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The Innocent
All chapters
Jonathan Crane x Reader • 18+ Explicit • 4.1k words
TW & tags: NonCon, fear kink, masturbation, awful everything
AO3 • All my stories
"She whimpers audibly, her scent turning acrid and pungent now; fear, she reeks of fear. I pant, a hundred meters behind her, putting enough distance to remain a formless creature while still appearing very much real in the dim light. The soft tremor turns into heavy shaking when she turns her head behind her shoulder, as if to convince herself that this is just a dream, just like the others she’s had. Then she screams, oh! she screams…"
The Innocent
Foreign music notes of a perhaps forgotten song vibrate in my dry throat in low hums, barely covering the insistent scratch of the fountain pen darkening the cream coloured papers splayed on my antique desk. The watch which delicately sublimes my bony wrist with its dark brown Italian leather and finely carved metal hands indicate three hours and fifty-six minutes in the afternoon; I still have four whole minutes, I realize with a palpable excitement that is most unwelcome in my line of work. My patient is, without a single doubt, already waiting in the other room; I will not greet her before the time has come, for it is absolutely crucial to not reveal any ounce of delight or impatience. In fact, I must remain perfectly professional, detached and clinical, or else I am taking the risk of exposing my ulterior motives and intimate desires.
Four minutes is exactly the amount of time needed to adjust my tie (dark brown as well; a color not too contrasting to my marble pallor and which makes me look distinguished and inspires confidence, a key component in my profession), inspect my impeccable tweed vest made of Irish virgin wool dyed an exquisite amber color, and delicately clean the lenses of my round glasses with a microfiber cloth. Three hours fifty-nine; the last notes fade on my chapped lips when I leave my cognac leather armchair and direct my wiry frame to the door, spidery fingers holding the brass handle which feels pleasantly cold against my tight skin.
Within my aging ribcage are percussions worthy of Ravel’s Bolero; intense in nature and laced with the fruitful musicality of controlled nerves. The entrance is methodical, natural and restrained, with a smile, polite enough to be welcoming but faint enough to remain professional, and soft crow’s feets rolling in a pleasantness that seems genuine. There are no emotions in my eyes; yet, dissimulated behind my glasses it might be hard to tell. My voice is warm and comforting, despite the crystal-like brokenness of its undertones which has been forged through the years.
Her smile, painted in a shiny coral red, is wide and transpires a heavy relief. She has been looking forward to our session all week long, I am sure; she reminds me of a teapot in the way she lets her worries fester until they turn ugly and make her completely dysfunctional. Her fingers cross and uncross nervously on her lap, as if incapable of knowing what to do with her own body, before she stands up, flattening her perfectly ironed marine blue pencil skirt, and retrieves her matching blazer jacket. I hold the door open and she penetrates my office with a footstep so light it could have belonged to a ghost; I notice the floral notes of her perfume, horrifyingly sweet and childish.
Through the nine sessions we had together, it is worth mentioning that her outfits are always delicately picked, colors matching and completed with a set of earrings (one on each lobe), a gourmette bracelet with her name engraved (a baptism gift, I reckon), and a now very familiar pearl necklace which I abhor passionately. Her hair is always impeccably styled down and her face painted just enough to be womanly without looking like a whore; something important, I suppose, for it matters greatly to her father. She reminds me of a ventriloquist’s doll, carrying a fabricated superficiality that betrays the profound emptiness of her soul. I am not certain she likes her appearance very much, the short heeled suede shoes, the old-fashioned manicure or the vulgar pearl necklace; but rather that she likes the simulacre of control on her life this shows on the outside, especially to her father, a figure we never cease to talk about.
My patient does not sit down until I instruct her to, the anxiety to pick the wrong choice and disappointment still viciously anchored in her childhood; an emotionally absent and academically demanding father tends to create such complex insecurities in the younger hearts. I would know. As always, we will be talking about it; and as always, she will unravel the same pointless secrets in an uninteresting logorrhoea that could very well bore me to death if it weren’t for the topic of her recurrent nightmares, cautiously sprinkled in her stories and immensely more fascinating —from a clinical point of view, of course.
I am taking place in the armchair in front of hers, crossing one leg on top of the other, not dissimilar to two long and pale sticks enveloped in soft and tasteful fabric. My elevated ankle reveals the smallest ounce of marble skin, adorned with arched tendons which roll and disappear beneath the dark Egyptian cotton of my socks. I sense her heavy gaze following the slender silhouette of my legs to the tip of the deep brown leather of my derby shoes; a rosy tint blooms on her cheeks and my lips twitch in amused curiosity while she plays nervously with the pearls of this dreadful necklace which she is, in my humble opinion, either too old or too young to wear. She feels desire for me, despite being a couple of decades older than her; an expression, I believe, of her yearning for a paternal love, approval and affection.
My notebook lays graciously on my lap, angled in such a way that makes it impossible for her to see what I will be writing down, my treasured pen already in my hand. Adjusting my glasses on the long bridge of my aquiline nose, I offer her yet another muted smile, a silent invitation to begin the session; she appears flustered, blushing some more as I seem to have interrupted her train of thoughts —probably too vulgar for the image of herself she is desperately fabricating. I wonder if she is a virgin still, having spent the essential of her miserable life catering to her father’s needs and putting aside her own intimate desires; this would explain the subtle perfume of her throbbing sex floating in my office.
I find myself more than passively listening to her most uninteresting week in a way that freezes my nerves and makes me question my career choice, gently guiding her back to the heart of her confusing weaving as she wanders and rambles incoherently. None of her anecdotes are of importance to me, subtly urging her to open the can of her anxieties and core reason for her very presence on my couch; her recurring and unexplained nightmares.
A couple of months ago, this patient reached out to me in an attempt to exorcize her most intimate thoughts and find a more peaceful slumber. When asked the nature of her night terrors, she confessed, with great difficulty and restraint at first, having this peculiar dream for years now in which she finds herself wandering around the unknown alleys of a surrealist city reminiscing of a dark and sterile-looking maze. She can never tell where she is, every window and every door looking the same, every turn sensibly similar to the next, the streetlights aggressively cutting harsh shadows against the smooth walls of the buildings.
As her journey progresses, she notices a shadowy form following her every step and which does not make a noise aside from an ominous buzzing that makes the lights crackle; though it has not touched her yet, its presence alone is dreadful and suffocating enough to make her survival instincts kick in. She runs through the maze-like alleys in a vain hope to escape the figure, never successful in her doing; the shadow creeping at every corner, slipping through the cracks of the building like a liquid void, looming over her like a toxic cloud, and always watching her with empty eyes and whispering incomprehensible and otherworldly things in a gnarly voice resembling a sinister borborygmus.
She wakes up screaming, in tears and drenched in sweat before it can seize her.
There is an obvious answer behind her anxiety, one draped in the cloak of her oppressing father; and yet, despite the last few unproductive sessions and unfruitful attempts to take in my hypothesis, she rejects all and any idea of daddy dearest being the root of her misery. My poor sweet girl. Through her almost touching callowness if it weren’t laced with pungent naïveté, I find great intellectual pleasure in studying her profound fear; sometimes, when the moon hits and soaks my office in a creamy light, I dissect my numerous notes, each scribbled word reminiscing me of her giant doll-like eyes turning glassy with emotion, her painted lips aquiver with wretched anguish, her neatly cared eyebrows knitted in visible despair. She reminds me viciously of a newborn deer, frail and fragile; a sight so delicious it never fails to make my turgid sex throb in interest. I have learnt since to keep my legs crossed in front of her, of course.
