Hello! So I’m cataboliac, and you can call me “cata”. My favorite groups are Red Velvet, WJSN , and Dreamcatcher! I love writing stories, so hopefully I get to share my stories and have fun with them along the way. Requests? I can try them but currently, I’m exploring my limits, but I’ll do my best!
Hello, as of December 20, 2023, I am officially "retired" from writing! I am starting a new chapter in my life with my new job! It has been a wonderful 2 years, and I was able to meet so many awesome people around the world. If you see this, please give some love to the rest of my fics here. Until the next life, and thank you for reading!
Hey look, a mobile edition! This was fun putting up. Anyways, have a good day!
(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!!!!!!!!!!!
Let's get some positivity going! What are some of your personal favorite K-pop moments from 2023?! An interaction? A song or album? Meet your fave? Attended a concert, festival or fansign?
Heyyyy Knight Zeke!
There’s surely a lot that has happened in 2023 for K-pop! It was quite an eventful year, and honestly looking back at the songs that debuted this year makes it feel like it has been a longgggg year.
I really loved fromis_9, Dreamcatcher, and Kiss Of Life's comebacks! Kiss Of Life was quite surprising! Also, I am glad the Loona girls are out there, free from their oppressive contracts.
I was actually supposed to watch Dreamcatcher, but I had to sell the ticket because of my boards, I heard they had fun here! I hope to see them maybe the next time in the future if it permits.
My beautiful Sol, how have you been?
What is one of your fics that represents your writing style the best? Or the fic that made you realize "this is how I love to write"?
Mwah mwah mwahhhh
Hello cataboliac, thanks for the ask.
I don't know that I have an answer to that question, Cata, although I suppose you could accuse me of being reliant on attempting inane, humourous scenarios and you'd be mostly accurate (see: 83% of my masterlist).
Hello, it's me Cata. :D
It definitely has been a minute since I have posted a fic and something like this. There is a lot to say, and I don't know how to express them in just mere words. I am writing this to make it "formal" since I have only announced this as the author notes in Enkindle.
Firstly, Enkindle will be the last fic I will ever write. I recently passed a very important board exam last August, and currently living my dream job! I poured the last of my heart and soul into this last fic, and I hope it shows the culmination of all the things I have learned from my friends here. I wouldn't have grown as a writer, or in general, expressing emotions if it weren't for the writing community. So thank you for them. I am blessed to have gotten the best advice and a great set of friends anyone can ask for.
For the readers who followed me since the start of my short journey, thank you! All the small comments, the reblogs, etc. made it all worth it in the end. I am just filled with so much happiness, that I was able to make a small impact here, no matter what. It has been fun sharing whatever my mind had writing these stories.
I will still be around for a message and to support the other writers! Lastly, thank you for reading Enkindle! If you haven't read Enkindle yet, please do! And definitely my other works of love!
This is Cata, signing out. It has been an awfully beautiful adventure. And I would do this again in the next life, in a heartbeat.
Just want to say that your Hyewon fic is in my top list of all the hyewon fics out there.
Cheers! 🍻
Thank you, Anon!
That Hyewon fic was super fun to plan because I wanted a "dancing" scene and was experimenting with how to build up to the climactic reveal. I also wanted to be able to show more, not tell, (in the words of all my editors) while also trying to be as descriptive as possible.
Cheers! 🍻
As a lurking anon reader who has been here since Part 1 and a fan ever since my favourite Hayoung piece dropped, just wanted to pass on my congrats 🤝
Thank you for the kinds words! ❤️
Words like this really made my journey here so worth it, knowing one way or another I was able to entertain people. That Hayoung piece was such a super fun write. I hope you get to enjoy more artists and more works out there! ❤️
Trembling fingers typed out the message, a hesitation lingering in each keystroke. Releasing a deep breath, you then hit the send button. The cold air seemed to thicken—your body grappling with the nerves that had been building up all day. The whirring noise did little to calm the unease as you anxiously waited for her response.
*Hon! Yes. We are about to finish up. Isn’t it early morning where you are now?*
You smile—Wendy has no suspicions whatsoever. The plan is going smoothly.
*I just wanted to start the day right by messaging you first, that’s all.*
*You really know how to make me smile.*
You longed to hear those words from that soothing voice, not distorted behind a microphone or a speaker.
*I miss you so much. Will I see you again for Christmas?*
Her question replaces the nervousness with guilt. You have a definite answer, but she can't know just yet.
The standard excuse would have to do for now.
*Sorry Wannie. I am not sure about the holidays. I’ll keep you updated though, okay?*
*I understand, don't worry. I’m just a bit nervous about our comeback show tomorrow. Wish you were here to see it.*
Seungwan has no idea she's in for such a big surprise.
*You're the best group out there. You're gonna crush it. I will stay up to watch it!*
*I love you. Thank you for always knowing how to cheer me up. Good morning! And good night! :) <3 *
*Goodnight Wannie, I love you too.*
“And see you tomorrow,” you murmur as you look out the porthole. The hum of the engine finally became a comforting backdrop as you neared the end of this carefully orchestrated surprise. The bright Korean skyline slowly comes into view—the warm glow of lights welcoming you home—as the plane makes its final landing approach to Incheon Airport.
Two years have flown by since you left Korea. The rhythm of your days found a new beat on the chilly streets of your hometown of San Francisco, where you busied yourself teaching choreography classes. You were no longer bound by the constraints of a strict schedule or dietary regimen, relishing in the anonymity that accompanied the bustling life. Rarely did anyone recognize you, and in this newfound simplicity, you were living.
Yet, the plainness of your new life couldn't fill the void that persisted in your heart. No matter how hard you tried to occupy your time, a significant part of you remained in Seoul. You left many friends and family, leaving an unmistakable ache.
Especially the absence of the love of your life.
Despite agreeing to a long-distance relationship, you and Seungwan were entering unknown territory. It terrified you both to the core. But you found a way to make it work, communicating daily through messages and video calls. Whether it was before dawn or late at night, your day wouldn't feel complete without sharing moments with each other. The longing for physical closeness only intensified as time passed—the desire to return to Korea echoed persistently in your mind.
Thankfully, you saw each other a few times last year. The previous visit was for Christmas—nearly 11 months ago. You both knew that these sporadic reunions were not sustainable in the long run. The absence of physical intimacy, the constant effort to maintain emotional connections, and the doubts lingering in your minds all pointed towards an inevitable ending.
But you weren't willing to let it end like that.
That's why, since your last trip, you've been quietly discussing plans with friends and family. This next trip will hopefully be more permanent—a chance for a more lasting connection.
You hated keeping Seungwan in the dark, but on the other hand, you didn't want to give her false hope if the plan fell through. It was more important to ensure this worked for a long-term stay before telling her.
Your musings are interrupted by the last of your luggage passing by you on the conveyor belt. Thankfully, you grab it effortlessly and lump it onto the trolley. With all of your belongings in check, you head outside.
As you exit the revolving doors of Incheon Airport, the icy fresh air of Korea greets you once more in its cold, loving embrace as you step out the doors of Incheon Airport. You have almost forgotten how unforgiving the nippy chill of your hometown can be, forcing you to zip up the rest of your jacket. It is so cold you could see the vapor escaping your mouth as you exhale.
Your phone suddenly rings, making you jump in surprise. You’ve been on guard tonight because you didn’t want news of you arriving in Korea. You quickly check your phone, only to release an exasperated sigh.
*Hey, have you landed yet? :P *
*Sooyoung… I told you not to message me when you’re with Seungwan…*
*So you did land! Welcome back! :P *
*And stop worrying so much! The other three are keeping Seungwan busy. And how will you know where to enter tomorrow? :P *
Inhaling deeply, you release a breath, expelling all the pent-up nerves. Your shoulders gradually relax, a noticeable lightness replacing the tension. Admittedly, there's a twinge of anxiety about tomorrow, but Sooyoung's wisdom prevails—let the plan unfold naturally.
*Fine, fine. What is the plan for tomorrow?*
While waiting for Sooyoung's text, you navigate your trolley through the parking lot in search of your ride to the Airbnb. A distant flash of car headlights grabs your attention. As you draw near, the familiar silver van evokes a wave of fond memories, a visual echo of countless rides to various schedules.
