing tehee is so weird.

Also playing a "he sent me here so hours would fly by" is so gross, but inner Natasha voice says nothing yet.

Lol the guy just assumed she is stupid, because she made tehee sounds. Like, goddammit, men are so easy to fool. Condescending little creep indeed.

Ok, so Natasha doesn't have any computer knowledge to say what those lines of code are, but she knows Stark can.

Ugh, Natasha, that line about telling his friends that they did something he imagines is so not feminist of you. It just enables creeps like that to objectify women more and treat them like idiots and fucktoys.

Sofia killed the agent even when Natasha gave her what she wanted.

Natasha wants to save lives and often fails at it too.

She jumped off the yacht to save the guy even though she knew he is dead? I mean shot in the head usually means instant death.

She doesn't get lines of code but can upload tracking device on it. Good. Also she wanna kill Sofia now.

"When I go in for the kill, there's no one I'd rather be than who I really am".

Ah so they had a targeting software for the copy of the Jericho missile manufactured by Hammer.

So they were moving Jericho in parts around the world. They should be happy Tony didn't notice. (Because then they would all just go boom and be dead lol).

"Berserk bots a girl's best friends!"

Frampton wants to have space tourism.

Ten Rings again.

Why Frampton wants to strike Korean DMZ?

Aha, global destabilisation for Ten Rings, gotcha.

Oho, so the info about Natasha busting the trafficking ring comes back. It turns out she accidentally trapped the girls inside when she busted the place. She basically says she didn't know they were there but even if she did she wasn't nice back then.

So Natasha says that Sofia was more her than she ever was, meaning the Black Widow, meaning that Natasha always had softness in her which Sofia didn't have and that Sofia got her just reward for wanting to be the perfect Black Widow.

Still sexist move to make a victim of sex trafficking ring become a morally corrupt murderer who would destabilise world for free if she could, but does that for money, because money is nice addition to her new hobby of fucking humanity up.

"Some people are not worth saving" Not so long ago plenty would say that about me".

AVENGERS:

Oho Stark Tower is the first fully clean-energy powered skyscraper.

Pepper thinks inside the box and Tony thinks outside the box.

Oh, so Tony still says that Rhodey had stolen the suit, but then he admits that it could give him heart attack, because it was not calibrated for him, so I wonder if he really wanted Rhodey to have it or never wanted Rhodey to have it at all.

"I got them to agree that all starktech remains proprietary to you as long as War Machine is on loan to the department of defense".

Lol wow, War Machine was an insult? Anyway he means that Rhodey won't be using Mark II because Tony has new suit for him.

"I am not Iron Man" people yell Iron Man at Rhodey "Ah, forget it" xD

How is Tony saying that he couldn't find anything to go after Gulmira when he was literally busting Ten Rings in Iron Man 2 tie-in comic?

Hahaha, Rhodey wanna get a publicist so people would recognise he is War Machine, not Iron Man.

Rhodey is so vicious. "I could have taken your hand with it but not doing it is more fun".

Oho so Tony THREE MONTHS after Tony was putting S on Stark Tower there is Battle of New York and Rhodey is in Hong Kong.

Incoming call: Martini, seriously? You call Tony MARTINI?

Also for some reason this Tony has blue eyes.

Rhodey is so cocky lol. "I haven't seen anything that can take me down".

"When am i gonna learn to keep my mouth shut?" xDDD Rhodey cursed himself.

So after Iron Man 2 Tony realised that he couldn't be iron solder alone anymore and made Rhodey an armor? Still, trust was a huge factor here.

Lol did he just make a joke about being so beat up as after clubbing with Tony to a commanding officer? Rhodey, you vicious little shit lol xD

"Battle tank that's about to make me street pizza! But only if I stand and take it, which I have never done in my life". That's useful info. It gives me some insight into who was protecting who at MIT. Rhodey never was taking a crap of other people, so he probably was used to fighting bullies. And I can imagine him standing up to bullies who targeted a kid - Tony Stark.

Rhodey chooses to fight smarts with smarts.

DID HE JUST MAKE HIS WAY OF LANDING A FRIGGIN MISSILE STYLE? XD

His commander asks if he is crazy. He definitely friggin is lol.

Rhodey just gave his superior a scare when he let a tank run him over. They thought he died.

OMG Ten Rings assumed War Machine is easier target to get tech from and Rhodey feels offended, but happy they know who he is.

Rings had stark tech in that tank, oh no. Tony will be pissed even if those are old black market stuff.

AWWW RHODEY WAS WORRIED ABOUT TONY WHEN HE DIDN'T RESPOND!

"Don't do this to me, man". "Holy...! That was SOME situation" says Rhodey when he saw chitauri flying whale dead. Ok so Avengers met Rhodey in that shawarma place.

Pepper decorates according to feng shui?

So Ten Rings scanned Rhodey's armor with any scanner available and collected a lot of data on the armor anyway.

[mc-critical]

Okay, but on the topic of odd story lines for Mahidevran...what did you make of her spending when head of the harem? I could get it to a certain extent because, of course, after being so overlooked she'd want to shower both her and her son in what was once theirs, but it was also a trait that had just been shown before and seemed super confusing as a result.

I think it made both narrative and thematic sense for the state Mahidevran was in and for the character arc she had to undergo.

It's kinda ironic, because if this were two and a half years ago, I would've ranted for the exact same thing - this arc had interesting stuff that either never had the chance to come up before, either came earlier just in very small doses, like Mahidevran's spending, Gülfem all of the sudden standing on her feet and starting to demand the respect she deserves and Hürrem being a harder version of her over the top self in S03 and placing in action such luxuriously well thought out, even contradictory (in terms of Valide) schemes that she never had before and didn't ever again since then; it looks as if these things were created or upped to eleven, specifically for this portion of the series, where they could just fill their purpose and never come back again. I had a problem with this, because what came out of it seemed to only be the hardening of characters just for the sake of convenience and the plot taking a far more bizarre and ruthless turn than everything the show had ever put out by this point, just for an arc, no less.

However, upon analyzing and rewatching, I came to appreciate everything this arc did, honestly, writing-wise it's such a delight. I feel this is the batch of episodes where the show took most risks in terms of the status quo, did interesting decisions, to say the least, and while doing so, it served the purpose of both lending a conflict for the season finale to fit its dramatic twisty soap opera needs, and presenting coherence for the theme and character development of the season - every plot thread that was built up finally paid off and Mahidevran ruling the harem, together with Gülfem, was shown as the last straw of the traditions Hürrem had to break or in this case, fight with, throughout the season, a chance was presented for her to get rid of all her enemies with their own failings and clear her way of the disadvantagous traditions for one last time. (as presented by her last encounter with Valide, which thematically and conveniently forgot everything that happened between them post-E55 and rather focused on being the last straw for Valide, symbolically burning the bridges between Hürrem and the rules Valide was a collective character for, forever.)

Mahidevran spending and wasting so much money on all these material and esthetic expenses makes sense, precisely because of the narrative purpose of Mahidevran ruling the harem - it was supposed to be the peak of that long and then ever going S02B arc of her reveling in power, the power that her status as a mother of the grown Mustafa, gives her. When she got exactly what she wanted, even the smallest, inevitable (because of the weird laws in-show, of course) grasp, the very thing she craved ever since she went back from Edirne and the very thing she capitalized on in episode 55 and then claimed as a mistake three episodes later, she took it for granted, as an obvious, easy win. She began to truly act as the Valide of the Palace, but not with the responsibility of it, rather with the wrong power that comes from it. She thought she was unstoppable, that she could do whatever she wanted and noone would stop her, because she rules over them now and if someone tries, so what, she has Ibrahim to count on! And Mahidevran wanted to demonstrate this (temporary) superiority aesthetic-wise, as well, putting herself (and Mustafa) in center stage, buying him so many kaftans for the sanjack; making the whole harem and castle in her image, for she bought golden plates and wanted to build her own hammam (as far as I recall?); perhaps wanting to be noticed for the changes she had made, because it is her time now and she could freely drown in her own desire for revenge and apply her own prejudices, regardless. (with her bying many dresses for the concubines in the harem that weren't in any way associated with Hürrem.)

[And while this is more of a theory of mine than it is an interpretation, I think that all the fancy dresses and crowns she put on during this period, were also quite a part of this spending and as such, even though it wasn't shown as explicitly before, it represents even more the very critical peak of her own descent into the ego-inflated abyss. She has always cared about her appearance, with the many scenes of her looking herself in the mirror and putting jewelry on, claiming to Mustafa that Topkapı is encrusted in diamonds in E01 etc. and these episodes upped it to eleven and put it to its logical extreme, Mahidevran is now above them all, so she might as well show it with all the dresses and crowns. (we even have Hürrem mocking her for it once in a scene in the hammam during the Isabella arc, then in E62 for why she cares so much when she sleeps alone in her bed and that one, despite of the outdated implication since she no longer loves SS, really hits home how pettily low Mahidevran has sunk.) ]

We should also keep in mind that her entire S02B arc was a series of failures. And the ruling of the harem, as the last stop, should show her fail terribly and hard, and the writers picked the spending to do the job. On one hand, I get why it seems odd to you, as well because E55 made her fall much bigger and scarier, there she was absolutely terrifying, with all the things she could and would do, they mattered much more. And the whole ruling the harem fiasco and the spending only look like a contrast, as a result, because.. she's spending the country's money, yes, but she's spending it due to her wounded pride and out of sheer pettiness, to toot her own horn, to make it clear to everyone out there, but especially to Hürrem, that she's won and they've lost. It all looks like more as a an outward addition of what E55 presented us, more of an downgrade than an upgrade. Instead of making her do something even more dangerous on a massive scale, we have her ego dominate everything on such a trivial way where she can't do as much damage. But on the other hand, the spending is a result of all of Mahidevran's character flaws empowering themselves in this arc, that render her to do stupid or unnecessary ruthless things and carelessly spend all this money, that she let herself be deceived by Iskender Celebi and Hürrem take the advantage.