Her fear is at the image of her personality; carefully crafted by her visceral fantasies which she struggles to control, as if her fabricated identity would cease and disappear if she knew how to confront it. There is something delectable in her innocent emotions, something exquisitely cruel in how laughable of a person she is, and I find myself morbidly curious to see her façade break and release her true self, dying and being born again. It is exhilarating really, the prospect of witnessing her weak mind shatter and rebuild itself, morphing into something pure and liberated, surpassing her ugly cocoon.
Fear is the most sublime emotion, a capricious mistress that transforms all beings into primal creatures; there is a beast inside all of us, I firmly believe, a döppleganger, infinitely mightier and profoundly fascinating, that only fear can free and liberate. I based my entire life on understanding the beauty of fear and how to elevate and transcend it, achieving our most glorious form; prying at people’s most intimate insecurities and feeding them the putrid fruits they truly do need to alter their mind irremediably, for their own benefit, I am certain. As such, it is past the clinical need but rightfully with a voracious desire and spiritual intention that I wish to see and unravel my Innocent’s breaking point.
The sound of her trembled sob wakes me from my contemplative state, and I realize with great indifference that I missed her last couple of sentences, which I believe gave her yet another heartache. My occulted gaze devours the sight of her pained face, glassy eyes crying perfectly round and warm tears, her bunny nose reddening; I do not care much for her grief, an emotion I find particularly repulsive and grotesque and which she seems to feel quite frequently; this might be why I find her so unpleasant to be around. Instead, I hand her the tissue box that she politely accepts, wiping her tears and runny nose.
The corner of my mouth twitches in disgust when I see her nervously touch her pearl necklace once again. This abominable pearl necklace that embodies everything about her that I hate; her child-like appearance despite being well into her thirties, her synthetic demeanor forged by an unyielding desire to be loved, her emotionally incestuous relationship with her undeserving father and her complete and total lack of self-esteem.
Today’s session comes to an end and I am afraid we did not progress much, to my great dismay. I offer her the same frigid smile in which she always seems to find comfort when I open the door and shake her hand, a stark contrast to the warmth and subtle stickiness of her skin. She thanks me profusely and I nod in return, wishing her a pleasant rest of the day; I will be seeing her next week.
My simulacre of a smile fades as soon as she exits my office, a boiling irritation tinting the tip of my ears a crimson color, akin to a single rose in a snowy garden. I take an involuntary peek at my reflection in the window as I run a wiry hand in the dark feathers of my hair, silvering at the temples, a few gray strands adorning the generally brown mass. My thick eyebrows are knitted together in profound frustration, collecting today’s notes and sitting at my desk to study them. I cannot be satisfied with the glimpse of her unfledged anxieties, our exchanges do not nurture me professionally or otherwise ; slumping heavily in the leather armchair, a deep sigh swelling my tight chest, I lose myself in the labyrinthic corners of my mind, all the while ignoring the aggressive hardness of my sex, its throbbing feeling like the greatest treason in this precise moment.
I will not bring myself to completion tonight, for I find her fear vulgar and unworthy of my seed, a womb so barren it feels utterly meaningless. I will not even touch myself, I decide, denying her the attention and importance she desperately yearns for, refusing to besmirch my pride for such an insensitive mind. She is spoiling the sap of her soul in a way that is perfectly unacceptable to me and makes her look profoundly hideous; and I refuse to harvest the rotten fruits of a putrid heart. Instead, I will spend the night lost in my thoughts, with deep indignation for sole company.
It took me a complete day to recover from my turmoil and hatch a plan I deem satisfying, and four more to establish a detailed inventory of her nightly habits; following her at a reasonable distance in a now familiar fashion, carefully noting down any information of importance, I managed to know exactly when she finishes work, which Café she frequents, where she goes grocery shopping, which metro she takes home… During the day and in between two consultations, I conscientiously study the map of her neighborhood, carving in my memory every alley, every path, every building until I have a clear representation of my hunting territory. Victorious is a word that comes to my mind after such rewarding labor.
Tonight is the night. I am wearing my real skin, flesh made of burlap and soiled rag, fur made of dry straw and rotten thread stitching my articulations together. The used rope rolls like tendons around my throat, the noose loose enough to breath but not enough for it to be comfortable; a simple pleasure that will leave bruised memories on my neck like a passionate lover would. I caress my clothed form, the sensation unpleasant and rough to the touch and yet so deliciously stimulating, a sensation that never fails to make me hum appreciatively, heartbeat inappropriately lively for a Scarecrow .
It is ten hours and forty-five minutes on a Thursday night; she has been to the library tonight, devouring romance novels with her third cup of herbal tea –something horrifyingly fruity, I assume. An activity she indulges frequently, seeking refuge and comfort in the elegant place, something I cannot blame her for, considering the depraved state of the rest of Gotham, in stark contrast to the magnificence of the old architecture. This habit will also work in my favor, draping myself in the thickness of the night, my elongated figure barely noticeable in the corner of the street; at best, two glowing orbs pierce the obscurity, reminiscent of an animal of some sort, or better yet of an unsettling monster.
I hum the broken notes of an unknown song, a simple habit that feels right, lured in the dark and waiting for her to penetrate the first alley; I recognize her ghost-like footstep, short heels clacking subtly on the pavement, naive and unaware. Oh, my sweet girl.
She does not sense me for the first two hundred meters, her oblivious demeanor both entertaining and frustrating. There is something viscerally exquisite about seeing without being seen, teasing a very particular part of me; an almost erotic melange of power and impunity. I came to realize with age and experience that hunting is not dissimilar to foreplay, and therein lies my current problem; foreplay is not endless teasing, for I am neither patient nor interested in maintaining myself on the edge of my pleasure. And when I am being ignored for too long, I cannot help but feel somewhat insulted; ultimately, I want her to see me.
My fingernails tap and scratch the cold bricks, an abominable gurgling noise escaping my fatigued throat. She freezes instantly, and my sex twitches in sensible interest which I attempt to calm down, a feverish excitement pooling in my stomach. I distinguish the tremor in her silhouette and her breath hitching ever so slightly, a subtle perfume floating in the air, one that I know by heart now and makes my mind sing and mouth salivate. She does not look behind her, a wise choice I would say under more normal circumstances, her pace quickening in the narrow alley right between the first and third street of Gray Avenue.
I inhale the acidic perfume of my body; I would like to say that my entire form is impregnated with the residuals of an old chemical toxin I’ve developed decades ago, but perhaps it is simply my own essence, now corrupted to its very core. I am certain that the delirious effects of these quasi pheromones will soon hit her as well and change her like I expect her to.
As she navigates through the almost pitch black alleys, fingertips grazing at the walls to help her find her way, I wheeze a wretched noise from within my ribcage, dreadful sounds I have been practicing since I was born and which never seems to get old. My poor girl is sobbing earnestly now, an arm wrapped around her middle section as if to seek comfort, almost running away from me, her short heels making a music akin to a typewriter in the night of Gotham. I am fully aware I have her complete attention, but I wish she would just look at me.
I run after her, vomiting more guttural gibberish from my distorted voice, fingernails hitting and scratching every surface in a pleading cacophony. She whimpers more frankly, I can tell how delicate her nerves are at this very moment. In her panic, she picks the wrong turn. Exquisite.