You stand in front of the van—and without warning—the passenger door opens, and someone engulfs into you with a hug.
"You bastard! It is so good to see you again!" Jaesung crushes you with a bear hug, almost taking the air out of your lungs. You manage to reciprocate, laughing as he whips you around like a ragdoll. He was always the most affectionate and most sociable among your group mates.
"Never change, man. Never change. Now let me in the car!"
With the help of Jaesung you get your things in the van and leave the parking lot without anyone recognizing you. With some breathing time, Jaesung catches you up on the latest news around the company.
"And all the new trainees are super talented! We try to be more lenient with them, especially the younger ones in school,” Jaesung says excitedly. He decided to stay with the company and help train the new talent.
“This new role really fits you Jae. I'm glad you stayed.” It helps that Jaesung was the leader of your group before getting disbanded.
“And soon we will be complete again! Once everyone is free,” Jaesung says, a hopeful—and now—realistic wish now that you are here.
"Just focus on your surprise with your 'Wannie' baby," Jaesung adds, his cutesy teasing tone making you cover your face in embarrassment.
The van stops at your destination just in time to save you from more teasing. However, this is not the Airbnb you booked. This actually looks like the subdivision you used to live in.
“Jae, what are we doing here?” you ask him as he helps bring your luggage down from the van.
“This is my surprise to you. Open up your hand.” Fearing another of his famous pranks, you reluctantly open your hand to Jaesung, and he drops you the key to your old apartment—the familiar orange keychain still attached.
“No way…”
“Yeah, way! Don’t worry about it, okay? We talked to the place you booked, and we will figure it out. I kept the place tidy for you. And you got it all to yourself for a week cause I will be out for team building with the trainees. I am sure you will have only one guest over."
You jingle the keys in your hand, a cascade of memories flooding your mind. From returning home after misadventures to triumphant schedules and that unforgettable night when you confessed to Seungwan—that apartment was a safe space for you.
“I don’t know what to say… just thank you so much Jae.”
“Don't get too sentimental on me yet! Now give me another hug.” The two of you embrace. Jaesung is the heart and soul of your group. The brotherly bonds never faded over time—they only grew stronger.
"Rest up. You have a surprise tomorrow. See you next week, lover boy!”
Jaesung enters the elevator, and you wave goodbye to each other. Feeling inspired by his thoughtful gesture, you turn towards the door of your old apartment with newfound confidence in your plan. Just then, your phone rings, bringing a detailed message from Sooyoung about the surprise strategy. A smile slowly spreads across your face until it reaches its edges. The realization hits you like a speeding train—you are finally on the verge of reuniting with Seungwan.
Red Velvet bows and thanks their audience again for coming to support them. They did not want to leave the stage, but they still had lots to do for the next day. The standing ovation reverberates through the concert hall, the thunderous cheers accompanying their descent down a corridor toward the private room. In the wake of their performance, the members of their dedicated staff resoundingly offer their congratulations for yet another triumphant fan-sign event.
The excitement from the event engulfs Seungwan in a surge of dopamine, saturating her heart with indescribable joy—the feeling is still the same no matter how far someone is in their career. Being back on stage and able to perform is a feeling she could never trade away. It distracted her from thinking about other things.
Specifically, it distracted her from her thoughts of him. She really wished he could be there, but she knew affording a flight to Korea was no small feat. Seungwan missed it all—the simple touch of his hands, his cheering that pumped her up, the fiery devotion that set her soul on fire. Missing the love of her life came in waves, and sometimes Seungwan felt she was drowning.
At least for now, Seungwan can surface and put all those negative feelings at the back of her mind and focus all her energy on the comeback.
While they walked, the members stuck close to Seungwan, feeling more affectionate than usual. Sooyoung wrapped around Seungwan’s shoulder, holding her close to her side.
"Such a fun fan sign! I even got this cute toy from this sweet fan," Sooyoung says as she holds out a miniature plushie of herself.
"Hey, why didn't I get one? Obvious favoritism!" Yeri shouts, playfully narrowing her eyes and making the others chuckle.
"It doesn't feel so long since our last comeback, but the feeling never gets old," Seulgi says as she throws an arm around Seungwan’'s waist.
Joohyun, who was ahead of everyone, opens the door to their room and peaks inside. She smiles knowingly—satisfied with what she sees—then closes the door and waits for everyone to come closer.
Everyone stops in front of Joohyun, much to Seungwan's bewilderment. "Is there something wrong?" Seungwan asks.
“I took a quick peek inside and saw something interesting. I think it is for all of us,” Joohyun says as she opens the door and steps inside.
“Oh, a surprise?! Let’s see!” Yeri exclaims excitedly.
Everyone enters the room, but the rest hang by the door to let Seungwan explore first.
The room started off simple with basic furniture. Now, it's transformed, decked out in oriental banners, colorful streamers, and red and black wallpaper that matches the classy Chill Kill theme. Giant balloons proudly declare "Congratulations" on one wall. But the most fascinating part is the center table, adorned with a red gift-wrapped box and a bunch of violets—Seungwan's favorite flowers.
Seungwan is left utterly speechless, her mind swarming with a million questions. Slowly, she approaches the bouquet and spots an envelope with her name on it, casually leaning against the box. As she picks it up, her heart skips a beat or two. The distinct cursive handwriting is unmistakably his.
A rush of emotions hits Seungwan like a tidal wave. As she reached for the thick, cream-colored envelope, Seungwan's hands trembled. The weight of emotions threatened to overwhelm her, and she struggled to steady her breathing as tears blurred her vision. Her heart pounded in her chest, aching with anticipation. Trying to control her shaky fingers, she tore open the envelope and unfolded the letter inside.
Congratulations on the comeback Wannie! Words cannot put how lucky I am to have met you, that my love is yours, and our two lives are woven and welded together. I will always be beside you. I promise.
As Seungwan read the words on the page, her heart began to flutter, and her cheeks flushed rosy red. She couldn't help but embrace the letter tightly against her chest, imagining the feeling of his arms around her. The bouquet of freshly picked flowers, a mystery gift tucked within, and now this heartfelt letter; he always had a way of surprising her. Yet, as grateful as she was for these tokens of love, they reminded her of his absence. The room felt emptier than ever as if it longed for him to fill it with his presence. These conflicting emotions stirred in Seungwan's heart, intensifying her longing for him even more.
“This…this is so beautiful. I really wished you were here,” she says, hoping the winds carry her words to the other side of the world.
“I always got your back.”
Seungwan freezes, her body reacting to that familiar voice—the hairs on her skin rising, hands shaking, and knees threatening to give out. Memories of doubts and fears resurface, remnants of a time when she believed she might never be together with the love of her life again. Those thoughts lingered in the shadows of her mind, haunting her, especially when she was all alone.
Will I ever see him again?
Will he be the same?
Does he truly love me?
Then, that deep, unmistakable baritone voice filled the room, and Seungwan couldn't help but feel a sense of comfort wash over her. She had always held a special place for him in her heart, like a "Reserved" sign on a quiet table in a restaurant—a place she kept safe, hoping she wouldn't be left waiting.
And today, her date had finally arrived.
It was a moment she had been eagerly waiting for, yet also dreading—for Seungwan's biggest fear was losing him and being left alone once again. But she was determined to let go of her fears and embrace him with open arms.
She had worked tirelessly to elevate her love above the paralyzing clutches of fear, constantly striving to better herself so he would see her proud of the growth she had nurtured.
Seungwan believed in miracles and held onto the belief that everyone is meant to live a life full of passion, purpose, and magic. As an idol, it was her duty to share this belief with others and spread positivity wherever she went.
As she turned around, Seungwan finally laid eyes on the one person she had been yearning for so long; her faith was finally rewarded. A warm smile spread on her face as she took in his features. In this beautiful moment, all her worries melted away, and she knew that everything would be okay with him by her side.