It was, in a way, very psychological, to fulfill all of her missing needs and probably let her feel worth something. And it truly was presented as her biggest failing that, even if it wasn't as serious and crucial as E55 and it certainly was unexpected and bizarre, since it escalated very quickly, it was a logical last step and in general, I'm satisfied.

[imnotwolverine]

The Monster’s Lair - Bloody Affairs

Vampire!Henry x Belle - multi-chapter

< Chap 1 | Chapter 2 - Bloody Affairs | Chap 3 >

Disclaimer: Dark adult fairytale - injury, man hunt, skin burns 

Author’s note: Before I write my long fics I usually gather a number of things to inspire me, including poems, movies, imagery and music. Music! I thought it’d be nice to share the playlist I made for this long fic as well. In case you, the reader, would like my tunes to enjoy while reading. Also, I’ll add specific songs per chapter, to kind of “set the mood”. I hope you sweethearts enjoy this chapter, and have a lovely Wednesday!

Also. Hello 500 followers! That’s like a small village!! HOLY DAMN! 

Word count: 2.374

Reading music: Teho Teardo & Blixa Bargeld - The Beast

(Link to my Masterlist)

--

A glow. 

Was the sun rising already? With a deep frown etched on his beautiful face the monster watched the glow grow in strength, setting alight the centre of the old town. Oh no, that was no sun, it was a fire! Fire! 

Opening the french doors out to the upper terrace, he stormed out into the equally stormy weather, his eyes widened as he peered into the distance, seeing what was amiss. 

It was with his sensitive, monster-like retina that he could pick up even the tiniest of detail in a mile wide radius, like a hawk in flight. And so he watched and listened, his ears pricking as he came to the bitter conclusion that it wasn’t just a simple fire. It was hell. 

From the blazing flames he could hear the screams, desperate panicked screams, that belonged to people who couldn’t seem to escape from the certain death that was awaiting them.

The monster panicked in turn, his eyes flitting over his attire. He was too visible like this, too easily recognisable. With the fire roaring he needed more than the shade of night to hide himself from the people’s curious eyes. If anything, he didn’t want them to know who he was, or what he was. And so, with great haste, he rushed inside, picking out a large cloak that flew out behind him like a bat’s wing, large, impending and cloud-like, the heavy fabric flapping in the angry wind that flowed with him down the pine tree covered hills.

It was an advantage of his disposition, that he had such strength and speed.

Far superior to all creatures and men around, he could move faster than a hundred horses combined and rip apart logs like they were sheets of the thinnest paper. And, in this situation, it was exactly what was needed, the flames lapping around the town’s houses and church with great hunger. The old wood structures were no match - or in fact a literal match - to the doom that was impending.

Arriving at the scene, hidden in the mask of darkness, he watched. Strange. There were barely any people, most rushing out to fetch help or water. It was clear as day that someone needed to help them, NOW. And so he did. 

With careful steps he moved out into the flickering light of the flames that cast an eerie orange glow over the town square, people so busy rushing that they did not notice him. The screams were so loud they were nearly painful in his sensitive ears, and yet he didn’t back away.

Pulling his cape further over his head, making sure he remained turned with the wind so his face wouldn’t show, he rushed to one of the houses where the most desperate of cries came from.

In the sea of flames he noticed that the door had been barricaded by a fallen down floor, making it impossible for the woman and children inside to flee. Restless wails and pained cries was all he heard as he stormed into the fire like it was nothing, his flesh not feeling pain like humans do, his clothes melting around his limbs like a second skin as the flames licked, willing him to surrender.

But there was no surrender for the beast.

With mighty strength, a growl thundering through his large chest, he pushed aside the blockade, his claw-like hands instinctively reaching for the family inside, their eyes squinting in the biting heat of the blaze.

‘COME.’ He boomed, his voice so loud that the people outside could swear they heard a thunder crack in the restless skies above. And, as the family wasn’t moving, frozen in fear as they looked straight into his face, he stepped further into the flames, practically dragging the three children and their shivering mother out by their neck hair, shocked little wails flying from their gasping mouths as they were now suddenly back outside. Almost entirely unharmed.

‘THE BEAST!’ A villager screamed, pointing at the dark figure that stood out in the flames, his clothes ablaze but his stature calm. More villagers joined, turning around from their busiment to fetch water, large eyes looking in shock as they saw that poor mother with three children, tugged along by the dark creature that had risen from the flames.

‘KILL HIM!’ The crowd roared atop the loud wicker of the crying fire, women and wind. And with that, the mother managed to free herself with a panicked tug from the monster’s grasp, heavy billowing tears over her cheeks as she reached back out for her children, the monster letting them go without a fight, his gleaming eyes looking back over the crowd and seeing pitchforks being gathered.

Had he not done good? Was this his penance, to forever be hated so? With a frustrated sigh he fled the scene, the flames that still licked his body dying as he rushed with great speed up the long path that led back to his domains. And as he ran, nearly flying with the wind in his face, arms shielding himself from being seen, the skies started to cry for him.

And how they cried.

At first the rainwater was but a light spray of slow and meager drops, but as he ran further and further from the village, the larger and more desperate the showers came down, drowning with it the last of the sounds of uproar that he had left behind him.

‘Please...Belle..’ A soft voice alarmed him that someone was near, feeble and beaten down in the ditch that was now quickly becoming muddy. The monster hesitated, his flight coming to a halt as he watched the crumpled down man that sat there. Belle’s father.

Looking back over his shoulder, he saw the angry mob coming into view. Afoot and on horse, ready to chase him down even if it would be the death of them - which it likely would be might the situation truly escalate as quickly as those flames now ate up the town square.  

ARGH! How could it be so, that despite his best efforts, he just couldn’t do good? With a desperation in his still beating heart he left the poor man behind, continuing his flight back to the safety of his monsterly lair, where he’d lick his wounds. Some hurting, others mere burned flesh and tender sinew.

--

‘Come Phelippe! No horsing around now.’ Belle grumbled, eyeing the stubborn horse who shook his head in disagreement, his manes flying majestically in the stormy wind, the dark of night swallowing the large fields around them.

‘No? No?! Come on! It’s about to rain!’ She exclaimed, raising her hands in defeat as the dark bay nickered. ‘Well, very well then! I’m off. You stay there!’ She started to walk away, her torch bleeding flames as the wind whipped harshly around her, her braided hair becoming damp as the first spray of water droplets leaked from the roaring skies.

It was then the horse finally gave in, hesitant hooves following her until she felt his warm nose press into her shoulder. ‘Oh! And now you are..-’ Her smile died on her lips as she saw an orange glow appear in the far distance, the glow bright and evil looking in the unblinking dark. The village. Gasping quietly, her feet falling back to join the large horse, she tangled her fingers into its mane, hoping it would sooth her sudden disquieted mind.

Wait..was that the town hall? Was papa alright?!

--

Stay home, Belle. Stay home.

Her father had been adamant on her not sneaking out tonight - especially with the beast on the loose. Belle had begrudgingly given her consent, taking the task upon her to watch over the horses as her father was out in the town hall. And so here she stood, her hands gripping large wads of hay as she moved over the thick brown coat of the mare, rubbing down sweat, mud and rain. She had used the horse to fetch the string of other horses that had been in the back of the field, the storm now quickly gaining strength. With the horses safe and sound inside the stables, she couldn’t help but wonder what her father was up to, her eyes looking at the open barn doors that rattled nervously in the fierce wind.

Outside she saw the rain as it poured, finally, small streams of water running down the path that linked the village to the mansion of the Les Comtes.

Perhaps he was helping with the fire or perhaps the town hall meeting ran late, she thought, warily watching the darkness outside. It wasn’t very much like her father to leave her out and alone so late at night. Never. From her very first memory, father was always closeby, ever protective, though also trying his best to give her what freedom she desired to bloom into the 20-year old woman she had now grown out to be.

Old. Ha! Yes, some town folk had started saying she was old now, and if not careful no man would want her hand in marriage. She’d become an old spinster, like Miss Guinee that lived at the other edge of town in the tiniest of cots, her cough so bad that people had set bets on when she’d pass on.

But alas. Miss Guinee was a tough cookie. And so was Belle. She was most definitely not going to settle for less than..

A figure passed by. Hurried, hidden in a long shredded to pieces cloak that swished wide and wing-like behind him. Papa? Oh, he and his poor eyesight were really going to bring him in some type of trouble someday. With hastened paces she rushed to the door opening, calling for the figure as he rushed further and further up the path.

In the half dark and rain she could see him turn, a pale face catching a glimpse of the lights inside the barn. It wasn’t her father. In fact she wasn’t sure who this was. A man. And then he disappeared. Quite literally disappeared. In the blink of an eye the silhouette of the man vanished into thin air, leaving Belle quite perplexed before her attention was pulled to an uproar down wind. An angry mob approaching.

Flickering torches, angry fists, raised pitchforks, the rain around them coming down heavy from the night’s sky, it was obvious that the townsfolk were on the hunt. First in line being the Old Master’s son Ismael.