She looks around her with agony and confusion, persuaded that she would be welcomed by a bridge crossing the river of the Old Street; instead, she is met with a damp and sinister dead end. She whimpers audibly, her scent turning acrid and pungent now; fear, she reeks of fear . I pant, a hundred meters behind her, putting enough distance to remain a formless creature while still appearing very much real in the dim light. The soft tremor turns into heavy shaking when she turns her head behind her shoulder, as if to convince herself that this is just a dream, just like the others she’s had. Then she screams, oh! she screams���
Her crystalline voice breaks and shatters, pure and visceral, high pitched and perverted with terror; I am so hard I could hammer a nail in raw wood. I move in a dislocated fashion, long limbs akin to spider legs, the nightmarish look making her trip and fall on her bottom and crawl back, fingers desperately digging in the cold pavement until a nail breaks, curling her form into a ball in a damp corner. She cries so hard her face turns ruby red, smeared mascara leaving dark streaks on her puffy cheeks, glistening saliva bubbling on her screaming lips – oh, how beautiful she is, my sweet girl. My cock feels heavy in my now awfully tight pants; under different circumstances, maybe I would have offered her a different fate.
She hides her face in her arms, fingers grabbing ferociously at her hair as if trying to wake herself up, but she doesn’t, no, she doesn’t wake up, and the reality is sinking in, especially when I am standing not even five meters in front of her. There is a bitter, stinging smell in the air, and a recognizable warm golden puddle underneath her shaking body that glistens beautifully under the moonlight; I purr in between two groans, witnessing her weakest form dissolve and collapse into the void of her mind that I have conceived. I want to create her anew, an abomination made of flesh and terror, and she will recognize me as her cruel Creator. My low distorted voice echoes in the muted alley, inspired and impassioned.
Are you afraid, child?
She screams louder, screams for help, screams for her life. But no one will save her, not here, not in Gotham, not this pathetic piss soaked girl . I mock and taunt her, towering over her as she chokes on her own sobs, desperate and painfully lonely. Why won’t anyone save me , she must be thinking. Why did Father lock me in this cell, she must be thinking. Why did Father abandon me in the cornfield. My laugh sounds more like a croak, sinister and penetrating, while she begs me for her life.
Do you know who I am, child?
She does not. I blame it on her delirious state, on her body pumping her full of adrenaline, and most probably the toxins my body produces and which she’s been inhaling. This will not do, however; I want to ruin her in a way that matters, and for that to happen I need her to know who I am, what I represent.
I crouch in front of her weaker form, barking her name and demanding she looks at me, which she does, obediently so; I reiterate my question, my hands hunched like claws scratching the walls around her. She cries harder, but her body produces no more tears, exhausted and drained; she screws her eyes shut and so I have no other option but to grab her hair viciously, forcing her to look at me.
And she does, oh she does , giant glassy eyes that lost their innocent spark and instead glow with a fury only trauma could forge and terror could sublimate. She sees the humiliation and the absence, the neglect and the judgment; she sees what she could have been if it had not been taken away from her. She does not say it but she mouths it, the two syllables of her misery.
Father.
My cackle is nothing short of demoniac, entire body jerking wildly enough to remember my turgid sex still leaking its filth in my ruined pants, heartbeat frantic as I am slowly but surely reaching my peak; release is not only needed but deserved , I believe, as my hand crawl inside my pants and free my cock, seizing it in a vicious grip that is mostly pain under her terrified and disgusted gaze. I take in her beautifully wrecked face as I pump myself with vigor and intent while croaking heavy moans, my eyes devouring every single wrinkle, every tear and tremor, swallowing the sight of the tense tendons of her throat choking on her sobs until I hiss in disgust at the repugnant pearl necklace.
She does not need it anymore, I believe. And so, in a movement aquiver with lust and desire, my knotted fingers slip under the chain akin to a snake closing its embrace. She shrieks in pain when I pull tightly, a most needed evil I am afraid although ephemeral, the horrendous necklace eventually giving in to my brutal punishment and breaking. I hear the clattering of the pearls falling and rolling on the pavement, hand still tightly locked around my cock as I fuck my fist earnestly in deliciously wet noises; she caresses the skin of her bare neck, as if understanding something, her terrified eyes turning back at me and begging me to let her go. Oh, my sweet child, be certain that I will miss your honeyed pleas…
My orgasm comes quickly, long spurts of milky cum spilling on her throat, the soft flesh now adorning a unique, more appropriate and beautiful set of pearls. A generous gift, one she will remember fondly, I am certain. Her lower lips tremble as more tears roll down her cheek, although not a sound comes out of her mouth. I understand, it is a lot to process. Therapy can be difficult sometimes.
I left her alone to collect herself. Once home, and after a quick yet invigorating shower, I became busy writing down in great detail tonight’s experiment and, one must admit, its most triumphant outcome.
The day before our scheduled appointment, she informed me that she would not be able to come, pretending to have a cold. I understood, of course, and asked her if I would see her next week then. She said that she wasn’t certain, and that she would call back. She never did.
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⌁ Stung by Jealousy ⌁
(Miguel O’Hara x reader)
🕸️ Entangled series 🕸️ ch. 6 (flashback) prev part
Summary: You and Miguel hang out at the mall, where you both get flirted with. These encounters evoke jealousy, and challenge your feelings for each other as well as both of your patience.
⋆。‧₊°༺𓆩❦︎𓆪༻༉‧₊˚.
“You gotta pick: ‘Pretzel Palace’ or ‘Cookie Crumbs,’” he asked, pointing at both neon signs in front of us. Miguel had called me to hang out today last minute after ditching yesterday’s study session for a “family emergency.” I knew he felt guilty, so I agreed, but deep down I was still butthurt and suspicious of where he really was or who he was seeing.
* * * *
“Do you go to NYU?” the cashier asked, handing me my cookie.
“Nueva York, yeah. How’d you know?” I asked, slowly grabbing the cookie from his lingering hand.
“You look like it… Smart,” he said, smiling at me.
My cheeks flushed.
“I also go to Nueva York. Thanks for asking. And I’m guessing you… don’t,” Miguel cut in, shrugging, crossing his arms.
“Miguel,” I muttered, elbowing him. He ignored me; his solid stance didn’t budge.
“Y/N and I have physics together,” he added, leaning into me, blocking the cashier’s gaze.
His jaw clenched; I looked down at his hand pointing at the glass window. His other hand was in a tight fist resting beside his hips, his knuckles white.
The glass between them should’ve burst from the tension by now.
“And I’ll have two M&Ms—” he looked down at his badge, “Joseph,” he sarcastically smiled.
Joseph turned back to me, handing Miguel his cookies without making eye contact, keeping his gaze on me. My cheeks were uncontrollably pink and burning. He was cute, but not Miguel.
“So you’re just study buddies. Cool.”
Shit. He’s bold. I would be hiding behind that counter, shitting bricks if Miguel looked at me that way.
Miguel tilted his head at the cashier then turned to me. He was astounded, somehow more astounded than I was.
He looked down at me, waiting for a response from me, some sarcastic comeback, some rejection, but I was too embarrassingly flustered to talk.
“Yeah, so can we pay now? I didn’t know Cookie Craps was encouraging their staff to practice their social skills with their guests now! It’s much needed! Good for you!” Miguel exclaimed, sarcastically, pulling out his wallet. I turned sharply up at him, scolding him with my eyes, which he ignored.
“Cookie Crumbs. And yes, good for me,” Joseph responded, matching his sarcasm, smiling at me.
Miguel’s face dropped, his lips pulling down into an irritated frown. He offered his card over the counter.
“Anddd on the house,” the cashier nodded, his hand refusing Miguel’s card. His coworker looked over at him, rolling his eyes.
Miguel scoffed, also rolling his eyes. “No, you’re too generous,”
“You know what? You, however, can pay me with one coffee date?”
He’s fucking relentless. This is painful.