It had been approximately 11 months, 12 days, and 23 hours since you last saw Son Seungwan in person. The sight of her now feels like a lightning strike, transporting you back to the moment she first captured your heart. Those full honey lips that speak words of kindness, full moon eyes that seek out the good in people, gentle hair that tumbled in such rich autumnal hues—love grew, yet she still is the same woman you fell so hard in love with.
“Wendy—”
Before you can say another word, Seungwan closes the distance between you and throws herself into your arms with a hug so tight it seems she will never let you go again. You embrace her firmly, taking a step back from the force of her impact. Your collar becomes wet with her tears as she cries out in disbelief while clinging to you. You rub her back soothingly, hoping to alleviate the flood of emotions within her.
"I am here," you repeat to her—and to reassure yourself.
A couple sniffles are heard behind you. "Girls, let's give the two some alone time," Joohyun says as she leads the girls out of the room.
It takes a moment for Seungwan's breathing to slow. She pulls away from the side of your neck, those hypnotic brown eyes finally meeting yours.
"Ow!" you suddenly cry out as a sharp pain between your shoulder blades shoots up; Seungwan's hand connects with your back.
“How could you do that to me? Making me cry in my makeup and in front of the girls. They are going to tease me to death…” Seungwan says with a pout, but her eyes beam with radiant joy.
Using your free hand, you retrieve a handkerchief from your pocket to gently dab away the excess tears and makeup that had smudged her face—though she was beautiful regardless. When finished, you return the cloth to its place and hold her face in your hands.
Unfortunately, you could not contain the guilt that was eating you up. “I am so sorry. I didn't want you to hold on to any false hope. I needed to be sure I could stay here longer. I am so sorry–"
Seungwan's velvety lips claim yours with such passion that the weight of any apologies you carry melts away. Your body responds instinctively to her warmth, your lips dancing in perfect unison with hers. As you close your eyes, you are enveloped in a sensory symphony—the plush sensation of each kiss, her favorite fruity perfume invading your senses, and the hint of her sweet strawberry lip tint adding to the intoxicating experience. Your hands move from her face to her shoulders, pulling her closer in a warm embrace as you reacquaint yourself with the feeling of her touch. She sighs contentedly, drawing you nearer as if coaxing out more breath from your lungs.
She breaks the kiss, leaning on your forehead, catching her breath. "Don't you dare say sorry, please. You are here, and that means everything to me."
You exhale, the tension finally dissipating from your body. “Okay. Okay, I won’t.”
“How did you manage to plan all of this?” she asks as she thumbs your cheek and caresses your chin.
“A couple months worth of planning. I had to coordinate a lot with your members and manager.”
“How long are you staying?”
"Actually… that’s the best part. I am planning to stay in Korea. Possibly for good." The words roll off your tongue effortlessly.
Seungwan's jaw drops, the words short-circuiting her mind in disbelief. "Wait… you’re not leaving?"
You smile, realizing the weight of your words. “I am here to stay.”
Seungwan snuggles into the warmth of your embrace, her laughter ringing in the room in pure disbelief and happiness. After moments of tears, this was a welcomed change, a beautiful call of joy filling the room as she hugged you tighter. Lifting her off the ground, you spin around in an impromptu dance, caught up in the euphoric moment. The realization that you can now share your life together after being apart for so long hits you both with a rush of emotion.
"Wait, did you just propose?!"
"And did you say yes?!"
"Girls! Let them have their moment!"
The rest of Red Velvet stands by the open door, Sooyoung and Yeri playfully held back by Seulgi and Joohyun. You stop and gently set Seungwan on her feet as the others eagerly await your answer. With the moment gone, you intertwine your fingers with hers, content to bask in the romantic moment amidst your friends' presence.
"Don't worry about it. We'll have plenty more opportunities," you say as you lay a gentle kiss on Seungwan's hand. She leans on your shoulder, attempting to conceal her face, not as confident yet in displays of affection in front of her group.
“Ew, too cheesy. I will let it go for now since we get to see Wendy squirm like this,” Seulgi says, holding up her phone to take some pictures.
“Did you open your gift yet?” Joohyun asks Seungwan.
You see the gift box left unopened. Letting Seungwan go, you grab the gift and hand it to her. “Go ahead! I can’t wait for you to see it.”
Seungwan unties the ribbon, allowing it to gracefully fall to the ground. She carefully removes the wrapping paper, revealing a simple black box with no distinguishing features. As she gently shakes it, a faint rattling sound can be heard from within. Intrigued, she lifts the lid, revealing a stunning silver heart necklace. You watch as she becomes enamored with the necklace, running her fingers over its texture and holding it up for a closer look. The other girls gather around her, gushing over the romantic gift.
"I know you already have almost everything, but I wanted to get you something special. Something I haven't given you before... so here it is." Your words come out slightly nervous, unintentionally giving away your feelings, but Seungwan wraps you in another warm hug.
"It's perfect. Will you put it on me?"
She turns around, lifting her hair to expose her slender neck. You take the necklace and delicately place it around her neck, securing the clasp. Turning back around, Seungwan beams at you and plays with the heart pendant hanging from the chain. It does look perfect on her.
"You look beautiful."
As Seulgi snaps a photo and the rest of the girls coo in admiration, this romantic moment is now captured in both of your memories. Your hand seeks hers again, intertwining your fingers and savoring her tender touch.
"Will you join us for dinner?" she asks.
"I wish I could, but I've got to see my grandparents tonight." You catch Seungwan's slight pout, but you squeeze her hand reassuringly.
"I know the group is busy tomorrow, so I made sure to reserve you all to myself the day after, okay?"
Seungwan glances at her group, and they nod back reassuringly. You've ensured a whole day-date, a semblance of a regular routine day with her.
"You really planned for everything. I'm so excited for our day together," she says, kissing you on the cheek.
"And thank you, girls, you've all been amazing with the planning," you acknowledge the girls.
"You better make sure not to hurt her, okay?" Joohyun threatens though the laughter that ensues indicates she's only joking.
As everyone pitches in to help the staff dismantle the decorations, you catch up with the rest of the group. Tomorrow is slated with radio promotions and another music show. Yeri teases about her solo album for next year, adding extra motivation for this comeback. Sooyoung shares updates on her dating life with Crush. Joohyun plans to focus more on acting, while Seulgi is gearing up to delve deeper into studying music production. With the tidying up almost complete, you accompany the girls to the exit.
"I'll see you in two days, okay?" You embrace Seungwan, inhaling her sweet, flowery perfume, still in disbelief that she's in your arms.
"I will. I'm so happy you're back." Seungwan places a tender kiss on your lips before joining the rest of the girls outside.
Finally, alone in the hallway, you slowly lower yourself into an empty chair, a wave of mental and emotional exhaustion washing over you from the whirlwind of the past couple of hours. As you sit there, you can't help but imagine the countless plans for your upcoming date with Seungwan—the words you want to say, the moments you want to share.
You quickly try to freshen up, one hand clutching onto your towel while the other manages a toothbrush in your mouth. The relentless jet lag caused you to sleep through the alarm. Seungwan is about to arrive, and you're not even close to being ready.
After a quick mouth rinse, you rush to your closet to look for the outfit you meticulously planned for the day. Just as you pull your shirt over your head, the doorbell chimes.
"Hold on a sec!" you shout as loud as you can.
As you finish adjusting your shirt and straightening your collar in the mirror, you notice a few stray hairs and quickly tame them with a comb. You double-check your pockets to make sure you have everything you need before confidently heading towards the door. But before turning the knob, you pause and take a deep breath, mentally preparing yourself for what lies beyond. With a calm exhale, you twist the doorknob and are greeted by a breathtaking sight.
Seungwan radiates confidence in her stylish winter ensemble, a crisp white coat effortlessly draped over her figure. Underneath, an oversized black sweater and a pair of form-fitting jeans show off her curves. Her smile is infectious, lighting up her cheeks that you love to pinch. Her luscious chocolate-hued locks fall freely around her shoulders, the delicate snowflakes adorning them like jewels in a crown. Seungwan's impeccable sense of fashion only adds to her breathtaking beauty—she could make heads turn at every corner.
“It's rude to stare, love,” she playfully chides, the familiar line eliciting a smile from you.
"Sorry, I'm not used to seeing snow angels walk."