‘Belle.’ He called, halting his grey steed besides the beauty who still stood there in the door opening, just outside of the rain. He offered her a self-confident smirk from the dark of his hood, the stable lights shining on his handsome, square jawed face.

‘Sir Le Comte.’ She said, not all impressed by his haughty behaviour, her doe-like eyes instead looking out at the madding crowd that was coming closer on foot.

‘Oh, Ismael to you, dear Belle.’ He smiled, before realising she was not watching him, but the townsfolk that were nearing. ‘Say Belle, please do not tell me you are left to fend for yourself! No lady should befall such a faith!’ He said with a false tone of care, making Belle sniffle in bemusement.

‘And you are here to save me with your ..mad crowd?’ She eyed the farmers, butchers and bakers that now joined the two of them, surrounding Ismael and his trusty steed. All huddled away in heavy wet cloaks, torches in hand. 

Belle clutched her shawl around her chest, shivering in the suddenly rather cold wind and splash of water that blew inside the barn opening. The people looked enraged.  

‘Tis in fact the beast, we have seen!’ One of the villagers roared.

‘The beast?’ Belle looked back at Ismael, confused, the man shrugging as if it left him unaffected, not in the least bit worried - ever the hero, huh?

‘Indeed. Have you seen any odd beings roam about the stables, by any chance? And where is your father anyw-?’  -  ‘You mean you have not seen my father?’ Belle interrupted, her eyes flicking back to study the faces that glimmered in the torch lights. Angry, bewildered people. Familiar faces. But none resembling her father.

Where was he?

‘Belle..oh Belle!’ Ismael exclaimed with an exasperated sigh, coming down from his horse and stretching out his hand to cup her cheek with his wet, gloved hand. ‘Now, please know that I will personally keep you safe, if must be. That old man..’ He huffed. ‘..is clearly quite inapt for the job.’

‘You have not seen father..’ Belle gasped, then ducked away from Ismael’s hand to walk into the crowd, into the rain, calling for Arthur, but failing midway as Ismael grasped her wrist just a bit too tightly, spinning her back around.

‘Say now Belle. You have not answered my question, darling dear.’

Belle frowned and looked back at Ismael, his hand digging painfully in her skin. ‘The beast? Oh no..I have seen no beast come through these parts.’ She said, hiding the knowledge of one strange man just passing by.

‘Hmm..then perhaps he has taken the east road!’ Ismael roared, letting Belle go from his iron grip, his hand now gesturing one of his man to stay behind. ‘And as for Belle. I shall return my sweet, and for you alone I shall skin and bleed that beast, make it a fine hide for beneath our feet!’ He stepped closer and brushed an unwanted thumb over her grimacing face before turning back towards the crowd. 

‘LET US HUNT!’ He cried, not noticing that Belle quietly continued to ask people for the whereabouts of her father.

None knew.

None until the crowd had left, except for one brusk looking man that quickly rushed inside the stable, to hide from the roaring storm. It was clear that he was not even thinking for one single moment to “protect” Belle as he had been instructed. 

Belle stepped back in the door opening, peering out in the dark until she noticed a sole figure appearing from the shadows. With slow heavy steps he came closer, the barn lights finally revealing him to be her father, his hand clutched over a bleeding wound on his temple.

‘PAPA!’ She cried in horror, rushing over to him, back in the on-going downpour. ‘Papa..what happened?’ She said in more of a hush tone, looking over her shoulder to see the townsfolk return to the main road, the mob taking a sharp turn to the east, their torches slowly fading back in the darkness, an angry glow of the fire at the townsquare still roaring in the background.

Belle sighed in quiet despair. It appeared that even the crying heavens couldn’t stop this bloody terror.

‘Come papa.’ She muttered, offering him her support. ‘Let us get you inside.’ Her eyes quickly traced back at the north road, to the exact spot where she had seen that strange man. And she couldn’t help but wonder.

Had that been..the beast?

--

Chap 3 >

--

General Tagsquad: @harrysthiccthighss​ @tumblnewby @magdelen69​ @thereisa8ella​ @mary-ann84​ @darkbooksarwin​ @summersong69 @madbaddic7ed @luclittlepond @maroonmolly​

Vampire!Henry Tagsquad: @elinesama​ @i-cant-remember-my-old-login

If you want to be added to or removed from my tag lists, shoot me a message!

[tomsrebeleyebrow]

heavenly yours (part 2/3) | th x fem!reader

Heavenly Yours – a chaotic series

PART 1  |  PART 2  |  PART 3  |  epilogue

Summary: A few years passed since Tom’s exile happened. (Y/N) lost every single sparks of joy and desire to live after assisting to the tragic fall of the on the one she secretly loved. Nevertheless she continues doing as if nothing happened and mostly to stay safe from the Superior Angels. But strangely, deep inside her heart, she could still… feel him… sense him? But why? And how? Until all her questions were answered the day a devilish stranger appeared right in front of her the evening she wanted to disappear forever.

Pairing: Demon!Harrison x Angel!Fem!Reader (enemies to friends relationship)

Warnings: major angst with dark thoughts (depression, mention of suicide), natural nudity (you don’t shower dressed up right?) and a little bit of cocky/dickish Harrison so beware!

Words count: 7643 (jesus)

A/N: first of all, I wanted to wish you guys a late Merry Christmas and a late Happy New Year 2020!! 🎄🎉 I’ve been busy because I’m still in Australia at the moment for vacation but I still manage to find some time to write this part little by little 😅 I hope you will like it as much as I loved writing it, and I’m so glad for all the positive comments I received for the first part… I’m still open to constructive criticism so!! So enjoy this loooooong new part!! 😂💖

masterlist | series masterlist

long italic paragraph is a flashback

A void.

An entire existence thrown into a black hole.

(Y/N) slowly wakes up from another fitful night, her tired eyes getting used to the rays of lights going through her window, her body curled into a ball on her soft but cold silk bed sheets.

Another day...

She finally rises her upper body and sits while letting a sigh out her lips, making the white sheet cascade and fall on her bare thighs. Her wings still shrivel on her back and her eyes, once bright and sparkling, look in front of her into nothing. Deep into emptiness. This emptiness she feels since that night from… a long time ago.

“Today has been… six years, maybe?”

How could she forget the night her lover sacrificed himself because his only wish was to prove and show all Kingdom of Heaven that two angels could love each other? Love. A bannish word up here. Something forbidden because associated with the Underworld of Hell. Hell… The place Tom fell into while protecting her.

That damned night…

After the horrific scene she had to watch against her own will, (Y/N) flies back to her house as fast as she can, hoping to arrive soon. When she lands again on the ground in front of her door, she leans against it because she couldn’t trust her own legs, shaking of fear and distress. Her breathing is louder and her eyes now red because of her constant crying, puffy and still wet with tears.The sobs don’t stop… don’t want to stop. The still vivid image of Tom falling into the open crack beneath him, weak and hurt, keeps playing in (Y/N)’s mind and it only makes her cry even harder. Trying to compose herself the best she could, a sudden thought crosses her mind: the Superior Angels could arrive here at any moment now.

Her entire body spins toward Tom’s house and not even thinking twice, she sprints inside it and closes the door behind her. She has been here a few times already and nothing has changed since the last time. A perfect copy of her own house - and as all the other angels -, with the same fournitures, the same colours and the same… now awful ambiance. Her lips tremble while looking at all this, thinking about all the beautiful memories she shared with Tom; him going to the kitchen to prepare them a meal, him bringing her tea and sitting on the living room couch next to each other, both of them kissing passionately at the front door before leaving, and so much more.

“I love you so much, princess” he would whisper in her ears while nobody was aware of it.

“You are the Sun that gave me life for a second time.”

“I will never leave you, you know that, right love?”

“We will make it work, I promise you angel face.”

All these precious moments they shared and now thinking that he will never be back here, where he used to belong. By her side. (Y/N) hurries and gathers anything she could; decorative pillows, sheets, fluffy covers, tones of his shirts, the usual mug he likes- liked to drink tea in, his cologne and other little objects that reminds her of him. When she is finally ready to leave with her arms full, she stops next to his bed again and sees a flower crown hanging up the bed frame. The one she made and offered him a few weeks ago. The flowers seem fresh as if they were picked today because nothing really aged up in Heaven. Looking at the crown neatly arranged, (Y/N) couldn’t stop herself from touching the petals, delicately, and think about Tom having it on his head while smiling at her. Another tear slips away from her eyes as she blinks.

She will never see his angel face ever again.

Putting all the items on his bed, she hesitates a second but still grabs the flower crown to put it on her own head. Her heart skips a beat. She then gathers everything back in her arms and finally leaves the house of her lover for good, and goes straight to her own.

Feeling safe she hopes so, (Y/N) tries to organise what she brought back while memories from each object she touches keeps flowing her gloomy mind. She changed her sheets to replace them with Tom’s one, then puts some pillows on her couch and the other on her bed to create a safe space. She puts the shirts of the male angel in her drawer, next to her own clothes. And finally the flower crown is now placed on her coffee table with a round candlestick in the middle, a scented candle ready to get lighted up. Another sigh leaves her lips, feeling kind of satisfied with what she did and also a little calmed down. But she knows that all this could never bring her lover back. But she couldn’t bare to forget him.