“I— I,” I stuttered, knowing the person who I wanted most in the world was witnessing this disaster. I would be flattered, and even excited, if I didn’t utterly and completely desire the man beside me.
But, this could also prove something to him. Other people want me.
It’s harmless anyways.
Though I hope it stings just a little.
I forced a less anxious smile and nodded agreeably, “Sounds good.”
“Here’s my number,” he said, writing on receipt paper.
He handed it to me.
I grabbed it slowly, looking up at him then at Miguel, then back at the scribbled numbers in my hand.
Miguel stood still, tense, pink in his cheeks, jaw clenched, and a small paper bag strangled by his fist. His eyebrows furrowed, staring daggers at Joseph.
“Thanks, Joseph,” I said, smiling, pushing my hair behind my ear.
I could feel the fire within Miguel burn next to me. It made me warm.
“Coffee it is,” he grinned, “Just shoot me a text, Y/N.”
* * * *
“Well, that was… something,” Miguel said, nudging me as we walked out with our cookies. “I mean, I guess I made a new friend?” I responded quietly, trying to subliminally communicate to Miguel that it meant nothing to me, that I was loyal to him, that I was waiting for him.
I did, however, find some enjoyment in Miguel’s jealousy.
“And you accepted his number? Wow, Y/N, how friendly,”
“What was I supposed to do? Be friendly and give him my fucking email? At least, I didn’t give him my number. Chill out and leave me alone,” I mumbled, rushing to out-walk and dodge his questions, or maybe avoid him seeing my satisfied smirk. This asshole is jealous.
“You fucking idiot. I told you you were oblivious!” he exclaimed, as we strolled.
He picked up his pace to catch up to me, “He was not flirting, he was being… friendly,” I reasoned.
“Do friends want to take you out for coffee, like he was so desperate to do?”
“We go out for coffee,” I argued.
There was a pause. “Yeah… well that’s different,”
“How so?”
“Just is,”
“How?”
“Shut up and eat your cookie,” he demanded, as we entered the bookstore.
Fucking coward.
I walked towards the back of the bookstore, where my favorite genre hid. Miguel followed behind me.
My eyes scanned the aisle, searching, focused on the plethora of small print.
“So… are you going to text him?”
This could be fun.
“Geez Miguel, you’re thinking about this more than I am… but who knows? I don’t,” I shrugged, smugly.
“How do you not know?” he mumbled, following behind me.
“He wasn’t too cute, and I just, I wasn’t too interested,” I muttered, sliding my fingers across the book bindings on the top shelf.
He just wasn’t you.
“Yeah, he was a fucking loser…” he mumbled behind me, “pushy asshole, pinche—”
“They have it!” I screeched, pulling it out and flipping through the pages. Miguel grabbed the huge cookie out of my hand, letting me have my moment.
He stood behind me, towering over me, peeking down at my book.
“I’ll buy it for you,” he said, grabbing it out of my hands. “It’ll be an early birthday present,” he said, flipping through the pages. I turned, grabbing it back from him.
“My birthday is in six months,” I grabbed my cookie back.
“Perfect, it’s your half birthday, even better,” he reasoned.
“I wanna read at least one chapter here. I’ve been looking for this goddamn book for months,” I said, walking to the sitting area.
“Okay, I’m going to go find something to read. Stay here. Don’t move.” he instructed, walking away from me.
* * * *
I sat reading, when I saw Miguel over my book, coming towards me with a huge quantum theory book. Of course.
He held it up proudly, grinning at me. “I’ve read it before, but it’s the only semi recent work they have,” he muttered, looking down and flipping through it.
“Nice,” I muttered, looking down at my book, continuing my chapter.
He sunk into the chair across from me, looking down at his book. His eyes peered over his book, straight at me. I was too scared to look up.
* * * *
“How’s your book?” I asked, avoiding eye contact.
“Same as when I read it last month: groundbreaking.”
I scoffed.
Suddenly, a girl approached us, more so approached him. She stood over him, whispering, inaudible to me.
He smiled, charmingly, looking up at her, then stood up, now obnoxiously towering over the already tall, beautiful girl. He combed his fingers through his hair, fixing himself up.
His charm made me roll my eyes.
Cocky asshole. So sure of himself, so confident and arrogant and annoying; I could keep going.
He nodded, continuing their quiet conversation, then crossed his arms. His forearms could make me fall to my knees. Her eyes looked down at them, violating him. They must make her weak too. It’s not her fault. He has that effect. Asshole.
She laughed, it was a pretty laugh too.
She’s beautiful. Hell, if I weren’t crushing on Miguel right now, I would be asking her for her number.
“Y/N,”
I snapped out of it, bringing my gaze back to him.
“Yes?”
“Can I use your phone?”
I tilted my head at him. “Where’s yours?”
“Left it in the car,” he said, shrugging.
I handed him my phone, which he handed to her.
She smiled, typing into my phone. She handed it back to me, keeping her gaze on Miguel, smirking back at him, like they had some inside joke, some fucking history I didn’t know about.
My cheeks burned as I watched from the outside; stung by jealousy’s merciless venom.
She started to whisper, seemingly her farewell. He leaned down, letting her whisper directly into his ear. My blood boiled, but I don’t blame either of them. They’re both young, attractive… fucking cunts.
They smiled at each other then she went on her way.
I watched her walk away, as Miguel immediately sunk back into his chair, looking back at his book, returning to his studies casually, as if some girl wasn’t all over him.
Smug son of a bitch.
I cleared my throat, signaling him to look up from his book.
“So what… was that?”
He took a bite of his cookie, “She asked for my number; thought I was cute,”
I rolled my eyes. “Cute,” I muttered, looking back at my book. “And I’m guessing you gave it to her?” I asked, refusing to look up at him and reveal my jealous weakness.
“Nope. I just had her put her number into your phone. I wasn’t too interested,” he muttered, looking at me.
“‘Too,’ hmph, and why don’t you have your phone?”
“Because I’m here with you. You drain enough of my energy and enough of my time,”
“But, you’re single, go give her your number, you fucking wimp,”
“‘Wimp’? I couldn’t— you’re fucking annoying,” he shook his head and looked back down at his book.
“You didn’t take it because I’m fucking annoying?”
“No. I— I mean, why are you so persistent that I give her my number? Do you want me to give her your number? Want me to go give it to her for you?… What’s it to you anyways?” he closed his book shut and placed it on his lap.
Oh. He’s mad. I pushed his buttons. Good.
“What’s it to me? I just don’t want to watch you waste away a loner. I care about you,” I responded, sarcastically.
“Oh you care about me, yeah? How sweet! Didn’t seem like you cared about me a whole bunch back there accepting fucking cookie man’s number, flirting in front of me,”
“And why would that bother you, O’Hara? Hm? You’re not my boyfriend, Miguel,” I asserted confidently, though it still stung to say because I wanted him to be, and I wanted him to want to be mine.
I hope it stung.
His eyebrows flinched, then softened. He saw right through me.
“Bothered me? It was fucking painful for me. I mean I felt bad for you. Don’t worry though. Someday, things will make sense. You’ll find the one… probably when you’re like 63 and less stubborn and fucking irritating, but nonetheless, you’ll find the one,” he reassured me, so kindly.
“Fuck. You,” I said, kicking his foot, hard.
He kept his foot planted, solid on the ground, scowling up at me.
“You. Wish.”
⋆ ˚。 ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚。 ⋆
next part
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Demon Slayer Drabbles!: Upper Moons 5 and 6 with a Darling That Draws Them!
I KNOW I HAVE A SMUT IN THE WORKS BUT Y'ALL ARE GONNA BE ON HOLD.
