What the hell, you're hungry...

You eventually find yourself in a Baskin-Robbins, because fuck it, what else do you do with the morning after you’ve spunked on Emma Watson’s face?

The waitress looks slightly startled by the broadness of your grin, which is still refusing to wear off. You tip her five bucks, even though you’re probably not supposed to tip in this joint, and collapse into a shiny plastic seat, head spinning.

Your thoughts are currently skidding between ridiculous, insane, bouncing euphoria and complete, steadfast denial. Parts of your brain – including some quite large, heavy, scowling parts – are still completely refusing to accept this. It’s a dream. Or a coma. Or something. Has to be.

Except…

Except your imagination just isn’t that good. No one’s imagination is that good. And that’s what hammers it home, finally, as you sit in that cubicle, staring into space.

The light dusting of freckles on Emma’s nose, the blush that spread all the way down to her breasts; the sudden shyness, the way her smile tugged at her cheeks like it was coaxing them apart; the way her eyes sparkled as she begged you to cum on her, all over her, all over her famous face…

It was real. All of it.

If only she could see you now, you think, with a sudden, inexplicable urge to laugh out loud. Celebrating the fucking of Emma Watson with an ice cream sandwich.

Well, what the hell. You have no idea what you could possibly have done to deserve this, but you’re sure as shit not going to question it now.

…Maybe you saved the universe in a previous life?