Tugging the curtain to block the view from the street, (Y/N) walks to her bathroom for a well deserved shower. She removes her long dress and sandals on her way there, without a single care, then her lace panties and takes a look at herself in the mirror on top of the porcelain sink. Her face is such a mess, and every single part of it is red; her swollen eyes, her cheeks and her nose, and her lips puffy from her stressful bites. Leaning above the sink both hands grabbing each side of it, she lets her head fall for a moment, her hair hiding her tired face. When she calms herself from what happened tonight, she walks into the shower and lets the warm water loosen up her sore muscles. After some excessive time she steps out of the bathroom, letting the fog escape, and slips on one of Tom’s shirts. (Y/N) touches the some material with the tip of her finger, sensing the soft and fresh cotton covering her skin, like he is right here holding her body against his. She buttons it up and throw herself on her bed and wraps all the new covers and sheets around her.

Silence.

No sound coming out from the street, nor from Tom’s house. A silent cry still makes its way out her lips so she edges closer and closer into the fortress of her bed, surrounded by multiples pillows. Everything smells like him. But everything feels so cold and empty.

But she has to stay strong. For him.

She promised him, and she will make sure to keep her promise and so until the very end.

The day after, she tried to act as nothing was wrong and strangely, but mostly to her biggest astonishment, everything was the same. To everyone. (Y/N) passed the day doing what she had to do and every angel acted like Tom… never existed. They were all smiling to her, talking to her like every day, but never saying his name a single time. Deep inside, her guts were burning with rage?  because of this, because everyone loved Tom, everyone trusted him to anything. And now, it was like he was never there, neither that fateful day when her human’s life stopped, standing together in front of the Heaven’s gates and meeting for the first time. Did they really forget, or someone made them forget?... But she kept going, she had to. Or Tom’s sacrifice would be vain. She was literally boiling, and nobody suspected that.

But the thing that bothered her in all that situation was that… she could still “feel” Tom - if that was the right word. Even her couldn’t explain that weird feeling that upset her inside.

* * * *

“Come on, (Y/N).”

Since that night, nothing really changed for (Y/N). Well, she didn’t really have a choice anyway. She takes a big breath in and finally turns all her body to the side of the bed. Bare legs hanging, her toes brushing the marble floor of her too perfect angel’s bedroom. Finally standing up, she stretches out her body parts to finish with her wings, the shirt she wears lifting to let her panties visible in the process. As she takes the pillows spreaded on the floor to arrange them again onto her bed, the young woman proceeds to start her morning routine - which basically consists in taking a shower, brushing and styling her hair, dressing up, having a little breakfast and going out - and without forgetting the most important since then: displaying the most faked smile she could have.

Always the same. Day after day.

What (Y/N) always finds funny in all her “comedy” - like she is used to call it by now - is that no one could see clear into it. Just thinking that their “adorable and perfect Angel (Y/N) is the happiest and caring angel of all Kingdom of Heaven, loyal and gorgeous and that she will always be the same and never change”... even though she assisted to the most traumatizing experience any angel could be aware of which definitely changed the idyllic vision she had of Heaven all along and that, in fact, awakened her from this dull utopia and set free all her past human emotions from a previous life. Yes, that’s pretty much it.

How funny is that.

At least she isn’t drawing any attention which is what matters the most.

* * * *

“Finally the end of the day!” (Y/N) sighs exhausted.

She had quite a busy day indeed. The young woman was assigned to manage the novice’s flying course of the day. Even with already knowing some of the little ones, having in charge a group of about fifteen young angels to teach them how to fly was so much work and a lot of patience.

All alone now, (Y/N) is walking to a secluded part of the Kingdom where nobody goes to when the Sun starts to fall, to then let the Moon be the new star of the Holy Sky. After some minutes, she arrives to that place she casually calls her secret garden. In fact it is in a garden but just a part of it, in a peaceful corner. Further back of the usual animated main place and hidden between sequoias and pine trees, (Y/N)’s secret garden is composed of a beautiful marble fountain aesthetically put surrounded by light stone benches and flowers in different vases. The sound of the running water fills the silence of the upcoming night. This place brings some joy back to the angel’s heart because this is where she likes coming to clear up her mind, and just admire the view. Speaking of which, it is the best place to watch the sunset. At the edge of the garden a blanket of clouds is spread to an infinite horizon, tinting it with a mix of gold, orange and red at this time of the day. Tranquility and quietness. Just what she needs. (Y/N) enters the spot and moves to sit on the bench right in front of this marvelous scenery. Some doves fly through the clouds and spin around to then land near the woman. One lands directly on (Y/N)’s knees and coos at her, making a soft giggle leave her lips. She takes the dove delicately between her hands, pet its immaculate feathers before giving it a peck on top of the head.

“You are such a lucky one, you can fly wherever you want and do whatever you want…”

The dove lets itself being petted by the female angel - not like its really minds - while the Sun keeps disappearing.

“Not like me…” comes out of (Y/N)’s mouth like a whisper.

Her brows bump together in a scowl, biting the inside of her cheek to prevent the tears to start forming. Another sunset. Alone. By herself. Prisoner in an ivory tower full of naivety that she wishes she could escape. But how? Could this be even possible? The young woman stands, keeping the dove safe with her, and starts to walk slowly to the edge of the garden. Here she is on her feet, facing the last rays of sunshine and this unknown world beneath the clouds. A nice breeze brushes her body making her hair and long silk dress dance in rhythm. At this feeling, her wings dare to spread out a little because the wind caressing their insides is so calming.

“Do you know what is under the clouds, little dove? I keep asking myself this since he…” She couldn’t finish her sentence, still looking in front of her.

There were some days she was determined to do anything to keep her mind busy, but other times she couldn’t even find any motivation to wake up. (Y/N) has thought more than once about leaving. Disappearing. Dying. Sometimes her surrounding was too suffocating, her head hurting at any sound, the air hardly making its way in her lungs, her heart being like crushed between her ribs, her stomach clenching even if empty, her legs too weak to keep her up. Everything hurt. It didn’t want to stop. Those days were the worst.

And so the woman keeps wondering each time she comes here what the clouds could possibly hide. Something good? Something bad? Something new? Something dreadful? Could a better world wait for her down there? Could… Tom be down there, waiting for her this all time to tell her that, in the end, everything was fine? And as it says that curiosity almost killed the cat, (Y/N) wanted to jump from the cliff to end this and know the truth. Maybe she will be finally set free and feel no more anger, no more rage, no more sadness and no more loneliness. Her love for Tom is still here, burning in her and engraved in her heart. But this love is lacking of… mutual love.  And alas with the every last ounce of strength she has, she resists. Because Tom wouldn’t like letting his sacrifice be pointless. He wanted her to keep living her life and be happy. But how could she possibly be happy without having her lover by her side anymore? In the end (Y/N) doesn’t know what to do. But her whole body keeps hurting. So bad.

After interrupting her sour thoughts, the angel releases the little dove from her grip and lets it fly away. She doesn’t notice the warm tears on her cheeks yet, preferring to ignore them. Then she collapses on her knees as her body has to save the last sparks of energy to go back home later. She feels drained to the cord. Helpless. And still alone.

“Oh Tom… I can’t anymore… This is too much…” Her sobs starts echoing in her head. “This is too hard for me, I can’t… handle it anymore… I need you… So much…”

And her hands raise to hide her pitiful face in tears. Shoulders shaking like a leaf she feels as fragile as a porcelain doll, abandoned and so broken.

Today was definitely a ‘no’ day.

‘ What a poor little thing. ‘

(Y/N) jumps while letting out a squeal. Who could be here at this hour? Her head frantically analyses around her to see who the person observing her is. But nothing. Not a single presence. No one, not even a shadow.

“Who is here?!”

‘ You may not get too agitated, Angel or you will really end up falling from that cliff. ‘

The voice again. But still not the body associated with.

(Y/N) quickly stands up but not without staggering while doing so. She then distances herself from the edge of the cliff, panic still showing on her face and turns to the big trees surrounding the garden. Still nothing. Not knowing if she is in danger, the young woman still decides to open her angel wings wildly, ready to fly away at any moment.

“Show yourself! Now!” screams (Y/N), her voice ringing in the newly night.

‘ Don’t be so aggressive, it doesn’t match with your angelic face. ‘ the unknown voice replies with a snigger, ‘ ...Also I’m already here, angel face. ‘

Feeling a breath next to her ear, (Y/N) flings herself forward, next to the fountain. When she turns again in the direction of the voice, wings still on display, she can finally see who was tricking her this whole time but never did she imagine having a meeting like this. And this totally terrifies her.

A few feet away from her stands a young man. Maybe two heads taller than her. Blond messy hair, a bit brunette actually. Deep blue eyes as clear as the water of Heaven… but enormous black wings on his back slightly hitting the air, almost featherless and mostly skin showing. Dressed all in black, a thin shirt entirely open - and that (Y/N) tries not to look at because… just because you’re not suppose to do that? -, darted pants close to the muscles of his legs and waxed moccasins.

This man is a demon.

Demons. The nastiest, hazardous and menacing creatures that exist in the afterlife. The ones who have sinned while being humans, and that now pay for all of it by getting punished or by leaving another sinful life in the Underworld of Hell… Hell. The worst place that could ever exist. Where the lowest of the lowest are down here for eternity. Where the entire land is on fire, with not fresh but dry and smoky air which literally burns your lungs. Where nature has not its place. Where debauchery is the only way of living.

What in the world…!!

(Y/N)’s body couldn’t move. Scared. Frighten. Petrified. Her face becomes as pale as her wings, out of breath but heart almost bursting through her chest. Her legs don’t dare to move like sticked to the ground. All the hair of her body raises. Everything seems to get so much colder and morbid just by his own presence. Never (Y/N) would have imagined in her angel life being confronted to a real demon, she doesn’t even know this would have been possible!