I got this idea while talking with @vampcubus, lovely person btw, love them lots, so here we are. Also Gyutaro brainrot is real. We got two men, just finished writing them, gonna post and pass out, please enjoy the fluff. Read beneath the cut, because it's late and my usual style is escaping me at the moment.
Anyways, with that out of the way, kick back, relax and enjoy~
-Glitchtricks
Gyutaro
He doesn't understand why you were stealing so many glances at him while scribbling in that blank book he stole for you to use, the scratching of the pencil lead against the paper filling the room, drawing Gyutaro from his meditation to focus on your tinier frame. Amber eyes lock with yours and Gyutaro raises a brow seeing you blush brightly and shyly look back at what you're working on, the scraping sounds intensifying in the silence of the demon's den. He got to his feet, dragging himself to your side.
You were awfully weird for a human, a lot unlike the traditional artists of the land, you worked more with lead and that book rather than paint. It was odd, but Gyutaro figured he wasn't in any position to judge, you did decide to be his after all.
"Oi, what're you doin', human, eh?" The demon croaked out, trying to look over your shoulder to see just what you were scribbling, his carved eyes catching sight of what looked to be a tuft of hair before you yanked the book to your chest. "Hey, let me see that!" The demon growled.
"I-It's embarrassing!" You whined, Gyutaro rolling his eyes at you.
"Aren't we partners or lovers or somethin'? The fuck you hidin' that's so bad? Can't be worse than me."
"Don't talk about yourself like that."
"Just gimme the damn book." Gyutaro growled, snatching you sketchbook from you as you let out a yelp. The upper moon didn't care much for your protests as he started flicking through the pages, flowers, people, and buildings of all sorts filling the pages, until he noticed a pattern emerging, little sketches of himself beginning to appear in the buildings; imagery of his hunts with Daki, him grinning maniacally while clutching his flesh laden kama in his hands, and then full pages of just him making various expressions, the most frequent being of him smiling, little hearts doodled next to the carefully made portraits of him.
Gyutaro was quick to fall silent, his heart clenching in his chest as he shoved the book back into your hands, not wanting to believe what he just saw. You meekly looked up at him, face dusted red.
"Uhm...I-"
"Why am I in there?"
"Wha-"
"You heard me." Gyutaro growled, baring his teeth threateningly. "Why the fuck am I in there?!"
"Because I like to draw you..." You murmured, feeling disappointment bubble in your chest. "You look so incredible, and unique, a-and since we love each other I thought you would mind?"
"I-I don't- I just- I can't- Ugh, fuckin' damn it..." Gyutaro let out a sigh, his shoulders sagging more than normal. "Do...do you want me to pose or some shit...?" You perked up, looking at your beloved with those sparkling eyes that never failed to make his heart pound.
"Would you mind...?" You asked hopefully, you demonic darling shaking his head no and getting to his feet.
"Just tell me what to do, 'kay?"
Fuck, you loved this man.
Gyokko
Gyokko adored that you were like him, an artist, a visionary, and all while being a sublime beauty in and of yourself; a muse of unprecedented measures! And oh, how cutely you scrawl away in that little sketchbook he had gifted you, Gyokko practically buzzed in delight.
You were perched in the center of his coiled, serpentine tail, his smooth fish like scales scraping your skin comfortingly as you worked away at another portrait of your eccentric lover. Gyokko adored watching you sketch, especially depictions of him, the demon letting out excited chitters seeing your beautiful pencilwork. He'd model for you, pose, be the muse you adored so much. He'd also offer surprisingly excellent critiques for you to use and incorporate into your work.
He expected the same from you, of course! He was an artist as well, and since you were one like him, he held you opinions far higher than anyone else's. That took a little getting used to for you, as his...art was often rather grotesque and stomach churning, the screams of his victims nor the fact that they seemed stitched together helped the matter. You powered through though, making Gyokko the happiest demon alive with your praises and suggestions, always making use of them for inspiration.
"Oh, my muse, you captured me so well in this!" Gyokko cooed to you, a blush creeping up to your cheeks seeing how pleased your beloved was.
"Ah, I'm glad you think so, I've been trying to practice with more lighting techniques." You replied softly, the lead of your pencil scraping soothingly against the rough paper, Gyokko's hand soon enveloping your own to guide you.
"Care to let me help, my sweet muse?" He asked softly, grinning wide when you nodded.
Gyokko was always eager to indulge in his craft, and always hungry to indulge in yours.
Fuckin' hell I can't quite characterize I need to watch Swordsmith Village.
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Party Outfit
Homelander x supe!fem!reader
Word Count: 2.7k
Warnings: the reader basically dies, grief, maybe some ooc homelander, canon type violence (death/gore is descriptive), I think that’s it but please let me know if there are more!
Author’s Note: I gotta admit, I struggled with this one a bit! I wasn’t sure how to start and it isn’t my best work so I may come back to it again later but I didn’t want to make you wait! I hope you enjoy it regardless love! Homelander is such a tricky dude. Love him though. He’s so crazy. I love that in a man.
Requested by anon: May I request a slow burn homelander x superhero! Reader, who has basically super healing powers like wolverine, so she’s probably the third strongest compared to homelander and Maeve. Homelander and reader are friends, because reader is one of the few people who took the time to care about him enough to look past the mask, and isn’t afraid of him. Something happens in a fight with a new supervillain, who’s power weakens everyone else’s around them. Reader saves homelander from a kill shot, but is killed themselves, and homelander just shatters and breaks down sobbing and clutching their body, after killing the villain. The Seven don’t know what to do to make him let go of the reader’s body, when she suddenly coughs and gasps back to life, shocking everyone and especially herself. It seems reader’s healing ability is stronger than anyone ever thought. I feel like homelander would be the clingiest person after all of that, lol.
I don’t own these characters. They belong to author/director/creator
(not my gif)
“Are you ready?”
Your voice sounded suddenly very close. Homelander turned around and jumped a bit at the sight of you. You were standing just beside him in your ‘party’ outfit. Vought thought it was better if you had two costumes, one of ads and one for actual fighting. It allowed them to continue the belief that they were all in on feminism while also marketing off your more ‘easy on the eyes’ outfits. Homelander only had one. Sometimes he wanted to have two, just to get some sort of diversity. Plus, you looked oh so nice in your party outfit.
“Yup!” he exclaimed. You smiled briefly, taking a deep breath. After he and Maeve had broken up in the public, everyone had been hoping the two of you would finally call it and start dating. It would be perfect. The two most powerful supes in The Seven, a sublime situation for marriage and kids. The perfect American dream with the perfect American boy.
You knew Homelander though. You knew that wasn’t exactly who he was.
You also knew that he was your friend.
“Is the President gonna be there?” you questioned, adjusting your corset. You looked at yourself in the mirror of Homelander’s apartment. His practical penthouse had become like a second home to you. You even helped him decorate it with some things he liked. You had to veto the baby bottles on the fire mantle and he agreed, it was in poor taste.
“Likely,” he admitted.
“Well then I’ll hide behind you. That okay?”
“Always.”
“Did they tell you about that new guy causing a fuss? The guy they sent The Deep after?” He rolled his eyes.
“I’m sure a lot of killing happened then and no octopuses were assaulted.” You scoffed. “No. What guy?” Usually he tried to stay in the loop but there was a lot going on. A lot being, so many superheroes and not nearly enough Homelander in his opinion.
“Apparently he can weaken everyone else's power around him,” you observed. You stayed beside him, adjusting his cape. He looked down at it, observing you.
“Well he hasn’t met me yet.” You hummed, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. You put your hand on his arm.