"Ugh, too cheesy and still a terrible flirt. You need to relearn my tricks," Seungwan teases, and the two of you share a warm hug, sealed with a chaste kiss on your lips.
"I could use a refresher course. Maybe with a private demonstration?"
"Now, that's a bit better," Seungwan giggles, seemingly satisfied with your response. Banter with her feels as natural as breathing.
"What was with all the noise a while ago?" she asks.
You blush, scratching your head in embarrassment. "You heard all of that? I… kinda woke up late. I was pretty excited for today."
"You are so adorable. What are we doing today anyway?" she asks, sliding her gloved hand into yours.
"Lunch out, grocery shopping after, then I cook you a nice dinner back here. We end the night with a nice movie. How does that sound?" After closing the door, you lead Seungwan by the hand, embarking on a journey towards your date.
“That sounds like a lovely day.”
Today is the dreaded Monday, marking the start of a new work week. As you board the train, you find it teeming with all sorts of individuals—from diligent students to dedicated salarymen, engrossed in the routine of their daily commutes. The air carries a palpable sense of anticipation, passengers absorbed in their smartphones, occasionally stealing glances in expectation of their respective stops.
However, for you, Monday unfolds as a comforting embrace of normalcy. This is an opportunity for you and Seungwan to revel in the simple authenticity of being yourselves—even if it is just for today. The disguises you two have ensured you won't be recognized, allowing yourselves to go with the flow of people. To the casual observer, you and Seungwan appear as just another couple navigating their way through the ordinary rhythm of a morning commute.
“Arriving at Myeong-dong Station. Please exit on this side"
"This is our stop; let's go! Ready for some lunch?" you ask, leading Seungwan through the sea of people in search of the exit.
Emerging onto the bustling Myeong-dong Shopping Street, the air becomes an enticing medley of delectable aromas from the food vendors. Amid the crowd, you instinctively draw Seungwan closer, ensuring she doesn't get lost in the lively atmosphere. The vendors enthusiastically beckon passersbys to sample their diverse specialties. The sizzling sounds emanating from the pans awaken your appetite, making you lick your lips in anticipation. Although it's been a while since your last visit, the enchantment of this place floods you with cherished memories—and sparks the potential for new ones in the future.
"Anything in mind? You've got an endless supply of food choices." It's been more than a year since you last visited, and the place is surprisingly bustling for this time of day.
Seungwan squeals in joy, already tugging you around to explore the food stalls. "Then what are you waiting for? Let’s go!!"
You observe as Seungwan scans the vibrant street, her eyes searching for anything interesting among the colorful food stalls. Suddenly, her gaze locks onto a stall with skewers. As you both draw closer, the irresistible scent of grilled meat wafts through the air, captivating your senses. The cook applies a generous layer of butter on the hot grill before slowly placing a square Wagyu cube onto the surface. You both watch in anticipation as the meat begins to sizzle and cook to perfection, the savory aroma intensifying with each passing moment.
"How about these? They look amazing!"
Agreeing with her choice, you both approach the vendor. They greet you with a friendly smile as you pick a variety of skewers—odeng, succulent meats, and even some grilled vegetables. You grab the first of the sticks, giving one to Seungwan. Her eyes light up with delight as she chews into the beef.
"This is so yummy! What's next?"
As you and Seungwan wander through the bustling street market, your eyes dart from one colorful food stall to the next. The sweet aroma of freshly made pancakes entices you, while spicy tteokbokki calls Seungwan from a nearby grill. You both eagerly try different dishes, laughing as you compare flavors and textures. Your stomachs eventually reach their limit, and Seungwan spots a cozy café tucked away in a quiet corner. With relief, you sink into plush chairs, relishing the memories made and the delicious treats still lingering on your tongues.
“I’m stuffed, the tteokbokki finished me,” Seungwan says as she rubs her stomach, sitting down next to you.
“That’s because you had two servings,” you tease, earning you a slap on the shoulder.
“I can’t help it if it's my favorite snack.”
Relaxing in the warm and inviting atmosphere of this café, you chat casually while enjoying your hot chocolate and Americano. Seungwan leans against you comfortably, and together you watch people walking by outside. The usual stress of strict managers, rabid fans, and a rigid schedule fades away as you both savor the simple joy of being in the present moment.
"Ready to move?" you ask, and Seungwan nods after sipping the last of her drink. Slipping back into the lively crowd, you guide her to the next destination—an inviting supermarket.
"Next on our agenda: grocery shopping! Any special requests for tonight's menu?"
Seungwan ponders for a moment, her expression playfully pouting in thought. "I've been craving some spicy beef soup lately... that's not too difficult, right?"
"Not at all! We can definitely do that. The ingredients should be easy to find," you assure her with a grin.
You push a grocery cart confidently through the supermarket, starting with spices and making your way to vegetables before finishing with the crucial component: meat. Seungwan's sharp eye spots the perfect beef brisket, and you add a bottle of soju for a tasty pairing.
At the cashier, you hand over your card and notice the lingering gaze of the cashier as he inspects your name with a subtle smile on his lips. He nods at you, hinting at recognition. Seungwan looks over, also confused by the cashier's behavior.
After paying and packing up your groceries, the cashier bids farewell with a friendly wink.
"Thanks for choosing our store.”
"I always have your back!" he adds.
You're taken aback by his words—your catchphrase.
As you leave the store, a sense of comfort washes over you thanks to the subtle acknowledgment from the cashier. It's a reminder that you can make an impact, and this thought stays with you as you step back into the busy streets.
“We should take a taxi; we got a lot of stuff to carry,” you suggest.
The clock strikes 4:00 pm. The blazing tangerine sun begins its descent, painting the cerulean sky with a stunning vermillion glow. The streets are bustling with even more people, their voices blending in a symphony of noise. After searching for a while, you finally hail a taxi to take you home. As the car navigates through the bright city lights, Seungwan rests peacefully on your shoulder. You can't help but reflect on the day that has passed—a whirlwind of emotions, shared laughter, and moments with someone who truly understands you. Though this adventure has ended, the warmth it sparked lingers, promising an intimate evening ahead.
The keys jingle in your hand as you insert them into your front door, the metallic locks engaging as the knob turns. "Finally, home sweet home."
You place the groceries in the fridge, waiting to be used for tonight's cooking session. Beyond the kitchen lay the soft glow of the living room, ready to cradle you both in the embrace of a movie night. As the sky turned into a black carpet peppered with shining stars, the possibility of a connection transcended the ordinary, etching the day into the tapestry of unforgettable memories.
"Hey, want to take a break before we cook?" Seungwan suggests, patting the empty space beside her on the couch.
"We?" you inquire as you settle next to her. Seungwan pulls you in, her arms encircling your waist, snuggling closer. "I don't mind the help, but today is all about you."
Seungwan giggles, rewarding you with a quick peck on the lips. "You're always so thoughtful, but it’s our day. Plus, how will I know you won't accidentally set the place on fire?"
"Oh, you might be surprised by how much I've improved," you counter, playfully jabbing a finger into her side and attacking her ticklish spot. Seungwan bursts into laughter, thrashing your arms.
"Wait! Enough! Okay, I trust you for later! Now hush, and let me cuddle with you a bit longer."
You both sink into the plush fabric of the couch, her body pressed against yours. The room is quiet except for the sounds of her steady breaths, which match the gentle movements of her chest. Your fingers slowly explore her smooth skin, rediscovering every inch of her porcelain complexion. In this peaceful moment, you exchange soft kisses on each other's foreheads and cheeks, occasionally lingering on each other's lips in a tender embrace.
The peace is abruptly broken by the sound of your stomach growling like a machine, making the two of you howl in laughter.
“How are you always so hungry?”
“I mean, we did walk around a lot today. Come on, dinner won’t cook itself.”
After washing your hands, a delightful surprise awaits as two arms lovingly snake around your waist. Turning around, you find Seungwan with a mischievous grin, playfully tying an apron around you. "Ready to showcase your cooking prowess?"
"Absolutely prepared to dazzle you with my culinary magic!" you exclaim, punctuating your words with an exaggerated twirl of your hands. Gathering the groceries from the fridge, you arrange them across the kitchen counter in a colorful display.