Anyway, the devil man in front of her stays still and straight while fixing at her. An intense look that may be a mix of malice and vileness. A devious aura. Not a word is said between the two opposite beings. The only sound around may be the breeze that seems way colder that it originally was when the angel arrived here. Her wings start to curl up around her fragile body, even if she keeps trying to show some strength. (Y/N) wishes now she was not alone at this moment because she never heard or read about demons ascending to Heaven for any possible reason, and without being noticed by the Superior Angels. What was he doing here? And why?

‘ Such a pretty face, he definitely was right about it. ‘ said the devil man with a slight smirk showing on his face.

He takes a step to her. And (Y/N) takes a step back straight away.

“Don’t you dare come any closer” she threatens him between her teeth, “and how dare you come in Heaven?!”

‘ Well it’s not like I wanted to fly over here in the first place anyway ‘ the man says like he is pissed off, ‘ Not my kind of place if you know what I mean… ‘

“Then you better leave before you get in big trouble” she mocks him still going backwards.

Unfortunately the young woman couldn’t back up anymore because a tree blocks her way and now with her back pressed against it, she knows things would get harder.

‘ I didn’t know angels could retort with such anger, it clearly doesn’t match your character ‘ the demon adds, approaching (Y/N) bits by bits, ‘ But I guess he was right once again about it...‘

“What in the world are you talking about?! And who is “he”?!”

All this has no sense. And irritation is winning over (Y/N)’s fear.

‘ No need to rush things for now, angel face. ‘

In a snap, the devil man finds his way close to (Y/N) again, his body almost pressed against hers. She lets a short shriek out and tries to distance herself as much as she could, as if she tries to become as thin as a leaf to disappear at this exact moment. Her back pressed even harder on the tree trunk, the female angels tries to avoid his eyes and even to sneak past him. But his morbid black wings are in the way, fully stretched like they would engulf her small  body. The angel makes her best to avoid meeting his eyes and avert them by shutting them tightly. Her heart beats even faster now and her hands start being moist, like her forehead. Is this the end?

‘ Hey come on, look at me ‘ says the man without sounding too bossy, ‘ ... Please? ‘

This sounds like a plead. And strangely (Y/N)’s heart tightens at the sound of his voice. Could a demon ever sound this pitiful, even in front of an angel? Not sure of herself - because a demon is and still will be a demon -, she dares to slowly open an eye to look at him and sees he hasn’t moved a single millimetre. Still standing tall, the man that once had cold eyes seems now more… calm and peaceful, almost harmless. With a closer look the intruder has a handsome face, with a sharp jawline and defined nose. His hair is in fact more brunette that it seems from far away, the blond slightly fading at the end of each lock. His blue ocean eyes are sharper they could freeze you on site, but long eyelashes are present to underline them and create a welcoming feeling. As she suspected before his wings are kind of featherless but the dark showing skin doesn’t look that hurt or rough, more like a second skin. And his body looks so firm she can totally could perceive his torso through the thin piece of black fabric that serves him of shirt. (Y/N) blushes at this proximity and looks away.

“What… do you want?” asks (Y/N) again, her voice wicker than before.

‘ I’m not here to hurt you so if you listen to me, I can tell you why I came up here. ‘

Again the soothing voice. This situation could end up in two differents ways: good or bad. No inbetween. (Y/N) learnt from the book she read that demons were never the bearer of good luck and could be the trickiest creature of all time. But her awareness is telling her a complete other story and she couldn’t guess why. She just feels it deep in her guts, as if it was a casual situation.

Finally the young woman dares to look at him in the eyes, again. And at this exact moment she sees his hand extend right to her face so she couldn’t help but flinch, thinking she got too naive by letting her guard down so quickly. But nothing happens. Indeed she feels a warm sensation on her cheek that then moves behind her ear. She gets even more surprised when, after opening her eyes, the demon is only caressing her cheek to replace her lock of hair behind her ear. She didn’t expect that. At all.

‘ I know since that day, everything changed for you so you will understand what I’m about to tell you ‘ begins the young demon, now curling another of her lock around his finger, ‘ So… care to listen? ‘

His hand leaves (Y/N)’s hair to stay along his body. But he proposes his hand to her to take, an invitation to join him. She thinks pretty fast because everything is getting messed up in her head - too many things happenings at the same time -, looking back and forth from his opened hand to his blue eyes. And she knows she has to listen to him. She feels it again.

So after taking a deep breath she carefully puts her hand in his, and the man closes it. Slowly and without breaking their gaze, they walk toward the fountain to sit on the side of it. The demon lets (Y/N)’s hand go and put his on his thighs. (Y/N) brushes her dress and copies the man’s position. A certain tension is obvious and could be cut with a knife. But still, the female angel doesn’t feel that much in danger anymore.

Silence. Just the sound of the water flowing in the fountain behind them, appeasing them. The night is now here, the sky fully dark. Tones of stars appear here and there and the nice breeze comes to cool down (Y/N)’s body. Her wings are not tensed anymore. But she still thinks about what the conversation will lead to.

‘ First of all, I’m Harrison. And I’m sorry for scaring you earlier, my devil side can be really douchey some time ‘ the demon, Harrison, introduces himself while rubbing the back of his neck.

“Nice to meet you, Harrison… I guess?”

Such a casual conversation between complete opposite beings…

“And I-”

‘ (Y/N). You are (Y/N) ‘ cuts off Harrison. ‘ I know who you are already… Because I am here for you. ‘

“W-what do you mean... here for me?”

‘ Do not panic please, I know this sounds weird coming from a demon- ‘

“Oooh it sure is weird” (Y/N) cuts him off in return, letting out a nervous laugh while she fidgets with her fingers. And Harrison actually laughs at that too.

‘ Yeah sorry, this situation is awkward for both of us… But this is also really important. ‘

Harrison has again the same face as his arrival in Heaven. Sharp and serious. (Y/N) gulps silently and strengthens her back, ready to listen to him. After a few seconds, the demon begins to speak again.

‘ I know that you are different from the other angels here. You can feel varied types of emotions and not only happiness anymore. Anger, sadness, rage, sorrow, fear and so much more. ‘

(Y/N)’s heart misses a beat at his word.

‘ And surprise too ‘ slightly laughs Harrison looking at her, in fact, surprised expression.

“H-how do you know that? I mean-”

‘ I also know that you were in love, maybe still in love actually. And since the day you lost your other half, everything changed even more for you, mostly your way of thinking, am I right? ‘

(Y/N) couldn’t believe it. It is like she is an actual open book to him and it’s been like, what, maybe not even fifteen minutes and he knew her deepest secrets. It scares her. And she couldn’t form a simple sentence. So the angel simply nods.

“How in the world do you know… all that?...”

Her throat feels dry.

‘ (Y/N), I know who you lost that night. ‘

“Wait what-”

‘ Tom. The fallen angel. ‘

At the sound of his name she couldn’t prevent the sob that leaves her mouth. And some puzzle pieces start to get assembled.

“I-is Tom i-in H-?!...”

Not waiting for the end of her question, Harrison nods keeping his gaze. She puts her hand on her mouth to contain herself as best as she could, but the feeling is too strong.

Tom. The fallen angel.

(Y/N) now has the confirmation that Tom fell in Hell that damned night. She squeezes her dress in her fist and shuts her eyes. The simple thought of her dear lover being in Hell for so long saddens her the more she thinks about it. What have them done to him down there? Was he alright? Or was he… hurt? Tortured? Or even worse… She doesn’t want to think about it and so she tries to erase this horrific image from her mind.

‘ Tom the fallen angel, your lover, is in fact in the Underworld of Hell. But still alive. ‘

Alive.

Tom is still alive. In Hell, yes, but alive.

(Y/N) couldn’t believe what she heard. A sob finally breaks through the barrier of her hand and that’s when (Y/N) feels the weight of the world leave her shoulders for good. All this time, all these lonely days and nights, dwelling on this fatale night when she lost the most precious person she could have find in afterlife, and constantly blaming herself because she was still here, alive, and not him. But now everything changed and this self torture is over.

Her tears are not tears of sadness anymore, but tears of relief and hope. A smile even finds its place on the angel’s face. A real smile, warm and beautiful, like she used to show before it all declined. A smile that the male demon notices too, it even brings a shy one on his own face. Her once broken heart is now collecting each piece to gather them back together. And the woman understands why she could feel this weird feeling all this time. Because without really knowing it, she knew Tom, her dear Tom, was still alive.

“Oh my God… I-I’m so h-happy…” cries (Y/N), wiping some tears with her arms. “But i-is Tom… a-alright?”

Asking this question almost scares her. She doesn’t know what to expect.

‘ Don’t worry, Tom is totally fine. ‘ begins Harrison to soothe her a little. ‘ Not gonna lie, it was not easy for him when he was thrown to Hell but yeah, he kinda managed. This man’s got a tower of strength. ‘

The devil man prefers to avoid all the details of Tom’s arrival in Hell, to prevent her any more pain. In fact Harrison “met” the fallen angel since the first day and had to assist to each punishments and tortures he had to go through. At the time Harrison was passive and amused by the show because, well he is a demon after all, and these things were totally normal in Hell. But as time passed, Harrison started to admire Tom’s strength as much as physical and mental, not letting himself perish under the steady punches and cuts from the perfidious devils down there.

“Yes, he always was determined in anything he was doing” smiles (Y/N) to herself.

She then turns toward Harrison who is still looking at her.

“Excuse my rudeness, I’m so glad you told me Tom is safe and all but… is this the only reason you flew in Heaven? Just to… tell me this?”