“The car will be here soon. Ashley still thinks I’m in my room and if she sees me in here then our engagement is gonna be all over the papers,” you joked. He nodded, taking your hand off his arm and squeezing it.
“Prepare for the President to ask to see your power.”
“He can catch it on the news,” you grumbled. “See you downstairs.” He nodded once and let you go. He watched himself in the mirror, allowing himself to think about you a bit longer than your presence required. You knew him more than anyone else in the world. He wondered if it would be so bad to spend the rest of his life with you. He could’ve done it with Maeve, he could have made it look good. But with you, he might be able to be happy. Be himself, whatever that was.
He turned, adjusting the cape as he walked out the door. He had a banquet to attend.
-
“It’s better if just you two go. I’d send Maeve but I know you’ll just end up fighting and it’ll be on the news and we can’t handle another goddamn media break!” Ashley was standing in front of you in her office. You had never actually seen her sit down at the desk, she was always so stressed. Homelander stood beside you.
“That was one spat,” you argued. “We’re over it now. I like Maeve.”
“I don’t wanna risk anything,” Ashley said. “After the…incident with The Deep, I expect full obliteration of this guy.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Homelander stepped in. “We’ve got him.”
You both knew that the best chance of a win was the two of you. You were the strongest of The Seven. Homelander could pack the punch and you could be the shield. You worked together well.
“Any advice on how to dim his light a little?” you questioned. She shook her head.
“Didn’t exactly get the best information from the guy who fought him before,” she grumbled. “But it was near water and we all know who lost the fight. Be careful. If either of you die…I mean it would make for a great swing of the media’s likeness of us but I would rather not have to deal with the funeral proceedings.” You rolled your eyes.
“Thanks Ashley.”
“I’m also sending Noir and Starlight 30 minutes after you land. Just in case.”
“That’s insulting,” Homelander said. He had his hands folded behind his back, ever the good soldier. “We don’t need them.”
“Then they’ll just be your extraction. Now go.” Neither of you moved. She made a waving gesture with her hands. “Go. Go!”
-
“I can’t stand the show outfit,” you muttered. You adjusted your neck in your soldier outfit, which wasn’t exactly comfortable either. It was too tight in the wrong places but at least it provided you more protection from oncomers. Homelander was walking in front of you, scanning the area with disinterested eyes. Another job. At least he was with you.
“It’s easy on the eyes.”
“And this one isn’t?” He shrugged. “I like your outfit. It’s bold. It’s iconic.” He smiled a bit, awkwardly, at the compliment. “I need a cape.”
“It’s a nuisance.” You narrowed your eyes at him.
“You love that cape.” The cape was his thing though and you knew he didn’t want you to stumble onto his territory. “But I digress. Do you want to get dinner after this?”
He always had food by himself, on the road, going from one meeting or killing to another. Dinners with you were sacred and special to him. You always asked and you watched a silly movie he pretended to hate and he could tell you about his day and you listened. He couldn’t remember any other person who listened like you.
“As long as there are no noodles.” He always got them stuck in his throat. It was embarrassing.
“No noodles. Duly noted. We could always-” Your sentence was cut short by you keeling over. You clutched your stomach. It felt like you were being drained, like all of the sudden you were far more tired than you had been in years. It reminded you of being run ragged, like you had run a marathon you weren’t prepared for.
“What? What is it?” Homelander grabbed your elbow, holding you up. It was like you hadn’t even seen him, let alone felt him touch you. You stood up straight, giving him a pained look.
“He’s here.”
Homelander turned around, searching the warehouse the two of you had entered. It was abandoned by city records and vast. Not many hiding places. Homelander’s eyes turned red with anger and concentration.
“Come out, come out wherever you are!” He called. He let you go, not being able to focus on your pain. You stood up straight, trying to allow your body to adjust. You tried to keep up with him but he was walking with purpose. You looked around, a blur of pain around your eyes. You had never felt so weak.
“John,” you murmured. He didn’t turn around.
“What? Scared?”
There was a crack behind you. You turned on your heels, watching, waiting. The pain was getting bearable as your body started to adjust to it. Perks of fast feeling. High pain tolerance.
Homelander shot his lasers at an abandoned car. It exploded into fire. You fought the urge to roll your eyes.
“I don’t see anything!” he exclaimed. He turned to you. Just as he turned around, you saw someone come from behind the car, a gun in hand. Your eyes went wide. “You see-”
You shoved him aside, taking the bullet intended for his head.
It hit yours.
It was like slow motion. He was stumbling and then you were down, a bullet between your eyes. The blood started to trickle down your forehead as you fell over onto the ground. He watched you fall backwards, eyes open in surprise. There was nothing going on behind them.
He rushed forward to grab you before you hit the ground.
On the bottom level of the warehouse, Starlight and Noir walked in. Ashley had sent them in only 10 minutes after the two of you. She was nervous, understandably so. Didn’t want to lose all four of you if you were separated and she knew that sending them afterwards was better for Homelander’s ego.
“Do you hear that?” Starlight asked. She slowed to a stop as she listened closely. Some kind of whimpering. “It’s above us.”
Noir looked up. Starlight started forward quickly, being followed by her Noir.
When they reached the top floor they found a decapitated body at the feet of the stairs. A man with a gun was dead, two red dots between his chest burned through the skin. He still had his spinal cord dangling from his neck, clearly removed with force.
In the middle of the room Starlight could see Homelander’s cape, sprawled on the ground. She could see your limp legs from behind him. He was shaking.
Annie had never seen him cry before.
Noir approached before she even thought to. She wanted to call Maeve and ask her to come down in case Homelander decided to lash out but realized there was no time. If he hadn’t taken you somewhere…there was no pulse.
She shared a glance with Noir. This was unsafe.
“What happened?” Starlight asked quietly. There were tears streaming down his red cheeks. She wasn’t going to get a coherent answer. “We need to get help,” she said, even though she didn’t mean it. She just needed to say something.
She had never seen The Homelander so broken. She thought about all the times before she saw him on the TV screen when she was growing up. Even now that she knew what he was, she held onto that shred of hope that he was like he had been on TV. She had never seen that in person, genuinely, until that very moment. When his shoulders shook and he was holding his only friend in his arms, wondering if she was really gone, if she was going to leave him alone.
Annie never felt for Homelander until then.
She shared a glance with Noir. He gave her nothing, he never did.
“It should’ve been me,” he whispered. As Annie slowly approached she saw the bullet between your eyes. Your expressionless face was haunting. Annie saw dead people but she never saw those she cared about. She was reminded of Hughie. Homelander was holding his Hughie. “It was meant to be me.”
Annie could give him no solace. She worried he would level the city for you. Maeve would try to remove him completely but she wasn’t strong enough for that. She would just have to let him stand there until your body got cold or he came to his senses that you weren’t going to wake up.
Then you woke up.
It was subtle, a slight breath. He hardly noticed it over his own drama but Starlight saw it. Her eyes went wide. Then you coughed, the bullet falling onto the other side of your head. Your head had healed itself, just like that. You squinted up at Homelander, unable to remember what had happened and why he was holding you.
Your movement startled him. He tried to find a clear vision in his eyeline, something to blur away the tears. You brought your hand up and wiped them away.
“I’m okay,” you said, voice dry. “I’m alright.”
“But-but you-” he stumbled.
“I’m okay.” It hurt, sure. You could feel the remnant of pain in your head, like your nerves hadn’t quite got the memo you were alive. You sat up and he threw his arms around you. The superstrength almost suffocated you but you were content with putting your arms around him too.