"Magic, huh? Well, I'm ready to be enchanted. What's our first spell?" Seungwan quips.
You slide the vegetables and the wooden chopping board over to Seungwan. "How about you work your magic with these? Chop them up while I prepare the meat."
Seungwan nods eagerly and grabs a nearby knife. She grabs a radish and skillfully chops it into uniform squares. Meanwhile, you expertly portion the meat into chunks, placing them into a generously sized pot you had readied earlier.
Amid the rhythmic chopping, you lean close to Seungwan, your warm breath sending a shiver down her spine. "You know, you're the best chef any culinary wizard could ask for."
Her cheeks blush with a delightful warmth. Seungwan steals a quick kiss on your cheek before cheekily pushing you away. "Keep those compliments coming, and I might just grant you access to a... special tasting."
“Be careful, I would do more than just taste,” you quip back, making Seungwan blush even more than the spices she is expertly mixing.
It takes a while to carefully arrange all the meat and radish into the pot. After setting the heat to medium and closing the lid, you join Seungwan in cutting up the rest of the vegetables. In the midst of the chopping, you open the fridge, retrieving the bottle of soju. You uncork it, pouring a shot for each of you. Tapping Seungwan's shoulder to grab her attention, you propose a toast.
“Let’s take a quick break before I check on the meat. What should we toast to?” you ask, raising your glass to Seungwan.
She reciprocates the gesture, intertwining her hand with yours. “To us. I still can’t believe you are here; it means the world to me. Thank you for the best surprise ever”
“To us.”
The two of you clink your glasses and then down the shot, savoring the sweet strawberry flavor swirling around your tongues and down your throats. A swift kiss on Seungwan's forehead punctuates this intimate moment before focusing back on the simmering pot.
With practiced precision, you carefully remove any impurities from the stew and discard them in the waste can. A satisfied grin spreads across your face as you examine the perfectly cooked meat, even inserting a knife to confirm its tenderness. You add it to the bowl of spices Seungwan has meticulously prepared, and you mix everything together with care, taking turns when one of you gets tired. Once everything is well-mixed, you transfer the flavorful combination into a clean pot, turning up the heat and sealing it with a lid.
All that remains is to wait for the 15-minute timer to sound off. As you head back to the couch, you notice Seungwan making her way to your bedroom with her bag in tow.
"I'm going to take a quick shower. And no, you can't join. Not yet, anyway," Seungwan declares, followed by a playful giggle and a wink in your direction.
You stare, dumbfounded, as Seungwan gracefully removes her shirt in one fluid motion. A fleeting glimpse of her bare back adorned with a red lacy bra almost takes your breath away. But before you can fully process the sight, her discarded t-shirt is suddenly covering your face, obscuring your view. You hear the door to your room close and know she's left, but a soft laugh escapes your lips as you fold her shirt and place it on the couch. With some time alone, you browse through popular romance movies while eagerly anticipating the intimate magic that will unfold with Seungwan after her refreshing shower.
You stumble upon the perfect movie just as the alarm announces that dinner is finally ready. Swiftly turning off the TV, you make a beeline for the kitchen. Lifting the lid, you give the stew a stir before seizing a spoon to sample the creation. The spicy tang of the soup dances on your tongue, each spice contributing to a delightful symphony of flavors. The vegetables are cooked to perfection—soft and infused with the spices. You relish the rich essence of the meat, savoring its tenderness as you taste a piece.
“I heard the alarm! How does it taste?” Seungwan's voice echoes from the hallway, her footsteps drawing nearer.
“Try it yourself! You are in for a treat.”
Seungwan strolls into the kitchen, clad in an oversized black long-sleeved blouse, paired with her favorite gray sweatpants. The ensemble is simple yet exudes comfort and elegance. As she glides past you to fetch a spoon, the delightful scent of her favorite fruity shampoo lingers in your mind, causing your heart to flutter ever so slightly. Observing her tasting the soup, you witness her face light up like a Christmas tree, a radiant expression that adds warmth to the homey kitchen atmosphere.
"Wow, that Yukgaejang is delicious! Consider me charmed, my magical chef," Seungwan exclaims, accompanying her words with a high-five.
"Glad that it impressed you. Couldn't have done it without my wonderful sous chef," you respond with a grin.
"You've definitely stepped up your game! Come on, let’s set the table; I'm starving!"
Together, you and Seungwan set the table with plates and silverware for two. You carefully place the pot on a sturdy surface so that it will not damage the delicate cloth underneath. Seungwan brings over the already open bottle of soju and pours two shots. The fragrant stew is served, and you both sit at the table, ready to enjoy the fruits of your culinary collaboration.
Seungwan raises her shot glass, proposing a toast once again. “What should we give thanks for this time?”
You pause, deep in thought, while you rest your chin on your hand before coming up with an answer. “Let's toast to a successful comeback for you! I hope you get to showcase your beautiful voice even more.”
Seungwan's cheeks turn a deep shade of red as she laughs in delight at your praise. Together, you down the shot and quickly express gratitude for the food before eagerly digging in.
The meat was cooked to perfection, a tender and succulent masterpiece that effortlessly parted with every bite. The blend of spices was impeccable, offering a subtle sting that elevated the flavors and made your taste buds dance. As you sipped on the smooth soju, it complemented the meal in perfect harmony, adding a touch of warmth and depth to each dish. Your conversations with Seungwan were seamless, transitioning between updates from the fast-paced idol world to the simple nuances and joys of your everyday lives. The laughter and chatter rose and fell like a soothing melody, creating an atmosphere of comfort and closeness amidst the feast before you.
Seungwan savors the last spoonful of her soup, letting out a satisfied exhale and tenderly rubbing her stomach. "Okay, now I'm absolutely stuffed. It tasted just like Mom's cooking!"
"I've been practicing some of your favorite dishes, just in case," you confess, avoiding direct eye contact. Nervousness tingles through you as you admit this, the desire for the evening to be perfect for her evident.
"You're such a sweetheart. Thanks for remembering." Seungwan rises from her seat, dashing over to you and enveloping you in a tight, appreciative hug.
“Anything for you.”
The two of you tidy up the remnants of dinner, carefully storing the leftovers in a Tupperware container. After placing the food in the fridge, you excuse yourself for a quick shower while Seungwan prepares for movie night.
Under the soothing stream of hot water, you reflect on the special day spent with her. Usually, plans can fall apart, yet tonight has been nothing short of perfect. You hope there are little days like these to share with her in the busy years to come. After a brisk drying off and a quick change of clothes, you find Seungwan engrossed in her phone, a bowl of popcorn perched on the table, and the movie already queued up.
“What's the movie about?” Seungwan inquires as she cozies up to you, resting her head on your chest. Your arms envelop her waist, and your legs naturally intertwine with hers, creating an intimate embrace.
“It's called 'Nothing Serious.' So it's about two strangers who despise dating but meet through an app. Sounds cliché, but Sooyoung highly recommended it.”
"I'm a total sucker for these chick flicks! What are we waiting for?" she exclaims, eagerly reaching for the remote and clicking the play button.
The film seemingly starts with a standard storyline: two individuals, weary of the dating scene, decide to give a dating app one last shot. Yet, what captivates you about the movie are the authentic characters and a plot that unfolds with logical precision.
Personally, you find a connection with the male lead. The character arc, shifting from one job to another, mirrors the quest for a stable connection—echoing the cycle of moving from one relationship to the next, hoping for something enduring.
On the flip side, the female lead exudes stability but carries the baggage of a long-term relationship. Certain aspects of the character evoke thoughts of Seungwan, and you find yourself entirely absorbed in the narrative.
As the movie progresses, you can't help but steal glances at Seungwan. Her eyes are fixed on the screen, her expression a mixture of amusement and contemplation. These little moments make you realize how lucky you are to have her by your side. The warmth of her body against yours creates a sense of comfort, a feeling that makes you believe in the power of relationships.
Lost in your thoughts, you find yourself wondering about the future. Where do you see yourself and Seungwan in five years? Ten years? The possibilities seem endless, yet you can't help but feel a tinge of apprehension. Will your relationship withstand the test of time? Will you both be able to navigate the challenges that life throws your way?