(Y/N) couldn’t stop herself about all this. This looks too good to be true in a way and having a demon telling you all this is surely bizarre.

Harrison laughs, ‘ Don’t worry, angel face, you have all rights to wonder about it. ‘

(Y/N) returns his laugh, giggling. Who could have thought about an angel and a demon casually chatting together?

‘ So yeah my main goal was to find you because I was asked to. By Tom himself. ‘

Her laughs just stop.

“Wait- are you telling me Tom is the one w-who sent you here?!” she nearly screams at the demon, shocked. “How is it even possible?!”

‘ Calm down (Y/N), I’m telling you the truth. Because if I don’t, I will get in biiiiiig trouble with the man himself ‘ jocks Harrison but still with a nervous smile just by the thought of it.

“B-but why only now? W-why after for long?! I was b-by myself all this time, thinking h-he was…!!”

Harrison knew since the beginning that there will be a lot of explanations to give. But it was his mission, and he will make sure to accomplish it.

‘ (Y/N), you know he couldn’t do anything else at the time, am I right? Tom was thrown into the deepest depths of Hell because he sinned - because he loves you - so he couldn’t just fly back here in Heaven like nothing happened. ‘

That is true. And (Y/N) suddenly feels silly about her last comment. She is aware of all this since that night but it is like she wanted to ignore it… for her sake of living alone. Harrison notices her head and shoulders lower.

‘ Hey, no need to feel down. It’s normal to be selfish sometimes… well, in Hell at least… ‘ notes Harrison, trying to cheer her up.

His black wing softly touches her white one as if to tell her everything is alright. (Y/N) doesn’t rejects his touch and looks back at him, waiting for what is coming next.

‘ The reason Tom waited so long before contacting you again is because he had to survive. He went through a lot, trust me I was there watching him but he never gave up. You were his strength. All along. And you still are. He kept repeating he had to endure his sentence for you, to keep you safe and to go back to you. ‘

(Y/N) lets her tears flow again, without making a sound. Her and Tom were trying their best to survive separated from each other, but he definitely has been the one in the worst situation.

‘ And so, days and years passed. But in the end he did it. Tom survived and proved to Hell he was worse it. Such a strong minded guy was just what Hell needed at the time, so they gave him another chance. ‘

“Another chance?” repeats (Y/N) not really understanding what the demon means.

‘ To make it simple, Tom is now a demon. ‘

The rollercoaster of (Y/N)’s emotions goes straight down again at this statement. Tom is now a demon. Her beautiful and handsome angel who sacrificed himself many years ago became a demon as a second chance in his afterlife. This was too much for her. The sadness is clear on her face, furrowing her eyebrows and tensed body again. She then remembers him before he fell down, his wings becoming greyish as the Superior Angels said. And now they must be fully black, like Harrison’s ones. Her angel lover was no more. Her tears don’t stop but emphasized more.

‘ Hey (Y/N), it’s alright, don’t cry anymore ‘ Harrison tries to calm her again.

He dares to sit closer to her, caressing her shoulder to sooth her a bit. Both their wings are now close to the other. A perfect opposition. White and Black. Pure and Dirty. But strangely the mix doesn’t really feel bad at all. And so instinctively (Y/N) snuggles into Harrison’s chest, frightening him at first, to find maybe some comfort. It is such an uncommon situation for Harrison that he doesn’t know how to react. So he simply wraps his arms and wings around her. They stay like this for a few minutes, her sobs resonating in the heavenly night. It is still hard for her to accept the fact that Tom is now a demon, even if still alive.

‘ Calm down, (Y/N)... ‘ whispers Harrison while he wants to pull away delicately. ‘ Let me finish explaining okay? Then if you want to cry again, it’s alright I will endure it a little more ‘ he tries to joke again.

(Y/N) slightly slaps his chest and pulls herself away from him. She has now a light smile on her face, with wet cheeks and puffy eyes again. She wipes her face with the back of her hand and wait for the demon to talk again.

‘ So ‘ Harrison starts again combing his hair back with his finger, ‘ Tom may be a demon now but he actually chose to become one. For his and your sake. ‘

“W-what?! But why-”

Harrison quickly presses his index finger on the angel’s mouth.

‘ Let me continue? ‘

(Y/N) just nods.

‘ So it was Tom’s decision to become a demon. And then he had to learn to be one, which actually was not difficult. ‘

“B-but demons are… d-devious… n-nasty… n-not to blame you or w-what but-” mumbles the young woman kinda scared to offend the demon.

‘ I know (Y/N), but we all are not only as the books of Heaven describe us. We may had sinned as humans but we are not beasts, well not ALL of us actually… ‘

That surprises (Y/N). “You mean-”

‘ Each demon has his own personality like when they were humans. We don’t only live on sex and torture all day long. ‘

(Y/N) tenses. She read a lot of books available in the Heaven’s library and all she read about demons were not… good things, mostly just unholy manners and all. And now the devil man in front of her tells her a completely different story - not like she really minded but still. It even reassures her a little.

‘ And Tom is definitely not a sinful demon. Just so you know he made me changed to be the respectable demon I am now and that is why I vowed to serve him until the end. ‘

“Excuse me what did you just say? You… serve him??”

Harrison takes a deep breath before continuing, ‘ As the time flew by, Tom became stronger and gain respect of all the other demons. He has been proclaimed King of Hell and rules the Underworld since then. ‘

“K-KING OF-?!”

The words suffocate (Y/N), she couldn’t speak anymore. King of Hell. Of all the thing she could have imagined, the angel now doesn’t know what to think about. But if what Harrison told her is true, Tom would be… a good demon? That in fact sounds really weird. Is that even possible? Does this even really exist? But she still trusts Tom, and still loves him. She feels so confused from all the informations, not knowing what to think about first.

‘ And he wants you to join him. Now. That is why I’m here for. ‘

“Me? Going to Hell?! W-wait Harrison, are you joking or what?!” retorts (Y/N) standing up, still facing him. “I just can’t leave Heaven like that and-!”

‘ You are not happy here, (Y/N), and even Tom knows it. ‘ interrupts Harrison staying calm. ‘ When you both discovered your feelings for each other, you both hid all the time. And since he was left for dead, you hid your new trueself to those Superior Angels as Tom wanted you to. You changed, you are not the same anymore, like him. But since, he pulled himself together again and started a new life… in which he wants you in again. ‘

Leaving Heaven would mean being damned herself. And that scares (Y/N). Of course she wants to join Tom and be reunited with him but she doesn’t know if she could handle it. Her breathing accelerates but the air doesn’t fills the lungs fully. Watching her starting to panic, Harrison stands.

‘ (Y/N), listen to me. ‘ He puts his hands on her shoulders to steady her, ‘ Tom knows what he is doing, and that is why he waited for so long. He found every information he needed and now is the right time. Do you trust him, (Y/N)? ‘

“I…”

‘ (Y/N). Do you trust Tom? ‘ pushes Harrison.

“Yes I do.”

‘ Do you still love Tom? ‘

“Of course I do, with all my heart.”

‘ Then come with me and don’t worry, you will be safe. ‘

She looks straight into the demon’s eyes. And she knows he tells the truth.

“But I should bring some belongings before lea-”

‘ You don’t need to bring anything. Tom is waiting for you now and surely she will give you everything you need down there. ‘

“Harrison I-I don’t know if I’m ready or not…”

‘ You are, (Y/N). You have been for a long time. ‘

She gulps, her throat still dry since he arrived. This is it. (Y/N)’s is about to change again for good. She doesn’t feel ready because this is a major change - and a dangerous one - but still, after all this time being by herself, she now understands the hidden feeling she kept buried in her heart. The feeling of Tom still being alive. And him still wanting her by his side. Whenever he was.

While the angel appeases her overflowing emotions, she barely notices the extended hand offered by Harrison. So when she finally sees it, she looks at him with soft eyes, still her mind troubled by all what happened to her since this evening. Harrison invites her to join their hands by nodding at her. And when they finally do, both of them start walking toward the edge of the cliff.

“Harrison… is Hell… scary?”

They stop right at the edges, hands linked and bodies turn into the dark and cloudy horizon.

‘ Hell is not a happy place, (Y/N), but I can guarantee you Tom will protect you and make you feel at home. I’m sure he will. ‘

(Y/N) lets out a sigh. A calmed one. And she squeezes the demon’s hand as if to tell him she is ready. Kind of.

‘ I suggest you to close your eyes. Just in case. Not to… scare you. ‘ offers Harrison.

(Y/N) nods slightly her head and inhaled a big amount of air.

‘ Do you trust me? ‘

“Well, it’s not like I’ve got the choice right?” sarcastically replies (Y/N), with an amused smile painted on her angelic face.

Harrison laughs heartily at this remark showing his perfect white teeth, his canines sharp as a beast’s.

‘ My my, all angels should be like you. Things would be so much funnier! ‘

The young woman laughs in her turn, all the tension leaving her body a little more. When the silence of the night reigns again, the two beings open out their gigantic wings.

‘ Ready? ‘

“Ready.”

* * * *

(Y/N) has just enough time to close her eyes and everything accelerates pretty quickly. She hears and feels “things”. Screams. Hotness. Fire maybe? But then cold. And hot again. Things trying to grab her arms or legs, but never making it. Her wings continue to beat the air to fly toward the unknown. A total unknown world that she heard about but without fully knowing what happens in it. A world that her lover now rules on. Her fallen lover that waits for her. And she just couldn’t wait any longer.

‘ (Y/N), we arrived ‘ Harrison tells her.