You saw the big bad dead on the other side of the room, between Annie and Noir. You shared a look with them. Annie was wiping tears from her eyes. You must have been dead for longer than you thought.
“I’m okay,” you said again, this time for the two of them. Annie nodded. Homelander needed a moment. She gestured for Noir to follow her out. They collected the remaining body parts of the villain and left.
Homelander let you go just enough to see your face.
“I thought you were dead.”
He cleared his throat, attempting to regain his composure.
“Can’t get rid of me that easily big guy,” you whispered. He wanted to cry some more, now that the floodgates were open. But he took a deep breath, allowing himself to even. You were still in his arms and that’s where you wanted to remain for the moment. It was safe here. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” he promised. He stood up, much to your dismay. He helped you stand, which took some wobbling. It was like you had just been born again.
“Can you fly us out of here? I don’t know if I can walk,” you admitted. He nodded, quickly.
“Of course. Hop on.” You made a sly smile and he rolled his eyes. You let him pick you up and carry you away, through the sunlit sky.
-
Vought confirmed that you were okay. They triple checked your vitals but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. You had sacrificed yourself for Homelander and you had lived. It was a curious thought, one not many people understood. They wanted to test your limits further but you vetoed it for the moment. You would rather not die over and over for the sake of science.
Homelander decided he wanted to be on every mission you were on here on out. He would make up for that mistake time and time again.
Sitting in his apartment, a place you were used to and practically lived in, was homey. Your ‘recovery’ was spent here. He had brought you some blankets from your room. The kindness from him was uncharacteristic but welcomed.
He vowed if he couldn’t protect himself from Vought he would protect you.
He would protect you and your silly movie nights and matching banquet outfits.
He would have his life with you, Vought or not.
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Silly goofy fanfic inspired by this video sent to me by @da-proti-toku-grem
Summary: Kris gets an invitation to the "Kaj pa Ester?" premiere
no thoughts, just crack
Kris got just one message. “Come outside”. Sent by Bojan. This couldn’t have meant anything good.
Kris was staying at his family home, since Bojan was sick again and didn’t want to infect Kris with anything that he caught. It wasn’t surprising that he needed Kris’ attention especially when his brain was being fried with temperature. But that message surprised him, by how direct, even commendatory, it seemed.
Well, his parents and sister weren’t home, only Max, who was playing some games upstairs in his room. If Bojan decided to do something very inappropriate no one would’ve seen that. At least none of Kris’ family members.
He went downstairs and opened the front door.
The first thing he saw was Jure standing in the yard with a little drum under his arm. When he saw Kris peeking out of the house he started drumming in a steady peace, like an entry march. The next thing Kris saw was Bojan, wearing a red cape and a paper crown, “riding” a broomstick with a horse mask poorly attached to it, Jan “sitting” behind him and Nace making hooves sounds by slamming together two empty pots.
Kris was surprised, to say the least.
They stopped a few meters in front of Kris’ door. Nace pretended to take Jan off the horse, and Bojan smoothly jumped off the broomstick. Jan made a few steps forward and unrolled a big scroll of paper.
“Sir Bojan Cvjetićanin” started Jan, with a sublime tone” first born son of mister Cvjetićanin, slayer of lyrics, fearless hunter of ghosts, greatest food orderer” here Bojan shoot him an angry stare” professional pool investigator, master of sociology, tamer of a beast called Ignac Jordan, defeater of the teletubbies, acrobat, the absorber of Guinness, greatest poet of our times, master of acting fortunately invites you, mister Kris Guśtin to a royal gala to watch the first ever screening of his masterpiece in acting “Kaj pa Ester?” tomorrow evening. What is your response sir?”
Bojan looked way too proud of himself, Jan seemed to be at the edge of laughing, Jure had his silly smile plastered onto his face and only Nace’s expression seemed to have any sympathy for Kris.
He blinked a few times, trying to understand what was going on. Was he impressed? Sure. Was it funny? As hell. Was he going to agree?
“Yes”
“Oh marvelous!” said Bojan as he jumped back onto the “horse”.
Jan came up to Kris and handed him the scroll, which was actually saying just “Screening with me :3?”. Then he went back to Bojan and Nace “placed” him and Jure on the broomstick and they proceeded to leave Kirs’ property, accompanied by the sound of two pots clicking.
Kris stood like that for a few minutes, still flabbergasted by the entire event, before he closed the door. He turned around to go to his room, when he saw Max that somehow materialized behind him.
“What?” Kris asked.
“Your friends are weird.”
Kris rolled his eyes and proceeded to go back upstairs.
“I have everything recorded!” yelled Max.
“Oh, you did not-!”
Krisko: Can I deny the offer?
Bojć: No
Krisko: -_- fine
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hiraeth
Summary: hiraeth - a Welsh word that has no direct English translation. It is likened to a homesickness tinged with grief and sadness over the lost or departed.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader, if you squint (it's really more of a character study)
WC: 693
Warnings/Themes: 18 +, MINORS DNI. Graphic depictions of violence and sex. Psychological horror/trauma, memory loss, body horror, dark and sacrilegious themes, and mutual corruption.
A/N: prosaic idolatry, smut, horror, and the sublime. please re-read the warnings/themes section above because this is not for everyone. if you can't watch a David Cronenberg film or have issues with any of the warnings above, please move along. and before you can ask, yes, this is a quasi-winter soldier!au
Please do not interact if you aren't 18+.
Nota bene: Reblogging, commenting, and liking my work is always appreciated; reposting, however, is not.
Enjoy! 💜
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But what Robin and Dustin and the party don’t understand is this: that every war story is a love story.
Surprisingly, his sole ally in his “cock-eyed fucking disaster” of an operation is Hop.
Didn’t bat an eye when Steve calmly stated, “There’s no future for me, not without her.”
Robin rolled her eyes and Dustin groaned, but Hopper gave him a curt nod of ‘say no more.’ Left with a promise to work his contacts, to see what could be done.
Which is how Steve found himself on a bustling subway platform during the afternoon rush. Was it stupid? Maybe. But he’d been around the block enough times to know the odds - he was made into a soldier and then a weapon for fuck’s sake, not like someone was going to get a drop on him.
The train has gotten crowded, typical for New York— nothing out of the ordinary. Steve attempted to give the little space that he could to an elderly woman and the young mother to his left. Someone behind him was pressed so close that—
It was you, he was sure of it.
But how could he be? Nothing ever came from Hop working his contacts and Robs flat out refused to be of any help at all.
He saw your hand, still delicate and unblemished despite it all, drift past his hip and your other hand grasp the pole to his right. He couldn’t help it: he reached down blindly and laced your fingers with his. He felt your breath on his neck, warm and soft pressed against him— close enough to kiss if he’d just turned his head.
“I looked for you,” Steve murmured over his shoulder. “I looked everywhere for you.”
Your mouth was pressed against the curve of his neck. “I know,” you said. “I was watching. I wanted to see how you were.”
“Turns out,” you continue, lips softly brushing against his skin. “I’m not the only one. I thought you were maybe with that girl, Buckley,” and Steve jerked helplessly but before he could say anything, you continued, “No, I know. But she’s relentless, that one. She won’t let me get near you.”
Steve tucked his head at that, not wanting anyone to see his reaction, not even you. Unfettered, you go on: “I thought maybe she was watching you the way I was, like she was in love with you. But now I know she has her own reasons.”
“It’s you,” Steve admits. “They want you. They want to— I don’t know, reprogram you.” He let the words fall from his mouth. “Reintegrate. Debrief. Think there’s a job offer in it for ya.”
“Work,” you scoff. “Kill is more likely.”