But as you steal another glance at Seungwan, her eyes meet yours, and all the doubts wash away. In this moment, it's as if time stands still, and the worries about the future fade into insignificance. Today, with all its wondrous details, comes rushing back to you—the laughter shared over lunch, the gentle touch of her hand on yours during groceries, and her smile lights up the room during dinner.
Seungwan, sensing a shift in your mood, pulls away slightly and looks at you with concern etched across her face. "What's wrong?" she asks softly, her voice filled with genuine worry.
You take a deep breath, gathering your thoughts before responding to Seungwan's question. You reach out to her and gently cup her face, your thumb tracing circles on her cheek.
"Nothing is wrong, Seungwan," you assure her, mustering a small smile. "I was just lost in my thoughts, thinking about how lucky I am to have you in my life." Her expression softens as she leans into your touch, her arms slowly intertwining around you.
"You're the one who makes me feel lucky every single day. You found a way to keep us together and found a way back to me," she whispers, her voice filled with tenderness.
"I know we've both had our fair share of ups and downs, and the future can be uncertain," you confess, your voice tinged with vulnerability. "But being here with you. Right now. In this moment, I believe we can face anything together."
Seungwan's eyes glisten with tears. "I believe it," she replies softly. "We've weathered storms, and nothing could make me happier. We can do this. Together. For the rest of our lives."
You sit silently for a moment, letting Seungwan's words sink in. She's right, you think to yourself. You've faced obstacles and challenges before, and you've come out stronger together. The doubts and uncertainties about the future fade as a renewed sense of hope and determination washes over you.
With every passing day, your love for each other grew powerful. You navigated through life's challenges hand in hand, supporting and encouraging one another every step of the way. Together, you inspired each other to reach for the stars and chase after your dreams.
As the movie climaxes, you and Seungwan inch closer to each other on the couch. Your eyes flicker from her luscious lips to her awaiting body, unable to decide where to focus first in this moment of intense desire. Your heartbeat thunders in you—overcharged like a thundering storm about to unleash its power. It's as if all the love and passion built up over the years together is now coursing through your veins, causing every nerve ending in your body to spark with electricity. Adrenaline surges through you, making it impossible to sit still as you feel yourself being pulled closer to Seungwan by an irresistible force. The warmth of her body seeps into your skin, making your heart race and your nerves tingle.
Seungwan's almond-shaped eyes flicker with a potent mix of desire and vulnerability, revealing the intense emotions below the surface. They dart between your eyes, lingering on your lips with an almost palpable hunger. A glossy sheen coats her full, pouty mouth as she licks it hungrily, biting down gently with trembling anticipation. Each rise and fall of her chest is like a heavy drumbeat, her breaths coming in labored gasps that fill the air with heated tension. The deafening silence between you is only broken by the sound of her clothes rustling as her thighs rub together uncontrollably in response to her overwhelming desire for you.
Your other hand trembles as it reaches out to cup Seungwan's face, the need to touch her overwhelming. Your fingers trace every curve and angle of her jawline with aching tenderness, reveling in the softness of her skin beneath your touch. Her breath hit ever so slightly as her eyes searched yours, their depths filled with longing and desire. In this shared gaze, you find solace and reassurance—a silent understanding of all that has led to this moment. The stolen glances whispered confessions, and unspoken declarations culminated in this intense and electric connection between you both.
The flickering images on the screen were a mere background to the intense emotions coursing through the two of you. Seungwan's arms now fully enveloped you, her hold so tight it felt like your ribs might crack under the pressure. Your gaze locked with hers, igniting a fire that burned hotter with each passing second.
Your voice shook as you bared your heart, desire burning within you.
"I can't hold it in anymore. I need you. Right here and now."
Seungwan's lips curve into a knowing smile, and you lean in to kiss her softly. The taste of her cherry lip balm lingers on your lips as she responds eagerly, her hands tangling in your hair. The heater crackling in the background pales to the heat radiating between your bodies. You can feel Seungwan's quickened breath against your neck as you press closer, your kisses growing more urgent with each passing moment.
Without breaking the embrace, you slowly guide her back onto the plush couch cushions, your body hovering over hers. The sounds of the movie playing on TV fade away as your senses are consumed by the intensity of desire and passion between you.
Your hands explore every inch of Seungwan's body, tracing the curves and contours that have become so familiar to you. You revel in the softness of her skin, the way her body arches beneath your touch, and the way she responds to your every caress.
As your lips continue their dance, your hands find their way to the hem of Seungwan's shirt, slipping underneath the fabric and grazing over her heated flesh. A gasp escapes her lips, mingling with the soft moans that escape your own mouth. The hunger between you intensifies a raw and primal need that cannot be denied. With trembling hands, you begin to undo the buttons of her blouse, revealing the swell of her breasts and the lacy fabric of her bra. Your mouth hungrily finds its way to her collarbone, peppering kisses along the delicate curve that hits her sensitive spot that you know drives her crazy, Seungwan moaning even louder into the room.
Her hands grip your chest, her nails digging into your skin as she pulls you closer. The taste of her desire fills your mouth as your lips move from her collarbone to the exposed skin on her chest. You can feel her heart pounding against your lips, matching the rhythm of your own racing heartbeat. The room is filled with an electric energy, each touch igniting a fire within you. You feel the weight of the moment, the merging of souls and bodies in perfect harmony. Seungwan's fingers then fumble with the buttons of your shirt, a sense of urgency driving her actions.
As Seungwan unbuttons the last of your shirt, a cool breeze hits your exposed chest. You and Seungwan pause from your passionate kiss, resting your foreheads against each other. With one final kiss, Seungwan whispers, "Let's go to your room. Right now."
Seungwan's mind is a jumbled mess of hunger and desire, the sensation swirling through her veins like wildfire. Her voice shakes with urgency, igniting a flame that had long been dormant. Without hesitation, they hurry towards the bedroom, their steps quickened by anticipation and longing.
The dimly lit room transforms into a sanctuary, a haven where time seems to stand still, allowing only the essence of the two souls to matter. The gentle radiance from the bedroom lamp creates soft shadows on the walls, casting an intimate aura over the space. Positioned at the edge of the bed, he locks eyes with Seungwan, a gaze that sends shivers down her spine in response. In this moment, there's an unspoken understanding that transcends mere physical desire. It's a culmination of emotions, a profound connection that defies verbal expression.
Seungwan moves towards him with deliberate steps, her every movement is laden with purpose and anticipation. Her hand extends, fingers trembling ever so slightly, and he responds by intertwining their fingers.
His free hand glides along the contours of her body, leaving a trail of tingling sensations in its wake. Seungwan's breath catches as he leans in, his lips gently brushing against her earlobe, eliciting shivers all over her body. "I've been waiting for this moment," he whispers, his voice octaves lower.
He is typically gentle and soft-spoken, but when his voice deepens, taking on a commanding tone, Seungwan finds it irresistibly sexy when he assumes control. With assertiveness, he leads Seungwan onto the bed, where their bodies sink into the plush mattress. Their lips meet once again, but this time with an intensity born from the depths of their souls. Their tongues flick against each other in perfect rhythm, igniting the passionate fire brighter between them.
Seungwan feels his hand cup one of her breasts, eagerly kneading out the softness of her mound. She gasps as his touch sends electric currents through her body, making her break away from their kiss with a loud moan. His lips move down to her neck, nipping and sucking at her sensitive spot, causing her mind to go wild with pleasure.
As they continue to engage in foreplay, his other hand deftly unclasps her bra, releasing it from her chest. Using this opportunity, Seungwan rolls over him, straddling his lap. She takes advantage of the position, teasing him by slowly removing her bra from one arm at a time, keeping it close to her breasts. He watches with hunger in his eyes as she removes her shirt and finally lets the bra fall, revealing her ample bosom jiggling freely in the air, her warm mink nipples taut from arousal.
"And I am all yours."