Like she has been asleep for decades, (Y/N) slowly opens her eyes. And what is in front of her astonishes her that much she nearly falls backward. Harrison pulls her back toward, still hand in hand.

‘ Welcome to the Underworld of Hell, (Y/N). ‘

In front of the angel lays an arid landscape. The ground looks covered by dust, a bit red and black, likesand. A desert. But not lava or a single flame. The sky has nothing to do with the purity of the Heaven one, but still not scary or as described in the books. Displaying a gradation of slight red and dark blue, maybe black actually, that weirdly match together. No sun or moon or star. A clear devil sky. (Y/N) can also notice some the people walking around. Demons walking around, or flying eventually. All dressed up in black just like Harrison. A typical scenery similar to Heaven but with very different people. Without debauchery. And when (Y/N) decides to turn around, she falls face to face with a gigantic castle, all made in dark bricks to stay in the aesthetic of the place. Her and Harrison are actually standing of the steps that lead to it and (Y/N) feels like even smaller and fragile as she normally is. But is that weird she doesn’t feel frighten? At all?

’ So you found her, mate? ’

The voice makes (Y/N) jump and she lets the demon’s hand go, turning toward the new male’s voice. And she almost bumps into a body. When she backs up, after saying sorry, she sees a new demon.

’ Hi, I’m Jacob. (Y/N), right? ’

(Y/N) chooses to only nod at him. And her new encounter shakes vividly her hand.

’ Cool! He’s gonna be soooo excited to see you again! The man only talks about you and how you’re pretty, and you really are! ’

‘ Jacob, don’t scare her please… ‘ interrupts Harrison while approaching the two beings, staying next to (Y/N). ‘ She stills has to get used to Hell, you know? And- ‘

❞ Welcome back Harrison. Thank you so much for what you did, my friend. ❞

A new voice joins the talk. But this time, it brings shiver all over her body because she recognises it. She knows to who this fruity voice with a particular accent belongs to. For someone else it could be anybody. But for (Y/N) it can only be one person…

The young woman slowly turns over it, not really knowing what to expect. But when her angelic eyes cross his, for the first time in ages, this is it. The moment she waited for so long but never came until now. The moment she wishes to happen. It’s happening now.

This is him.

She stands here, surrounding by the other devil men, speechless. All emotions mix up in her body.

Tom exits the castle and stands on top of the stairs, tall and proud. All in black, from head to toes, but still as handsome as he was as an angel. The new King of Hell displays his enormous black wings on his back, showing his power to whoever is present at the moment. Harrison and Jacob kneel down. But (Y/N) couldn’t move but just admires Tom from the afar. Her heartbeats go insane and her breath accelerates.

“Tom…”

❞ Welcome back, my love. Welcome in Hell. And welcome home. ❞

🏷 Permanent tag list & mutuals 💖 (get notified)

@allegra-writes @tom-holland-is-spiderman @detroitbydark @blissfulparker @farfromhaz @xxtomxo @worldoftom @charismas-world  @stiles-banshees @americaxo17 @zabdisamor @princezzariel @mcuassemble @thatweirdomimic @juliebean247 @harryhollandwhore @spiderbibby @intiate03 @himynameishooman @bookworm06 @flowerboyparker @miraclesoflove @eridanuswave @jillanaholland @mendes-marvel @biebsmylife95 @i-cant-hangout-im-drumming @tsh-darling @popbubblegumpop​ @fanficscuziranout

🏷 Heavenly Yours tag list 🕊🔥 (get notified)

@shayminisshiny @skymoonandstardust​ @blissfulparker​ @sectusempried @iwastornsincethestart @the-professional-procastinator​ @bloodyscarlet​ @loxbbg​ @biebsmylife95​

[sonickedtrowel]

1, 2, 4, 10, 20!!

Tell us about your current project(s)  – what’s it about, how’s progress, what do you love most about it?

Oh boy so I’m sure I must have mentioned it at some point but I won’t turn down a chance to ramble about it again: me and @regalpotato​ are working on a Day of the Doctor rewrite and I’m pretty psyched about it!  Basically, Eight is there rather than War (although War does make an appearance!) and also River is there, because Duh, and there are other Things going on that are different from the episode/novel, but that’s spoilers and also still partially cooking in my brain, lol.  It’s at 11k-ish right now but still pretty early in the story, too early to probably say what I will love most.  But I’m having a ton of fun with it, especially the dialogue, and currently torturing Ten in every way I can think of.  You know, lovingly torturing.  For the most part.

That is the really big thing I’m excited about, but I do still have two prompts left from a couple weeks back (I didn’t forget you, anons!) and those are milling around in my head too waiting for inspiration to strike. 2. Tell us about what you’re most looking forward to writing – in your current project, or a future project

No secret that I love writing multi-Doctor / River stories, and in fact having somewhat recently finished an 8 and 11 / River fic I will have to be on my toes to not repeat myself too much haha.  But I just love getting everyone together and letting them yell at each other for a while - the best honestly - and then later we get Revealing Conversations about Feelings, as well as POV changing chapters.  Not to overhype it but!  I think it’s gonna be fun! Putting the rest under a cut because I am long-winded lol.

4. Share a sentence or paragraph from your writing that you’re really proud of (explain why, if you like)

Hmmm I’ll pick something I like from the WIP that’s all my writing - this is from Night of the Doctor with Eight and Ohila, but it’s diverged from the original script here and iirc pretty much all new dialogue for Eight.  I don’t normally write this sort of Doctor speech because I’m usually doing romance, but I can hear Paul McGann righteously shouting/soliloquizing in my head so I’m pretty happy with it: *** “What would you have me do?” the Doctor hissed.  “What does your broken prophecy foretell?  That I become one more loyal soldier in Gallifrey’s glorious army?  I can join this fight and take a thousand lives, die a thousand deaths, and this war will still go on.  The universe doesn’t need another soldier!” “Not a soldier,” said the Sister, “a warrior, with the power you’ve refused to wield.  You could have destroyed the Daleks before they were even created.” “Yes, I could have done.  And I didn’t, because I have no right!  Whatever it is you think you can turn me into, Sister, you’ll continue to be disappointed.  Because there’s one person who is always needed in a war: a good doctor, willing to help whomever they can.  No matter if they’re despised, or called traitor— no matter who they lose or how many times they fail!  There will always be more lives to save, and I’ll be there, helping, wherever I can.  I only hope I’m strong enough to carry on doing it half as well as another doctor I knew.” ***

(Yes of course we have Liv Chenka references!) 10. How would you describe your writing process? It takes me forever to get ideas, but once I have a sort of general amorphous direction for the story and an emotional starting point for the characters, I just jump in.  And then I keep getting shower thoughts about more and more stuff happening and what was supposed to just be some fun fluff starts growing a plot and getting wildly out of hand and this is just my life.  I am very much not in control. 20. Tell us the meta about your writing that you really want to ramble to people about (symbolism you’ve included, character or relationship development that you love, hidden references, callbacks or clues for future scenes?) Ohhhh this is such a good question!  Definitely going with There is a love I reminisce because there’s a lot going on under the surface in that fic and not all of it stated super explicitly.  So um, huge spoilers below if you haven’t read it!

Manhattan and Trenzalore (both times) are essentially retconned, through a combination of River’s innate abilities and Eleven going around the timeline trying to do better after being confronted with his shortcomings in TNOTD.  How the Doctor survived Utah is explained and it’s not because he was in a stupid robot.  It spawns an implied post-Library reunion with River, Eleven and the Doctor’s oft-referenced and never quantified or named children from Gallifrey.  It implies a different resolution to the Hybrid thing and an alternate series 10.  And of course it uses BF’s far-superior Ravenous 4 plot twist to preemptively annihilate the timeless children crap, and a combination of Ravenous 4 and Doom Coalition 4 to make River basically a time goddess.  But maybe my favorite thing was giving life to this headcanon of mine.  IT CANNOT BE REFUTED!  They’ve never said ANYTHING specific about his family so it’s free real estate baby!

*** “Yes, sorry to harp on about this, honey, but I think we can discuss the regeneration semantics later,” River cut in.  “You’re saying I came back from your future to your distant past and just… stayed?”

“Well… yes, I think so.  There were certain things we couldn’t discuss.  I had always just assumed that I’d reached the end of my last regeneration and you weren’t too pleased with that, so…  You know, describing it now, it does seem very irresponsible.  But I don’t recall having any complaints.”

“No, I shouldn’t think you would.”  River smiled, but her mind was racing.  “How would that even work?  Eventually, we’d come back round to when we first met on your end, and what, I wipe myself out of your memories?  Selectively, for your entire lifetime?  I think you might notice a little thing like that.”

“I suppose you must have had a plan for it, but I can’t remember it now.  I just remember the two of us, together through the centuries.” He smiled fondly and River felt like the ache in her chest would strangle her.  “I remember our family.”

“Our what?” she cried, as the older Doctor had a sudden choking fit.

“Our family.  Our children and…”  Dread slowly dawned on the young Doctor’s sweet face.  “Oh, please, no,” he whispered.  “Don’t tell me they’re…  No, this happened! It happened in both versions of my memories!”  He looked to his older self, panic-stricken.  “Tell me you remember!”

“You had a family,” River soothed, as Babyface stumbled over his own tongue.  “It just wasn’t with me.”

“What?” he laughed incredulously.  “Who else would it be?”

“Your first wife, sweetie.  I’m your second.  Well, the second one that counts.”

“No, that’s— I’m sorry, that’s nonsense.”  He turned to the older Doctor again. “You can’t tell her, is that it?  Because she hasn’t done it yet?  I’m sorry, River, maybe I shouldn’t have—”

“No!” Babyface shouted, finally collecting himself.  “Yes, we— I had a family, on Gallifrey, before I ever left.  River wasn’t there, obviously, because that’s not how anything works!”

“Who, then?” the young Doctor demanded.  “Who was your first wife?”

“I— I— she was—”  He opened and closed his mouth silently, looking increasingly horrified.

“You don’t like to talk about it,” River explained.  “She passed away.”

“Yes, but just between me and myself,” the young Doctor pressed on with an utter absence of tact that made it easier than ever to see this was the same man before her, “who was she?  And your children, what were their names?”

River hesitated, watching as the older Doctor wrestled with himself.  These were details not even she had ever asked him for.  She knew the general outline, of course, and that was enough.  It was a hurt so deep and so impossibly ancient, she couldn’t truly imagine how distant it must be for him now.  No sense in forcing him to open that door and dwell on it again.

“I, I don’t,” he finally muttered, looking almost fearful, “I don’t talk about it.  I don’t think about it.”

“You’ve forgotten them,” the young Doctor said, voice low and furious.  “How could you?”

“S-Susan,” Babyface stammered, wide-eyed.  “I left Gallifrey with Susan.”

A relieved smile flashed across the young Doctor’s face.  “And where did you suppose she came from?”

“No, she… I don’t…”  Chair legs scraped abruptly across the tile as the older Doctor bolted up from his seat, white-faced, and stumbled back from the table.

“Doctor?”  River stood, her hearts racing.  

His eyes met hers for a split second, the strange terror in them sending a chill through her, and then he was gone like a shot.  

“Doctor!”  She made to chase after him, but his younger version was still clasping her hand.

“He’ll be fine,” he reassured her.  “He’s just working it out.”

“Working it out?” she repeated, too stunned to reach out and grasp for the obvious.  She turned to him in a daze.  He smiled, and for a fleeting moment she fancied she could see the long contentment of a life she’d never dared dream of, etched in each little line on his older, younger face.

“I told you, River.”  He laid his other hand over hers, warm and steady.  “It was always you.”   ***

[incantavaxx]

Episode 10

(I fell asleep yesterday so now I can say that I didn’t watch the entire season in a day, my dignity is saved.)

- YES LET’S KEEP DRAGGING CANEPALLO TO THE GROUND, it’s what he deserves. Also how adorable is it that Nicholas is actually super talented in real life too and he has an instagram page for his drawings?

SEE? I knew there was a reason for the cat thing, fuck Raffaele (who is coincidentally my ex’s name too). And omg her father just called her FAT I can’t, I’m so glad she has Luchino they’re so cute Silvia season when.

- I waited ALL MY LIFE for a Giovanni Garau Wizard of Love clip and they’re really gonna fucking ruin it with EMMA COVITTI THE VILLAIN and MORE ELIA/SANA BULLSHIT, is this happening??? BESSE WHAT DID I EVER DO TO YOU I DID NOTHING BUT LOVE AND SUPPORT YOU WHY DO YOU HATE M- I TAKE IT BACK, BESSE YOU NEVER DID ANYTHING WRONG, EVER, THIS IS THE BEST CLIP EVER- “canecazzo”, CANECAZZO, everyone has been slandering his name this entire season and no one but HIM could finally reach the final superior level, Federico CANECAZZO. Poetic. Cinema.

Marti SHUT UP, we do not recall the good things that Canecazzo did, we HATE him this season, also he was only good because Rich King Incanti was there to lead the way (the way towards the chair), now that he’s alone he showed his true colors.

“It’s two years that I wait, get in line.” YOU TELL HIM GIO YOU TELL HIM. AND LET’S BE CLEAR MISTER CANECAZZO, WHEN YOU’RE IN LINE AFTER GIOVANNI GARAU IT MEANS THAT YOUR TURN IS NOT COMING IN THIS LIFE.

Thank you Besse for this, in OG Jonas eventually helps Chris but the Wizard of Love is superior and doesn’t stand for that type of shit.

- IT WAS DOCTOR SPERA ALL ALONG, HE MADE HER DO IT AND HE WON A WINE KSKSK I’m so emotional seeing NAMACISSI behind him btw.

- I started hearing “Elettra, Elettra Lamborghini” before the POV changed and I wonder for a second who it was going to be and OF COURSE IT’S FILIPPO SAVA WITH ELETTRA LAMBORHINI, who else could it be, iconic. “What do you know what Edo does when you’re not there?” No we all know Filo, he cries in the shower and dresses all emo until Ele comes back, that’s it. My babies, I miss them so much, who would have thought that the real heartbreaking long distance relationship would have been the one between brother and sister here.

- Is it normal that I cried reading NICCOLÒ on the screen, yes? Just asking. “I’m just sad you don’t like the sweater I gave you.” “I didn’t say I didn’t like it, I said it’s…peculiar.” Marti is such a little shit omg I need to see the sweater. FUCKING FISHERMAN COME HERE IF YOU HAVE THE GUT COME HERE AND SEE HOW MANY SLAPS I HAVE LEFT, I’LL SLAP YOU WITH YOUR OWN FISHES YOU SUCKER-so sweet how Nicco is able to calm Marti down BUT MARTI MY CHILD DOGE NICCO AND SPRINT TOWARDS THE FISHERMAN GO GO GO DESTROY HIM-In other words, I am not the one friend you want at your side to keep you calm and avoid a fight.  

- I’m forever thankful to Besse for saying “a clip for Canecazzo? Not on my watch” but I’m also incredibly PISSED that he gave it to Luchino not because I don’t love Luchino with all my heart but because they could have just done it with Silvia’s clip since they were together and give Canecazzo clip to someone ELSE that we actually NEVER see NEVER-you all know where I’m going with this I won’t even say, just know that my most chaotic disaster son deserves better.

- Fede, do not apologize to them, do not approach, do not befriend them, HEADBUT THEM. (I’m not the forviging type)

- I SCREAMED I KEEP SCREAMING I HAD TO PAUSE AND TEXT MY FRIEND TO SCREAM SOME MORE ELIA AND FILIPPO ARE MOVING IN TOGETHER I REPEAT ELIA AND FILIPPO ARE MOVING IN TOGETHER CAN YOU IMAGINE THE CHAOS THAT HOUSE WILL BE, CAN YOU IMAGINE SEASON 5 ELIA LIVING WITH FILIPPO, I-

-But seriously how do we go from crack ship that never ever ever interacted, to crack ship that never ever interacted but in which one said that would fuck the other one immediately, to THEY’RE MOVING IN TOGETHER BESSE REALLY SAID LET’S GIVE THE FANDOM EVERYTHING THEY WANT

- He literally knew we were going to hate him so much for the Sana/Elia thing and made us suffer the entire season just to HIT us at the end he’s so mean I love him

- AND FILIPPO EVEN HIT ON HIM AND ELIA GIGGLED ALL FLATTERED NETFLIX I HOPE YOU’RE ALREADY KNOCKING ON MISS ANDEM’S DOOR WITH YOUR ELIPPO SEASON 5

- ALSO CAN WE TALK ABOUT HOW RAMI IS ABOUT TO ENTER THE ROOM, THEN STOP, SEES THAT ELIA AND FILIPPO ARE TALKING AND IMMEDIATELY WALKS AWAY NOT TO INTERRUPT THIS LEGENDARY MOMENT, HE KNOWS

- Also Elia mentions wanting to go away from his father and like?? Did Besse read all the fanfictions? Is this what Netflix wanted the fanfiction for?

- Anyway I would like to thank not only God but also Ludovico Bessegato

- I TAKE IT BACK IMMEDIATELY WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU, WHY WOULD YOU GIVE ELIA A CLIP AND PUT EMMA COVITTI IN IT, WHAT ARE YOU SUGGESTING BESSE, STOP, THANK GOD GIO FOR AT LEAST TRYING TO STOP THE MADNESS BUT WHEN A MAD MEN LIKE BESSE HATES A FANDOM LIKE HE HATES US NOT EVEN THE WIZARD OF LOVE CAN STOP IT.

- Also, even putting my Elippo feelings aside, what kind of bullshit is that anyway? Can Elia be an actual human being with a brain or does he have to just immediately pursues every single girl, like he was watching Sana two seconds before and now he’s all over Covitti, like Besse what the fuck leave him alone.

- (I’m telling you, if you plan on making Elia/Covitti a thing in a possible season 5 YOU CAN KEEP IT)

- I’m so pissed, where is Rich King Incanti, only he can calm me down.

- KIDDING GIOEVA ENDGAME WORKS JUST AS FINE KSKSKS 

“Without me and you, there would have never been that group of people that slowly created around us” This is Besse saying Gio and Eva started the cycle and Gio and Eva end it DO YOU HEAR ME CRYING.

Things Besse will be sued for: no Edoardo Incanti clip (like???? Why??? He was there anyway at the end, couldn’t they just film something quick???), Elia and Covitti clip existing (at least they didn’t kiss and she was NOT in the last scene so that means that nothing happened thank you very much), they didn’t make Sana sing (WHAT WAS THAT IN BESSE IG STORIES WHERE BEA WAS SINGING IMAGINE, DOES HE JUST LIKE TO TEASE US??? She sings all the time on her IG and she has a beautiful voice, why didn’t they do the karaoke scene with her???).

Things Besse will not be sued for: Gio delivering the speech at the end with the scenes of all of them together making me cry like a baby and literally every single thing in this season.

Now: SEASON 5 WHEN.