Son Seungwan is an unwavering force, her spirit forged in the fires of adversity and molded into a fierce independence that has weathered every challenge life has thrown her. She has endured and overcome every challenge that life has thrown at her—from leaving her home country to surviving a crippling injury and bearing this long-distance love—refusing to show weakness. But now, as she sits naked before him, her walls crumble like a dam, giving way to a raging river of emotion. Every fiber of her being surrenders to this moment, giving herself to him.
He captures her lips hungrily, his hands roaming over her body with a sense of urgency. His fingers brush against the swell of her breast, causing her to gasp and arch towards him. Seungwan's heart races as his mouth moves down her neck, leaving a trail of hot kisses in its wake. She can feel herself growing wet with desire as he inches closer to her chest, his warm breath sending shivers down her body.
Suddenly, his mouth is on one of her breasts, sucking lightly on a sensitive nub. She moans loudly, the sound echoing throughout the room. Her back arches, giving him more access to her succulent bosom as she trembles under his touch. His tongue swirls around her nipple while his fingers gently twist and pull on the other, driving her wild with pleasure. She is putty in his hands, lost in the sensations coursing through her body as he continues to worship every inch of her curves.
With a swift motion, he lifts Seungwan onto the middle of the bed, her body sinking into the soft sheets. The faint scent of vanilla lingers in the air as they embrace. He traces kisses along her stomach, causing her abs to tense and quiver under his touch. His strong hands unbutton her jeans in a skilled manner, pulling them down with ease as she raises her legs to help him. Her red lace panties cling tightly to her skin, revealing a damp spot at their center.
He moves down to her feet, peppering them with gentle kisses before trailing his lips up her legs. A shiver runs through her body as he reaches her inner thighs, his warm breath sending tingles to every nerve ending. She can't help but let out a small whimper as he presses against the fabric covering her core, feeling how wet and ready she is for him.
"Please," she begs with desperate longing in her voice, unable to wait any longer.
He quickly strips away the last remaining barrier between them, revealing Seungwan fully naked and vulnerable before him. She bites her finger nervously as she awaits his next move, anticipation building inside her.
Without a moment's hesitation, he dives in and begins his oral ministrations on her sensitive folds. Seungwan gasps loudly at the initial contact of his tongue and raises her hips to meet his eager mouth. His strong arms hold her down as he enthusiastically licks and kisses her, eliciting squirms and moans from Seungwan. She grabs the bed sheets tightly, her body responding intensely to his touch. He surprises her by sliding two fingers inside her tight warmth, causing Seungwan to clench around him and cry out in pleasure.
Feeling overwhelmed, Seungwan reaches out for his hand to help ground herself. But even with this distraction, she can't stop the overwhelming sensations building within her. With each flick of her clit, she gets closer and closer to the edge until, finally, she explodes in waves of ecstasy. He catches every drop of her release, some of it spilling onto his jaw as he hungrily laps up her juices. Her thighs grip him tightly, leaving marks with her nails digging into his hand, a pleasurable pain that only adds to their intense connection.
As Seungwan's body calms down, he continues to kiss and lick her folds for good measure. As he releases his hold on her, he moves up to kiss her body. Still riding the wave of pleasure from her orgasm, she shivers at every touch of his lips. When he reaches her face, she pulls him in for a passionate kiss, tasting herself on him and reveling in the intensity of their intimate moment together.
Seungwan's eyes glimmered with determination as she expressed her desire to return the favor. You eagerly lie down beside her, anticipation building in your chest as she shifts downwards towards your groin. Her hand deftly finds its way to your bulge, causing a moan to escape from your lips. Looking up at you for confirmation, Seungwan tugs on the hem of your pants. You give her a quick nod, allowing her to remove them, freeing your member from its confines. With practiced skill, she wraps her fingers around your shaft and begins to slowly pump, perfectly gauging just how much pressure and speed you like. Unable to contain yourself any longer, you let out deep groans and grunts as she expertly pleasures you.
"Babe, it feels… larger than last time…"
As she slips her tongue between her parted lips, Seungwan's eyes lock onto yours with a hungry intensity. You feel yourself getting stiffer as she traces delicate circles around your swollen head, her eager mouth lapping up the salty pre-cum that beads along the tip. She teases you with a soft kiss before engulfing your length in one smooth motion, sucking hard and sending electric shocks of pleasure through your entire body. The intense sensations make it difficult to catch your breath, and you can't help but moan as she works her magic on you. Your stomach clenches with every movement of her mouth, and the visual alone is enough to drive you wild, causing you to throw your head back in ecstasy.
Your lover eagerly takes more of your length into her mouth, increasing the speed and intensity of her movements with each passing second. Her tongue swirls and dances around you, creating sparks of pleasure that shoot through your body. You grip her soft, silky hair tightly in your hands, using it as leverage to guide her movements and deepen the sensation. With each downward stroke, she takes you deeper and deeper, coaxing out moans of ecstasy from deep within you. The erotic display happening between your legs is a masterpiece of passion, her lips and tongue working in perfect harmony to bring you to the edge of bliss. Your hips involuntarily buck with each skilled motion, driving you closer and closer to the peak of pleasure. And when she hums softly against you, the vibrations sending shivers down your spine, it's all you can do to hold on as the sounds emanating from her mouth push you over the edge into pure ecstasy.
You feel the familiar tight sensation radiating from your abdomen. Not wanting to finish too soon, you gently hold Seungwan's head in place as she takes a break. When she pulls away, a spittrail is left between your member and her mouth. She resumes stroking you with one hand at a relaxed pace.
“Are you okay?” she asks, moving her hand slowly.
“You're going to drive me insane. That was incredible,” you manage to say.
Seungwan chuckles and kisses her way back up to your lips.“You make me crazy, too. I think I'm ready.”
You and Seungwan have been intimate multiple times before, but tonight feels different. It feels like a promise come true, the culmination of years of friendship turning into love, a reward for having faith in each other. It's a reminder that there could be many more nights like this. As your bodies join together, you are bonded in every sense.
She positions herself above you, aligning her core with your length.
"I love you, Seungwan."
"And I love you too."
Seungwan lowers herself onto you, and as she takes you deep inside her, a new level of tightness envelopes your senses. Her eyes roll back in ecstasy as she reaches for your shoulders, her nails digging into your skin to hold on. You guide her down from her waist, feeling every inch of her sliding against every inch of you.
She can barely speak through the intense pleasure. "Babe...you're so...fuck...bigger..."
"Wannie… you feel even tighter..." You instinctively grip her hips, trying to hold on to some sense of control amidst the overwhelming sensation of being surrounded by Seungwan's incredible tightness. She feels scorching hot, dripping wet, and tighter than ever before. It takes everything in you not to lose yourself completely. But as Seungwan sinks further onto you, pressing her body against yours with an unbreakable seal, you give in to the intense pleasure and pull her into a fierce kiss. Your shared breaths taste sweet as she hums against your lips, driving you both closer to ecstasy. With one final push, you are fully immersed inside Seungwan, lost in each other's embrace, until the world fades away into pure bliss.
After a brief moment of stillness, Seungwan leans back with a mischievous glint in her eyes. She presses her hips against yours, moving in a slow and hypnotizing rhythm. Each movement sends waves of pleasure coursing through your body, making you moan and writhe in ecstasy. The bed squeaks and creaks beneath the intensity of your passion, the sounds blending with the loud slapping of skin against skin.
Your hands roam greedily over her body, exploring every curve and dip as she squirms under your touch. Seungwan's mouth falls open as she nears climax, her nails digging into your skin in pleasure. You pick up the pace, driving her closer to the edge with each thrust until she explodes in a frenzy of bliss. Her scream echoes through the room as her body trembles, and she collapses onto your chest. As she enters into her second orgasm of the night, she clings tightly to you while still trying to ride you to your own release.
You want to hold onto this moment for as long as possible, so you keep her in your arms. "Let me take charge," you whisper as you roll over and remain inside of her. Seungwan moans from the sudden change in position.
"Oh God, so deep."
You thrust into Seungwan, your pace quickening as you feel yourself surrendering to the intense desire to make love to her. She clings onto you with unbridled desperation, begging for more as she writhes beneath you in a frenzy of pleasure. You sink your teeth into her neck, leaving passionate red marks as she cries out in ecstasy. Her body shudders and quakes around you, signaling her impending release. Your movements become even more fervent, pushing deeper inside of her until your bodies are slick with sweat and burning with desire.
The pleasure intensifies, a warm sensation spreading throughout your entire being as you try to prolong this blissful moment. Seungwan's inner walls tighten around you, her legs wrapped tightly around your waist and pulling you closer.
In a final act of passion, she kisses you deeply as both of you reach the peak together. Your body tenses with ecstasy as you release everything inside her, marking her as yours forever. Waves of pleasure ripple through you as Seungwan's walls milk every last bit out of you, leaving her filled to the brim. You stay connected for a while, not wanting to collapse on top of her. When the throbbing finally subsides, you roll off to the side and feel the aftermath dripping onto your legs.
The weight of the experience leaves you drained and weary, but you still manage to pull the soft blanket over the two of you, pulling Seungwan into your embrace. Her body conforms perfectly against yours as she rolls to your side, her lips pressing gently against your cheek in a sweet gesture. You can feel the warmth radiating from her skin, soothing any lingering tension or discomfort. In return, you kiss her forehead before finally succumbing to exhaustion and closing your eyes. The peaceful moment envelops both of you like a warm cocoon, protecting you from the outside world and its worries.
A trickle of light passes through the blinds. It’s been ages since an alarm clock wasn’t necessary to start the day.
You also can’t remember the last time you felt this body ache. Every external sensation feels like a sledgehammer, pulverizing your skull as your eyes barely open. Awareness slowly kicks in, and you start remembering the events of last night.
You attempt to sit up in bed, but a weight prevents you from doing so. In your arms is the person you love, fast asleep and looking peaceful. She stirs awake and gives you a small smile. It feels surreal, but her lips on yours confirm that it's all real—she is here with you in this moment.
"Good morning, Wannie."
"Good morning, last night was...indescribably perfect."
Perhaps this is just a part of life's journey. You meet someone and fall deeply in love, and suddenly, nothing seems too daunting or frightening anymore; every day is full of endless possibilities. Maybe we needed to go through rough patches to be stronger and more beautiful on the other side. Love can be found in the most unexpected places, shining bright even in the darkest moments. And Seungwan is proof that all of this exists, bringing light into even the bleakest situations.
"So, what's the next adventure planned for today?"
Well, it really has been a minute.
Hello everyone, and thank you so much for reaching the end of "Rekindle." If you haven't read "Ignite" yet, no worries! I designed this fic to stand on its own (though please give my debut fic a read! I love that baby so much).
It's not easy for me to say this, so I'll be straightforward: this marks the end of my writing journey.
Two years ago, I posted "Ignite" inspired by countless fan fics I had read. It was my way of expressing myself—a little bit of escapism. I needed to channel all the pent-up energy. I made wonderful friends, built confidence, got a plethora of new skills. But like any writer, I faced a lotttt of doubts and grappled with lotttsssss unfinished drafts. My writing consistency waned as mental health struggles took their toll.
I needed a break, especially because I needed to focus up on my actual life out there. I had been living too fast, too pressured. And the break did wonders to my life. As my mental health improved, so did various aspects of my life. I felt compelled to write one last fic, but only really felt ready to do one last fic. I think it was fitting I started and ended with the idol that drew me into k-pop! Sadly, my time to write is running out due to a new chapter in my life—I've landed my dream job!
I'm immensely grateful for this incredible journey as a writer. This journey made me discover a side I never thought I could do. I am confident in my writing and expressing myself in writing and in person. I owe my growth to the many friends I met here. This fic is dedicated to everyone I met, talked, and made wonderful memories with!
It's been an awfully beautiful adventure, and in the next life, I'd do it again in a heartbeat. Thank you for two years of writing and unwavering support!
The all-rounder idol herself, Kim Sejeong (Gugudan)
10k words
The frosty fresh air of Korea welcomes you into its loving embrace as you step out the doors of Incheon Airport. You have forgotten how unforgiving the nippy cold of your hometown can be, forcing you to zip up the rest of your jacket. It’s so cold you could see the vapor out of your mouth as you exhale.
Trudging your luggage along the concrete, the familiar smell of decaying leaves and a hint of rust enter your nostrils. An assortment of languages surrounds you, trying to find transportation as quickly as possible.
Luckily, you’ve planned ahead. You approach the taxi you requested from the Kakao T app. The driver is leaning by the passenger seat, idly swiping away on his phone. He looks up before doing a double-take at you.
“Are you the passenger?” he asks, his gruff voice almost muffled by his mask.
You confirm your identity by showing the order form on your phone. With a quick nod, the driver helps you carry your luggage into the trunk. The two of you enter the car, the engine starts up, and the taxi shoots out of the terminal.
The sprawling skyline of Seoul enters into view as you approach the bridge leading to the city. You have arrived with a clear azure sky, the bright sun gleaming down and reflecting on the waters of the Han River. Snow lightly blankets the sidewalks; the trees are either camouflaged in winter white or withered without leaves. As you speed down the highway, there are many buildings you are familiar with and some that you do not recognize.
You don’t know how or what to feel after being away from home for so long.
“Is it your first time here in Korea?” the driver asks, interrupting your train of thought. The question baffles you, eliciting a small chuckle of amusement from your lips.
“What do you mean, sir?”
“You are fluent for a foreigner. You have an accent with some words. Other than that, it’s pretty good.”
Now you can’t help but laugh, surprised by his observation. Is your Korean that bad now? To be fair to the driver, it has been a while since you talked to someone in your mother tongue.
“Actually, I am Korean. I was just abroad for college. It’s been years since I have been home.”
You could see the surprise in the driver’s widened eyes. “Really now? It doesn’t look like it. So sorry about that! Where did you go? And what did you study?”
“I got a scholarship to play football in Spain. I couldn’t turn down such an offer.”
“That sounds big! But why did you come home? Isn’t Spain such a good country for football?”
That is a question you have been asking yourself even up to this day. Many clubs were willing to sign you to their reserve team, but something felt—due to a lack of a better term—"off" when you thought about staying in Spain for good. Admittingly, part of you could not deny how tempting it was to stay in Spain.
Have you ever questioned your confidence in your ability to write? Were there times you saw someone’s work and was like “I wish I could have written that?”
Hahhaha all the time! But the thing is, we all have strengths and focuses. I learned recently that I apparently have good world-building, and my fluff can get really good! So as a writer, I try to gather and learn other things from writers have been better in grammar, smut etc.
What a nice fic! Glad Sejeong is getting more love. I think you still got it Cata! This fic makes me want to hug my pillow when reading this🥰
Hope we'll still see you drop by from time to time💝
Kinda like how Sejong surprises us with her 'presents' 😉
Even though there are so many writers out there, a writer down is still a loss. Hoping there will be a next fic from you and you'll be less nervous.
What is your ultimate smutty fluffy paradise with any idols that you like?
Man Sejeong could be soooooo ugh my goodness
A fluffy paradise hmmmm most likely it would be a surprise intimate date or something. Maybe a nice push and pull surprise kind of thing
Aside from grammatical and spelling errors, what immediately turns you off from a smut, if not, breaks your immersion?
Logic can sometimes go out of the window because well, it's fan fiction hahaha. But too ridiculous of a situation well... hahaha I do not want to see another all perfect emo kid who can parkour and is also a model and a sibling of a idol hahaha
Who do you think radiates the comfiest gf vibes among all idols (singular idol) and who do you think are lady on the streets, freak in the sheets idols (can be multiple idols)
Congrats on the amazing Sejeong piece! You noted that it's a simple story, but maybe sometimes that's all that is needed. Great work, sir.
One thing I noticed that seems to have been missed at the beta phase is how there's reference to Jihyo, despite her not being in the story, much less being the one having sex. I take it this may have initially been written about Jihyo at first?
-🥦
Hello mister broccoli, thank you for the kind words! It has been a minute.
About the Jihyo thing hahaha thanks for the catch. Initially this paragraph was one of my earlier jihyo drafts! I needed help with the breast part 😂
Have some jihyo
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