Steve swallowed down the acid working it’s way up his throat. He knew you well enough to hear the hesitation, the reluctance in your voice when you say, “I would if, if you—,”
“No, no,” Steve said through gritted teeth, and then: “You know that’s the last thing I’d want.”
A whisper of a smile against his neck, skin prickling at the familiarity. “Yeah, I’ve got your number punk.” You let go of his hand and a moment later, Steve feels a paper brush against his fingers and grasps it. “It’s no longer a ten minute window,” you say. “It’s a four minute window. I’d be flattered if it wasn’t so damn irritating. But it’s the hand we’ve been dealt.”
The subway car slows down, people start to crowd close to the doors. Your hand slips from his view, ready to disappear before his very eyes.
“Read your paper,” you advise. “Paper confounds them.” You pull away from Steve and exit the car, melting into the crowd as if you were never there at all. A selfish part of him envied that neat trick you’d honed and perfected over the years.
A specter and a soldier.
He found himself wondering what it feels like to be a ghost.
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Caldo
sudario sciropposo che copre
ogni angolo della pelle,
sauna a cielo aperto
strade sciroccose, soffocose,
stordenti allucinate e afose.
animali nascosti sotto ogni ombra
aria calda che danza
sull’asfalto bollente,
creando a mezz’aria miraggi sahariani.
Il sole è un martello infuocato
il canto ossessivo delle cicale
i suoi colpi impietosi.
Estate siciliana: aria di fuoco
deserto nei campi e nelle strade,
follia nella testa
Cielo come volta di un forno
cardi rinsecchiti, felci arrugginite
erba gialla come l’invidia
limoni di cupo verde
ulivi impassibili di glauco verde
finchè
non reagisco per disperazione:
granita di caffè con montagna di panna
granita salvifica al limone,
granita dolcissima alle mandorle
all’amato pistacchio
alle more, al sublime gelso
alle fragole, alla pesca, al cioccolato
ma non alla menta,
gusto volgare, continentale.
Oppure gelato alla crema,
nocciola, limone, zuppa inglese
cioccolato, crema, liquirizia,
gusto santo e dovuto di cassata
mandorla, fragola, pesca, fiordilatte
regale stracciatella, sensuale mango
ma non menta,
banale, continentale.
Magari seltz, limone e sale
o acqua tonica e granita al limone
caffè caldo con granita al caffè,
lasciva panna!
Gelo al limone, al melone
vino freddo gelato,
grillo, inzolia, malvasia
in un bicchiere appannato dall’afa
e affanculo prosecco e daiquiri
affanculo l’estate, l’afa, il caldo
mi basta una birra Messina gelata
un bagnasciuga infinito
e tutto il resto, i
l mondo, l’universo
è solo il sogno di un folle
una fiaba ridicola
scritta su un rotolo di carta igienica.
Warm, syrupy shroud that covers every corner of the skin, open-air sauna, sirocco roads, suffocating, hallucinated and sultry stuns, animals hidden under every shadow, hot air dancing on the boiling asphalt, creating Saharan mirages in mid-air.
The sun is a fiery hammer, the obsessive song of the cicadas its pitiless blows.
Sicilian summer: air of fire, desert in the fields and streets, madness in the head. Sky like the vault of an oven, withered thistles, rusty ferns, yellow grass like envy, dark green lemons, impassive sea-green olive trees.
until
I don't react out of desperation: coffee granita with mountain of cream, saving lemon granita, very sweet almond granita
to the beloved pistachio with blackberries, to the sublime mulberry with strawberries, peach, chocolate, but not mint, vulgar, continental taste.
Or cream ice cream, hazelnut, lemon, trifle, chocolate, cream, licorice, holy and due taste of cassata, almond, strawberry, peach, fiordilatte, royal stracciatella, sensual mango, but not mint, banal, continental.
Maybe seltzer, lemon and salt, or tonic water and lemon granita, hot coffee with coffee granita, lascivious cream!
Gelo with lemon, melon, ice cold wine, grillo, inzolia, malvasia
in a glass misted by the heat, and fuck prosecco and daiquiri, fuck the summer, the heat, the heat, a frozen Messina beer is enough for me
an infinite shoreline, and all the rest, the world, the universe, is just a madman's dream, a ridiculous fairy tale, written on a roll of toilet paper
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Isn't Being A Wicked Woman Much Better? Side Story Chapter 8
***
'Hmm. By the way, Michelle Granbert is more than a princess's friend... .'
I feel like an ardent believer.
During the battle with the Warlock, I lent her a joint doll to serve as a bait, so I thought she was pretty close to the princess, but Michelle's condition was a little different from being a friend.
“Wow, Princess. Doesn't my face look weird now? I’m so nervous.”
Michelle asked me about her condition with a pale face. Her clenched fists were trembling with tension from before.
“Originally, you’re on the white side, so you don’t look much different from usual. But, are you so nervous? ”
After all, Deborah is the saint who saved the empire.
The other day, there weren't many people who recognized her true worth, and she was with the devil, but after the battle, it was definitely felt that her followers increased.
“I really can't believe it. I didn't expect it, actually, I prayed, but I wasn't very lucky, so I never dreamed that I would be invited to this event. It is such an honor and thank you again, Princess.”
Michel Granbert, who was invited to this tea party due to the whim of the princess, had trouble sleeping from the day she was invited.
Everyone was envious of themselves attending a tea party with two celebrities from the Empire... . I never liked her because she was a saint!
Michelle took great pride in not being late.
'The owner of Armand, whom I had only vaguely imagined, was Princess Deborah! She even had a sublime side job of being a saint.'
Tea time with the person whom I admired enough to prepare a tribute to the doll to secretly present and even write an analysis thesis!
“You are a very successful person. It was good to be alive.”
Michelle was thrilled.
“But I didn’t know that you would be in front of the imperial family since dawn. Damn I came out early.”
“If you are late for even one second, it is a big deal. So, it is more comfortable to wait in the morning.”
“Huh, yes, that aside, I’ve been concerned about it since a while ago, but what did you have in your hand?”
“It's a script...”
“I don’t know why I need a script for the tea party, but I’m skipping this one, so what did I write down?”
The 5 princesses showed curiosity as they looked at the paper note that Michelle had been holding like a lifeline before.
“… Listen to what I have to say when we meet. this and that.”
“Can I see her?”
While Michelle was hesitating, the news came that the princess had just arrived in front of the Imperial Palace.
“Princess, I suddenly feel dizzy with my tongue…”
Suddenly, Michelle staggered and touched her forehead.
“Wake. You've been waiting since dawn If you fall down like this, you won't be able to see for even a second. ”
“I'll hold out.”
Michelle clenched her teeth and nodded her head resolutely.
Soon after, Princess Deborah appeared through the door, and Michelle managed to suppress the scream.
“How have you been, Princess?”
Princess Deborah greeted her with her characteristic cold expression. However, Princess 5 could now read the warmth in her eyes.
“Thanks to you.”
The two made eye contact and shook hands lightly.
“Did the princess do well too?”
“Yeah, thanks to the princess, I’ve been able to rest and have a good time.”
“But we decided to call each other names, Deborah.”
“It is, Vivienne.”
Seeing the two of them calling their names affectionately, Michelle rolls her feet and wanted to strengthen her feet.
'I'm so envious of you, Princess. I want to ask you to call my name so friendly! '
Although she was yelling out violently inside, Michelle, like a high-ranking nobleman, was adept at hiding her emotions.
“My Michelle, it’s been a while.”
Deborah greeted her, hiding her inner awkwardness.
In front of the company who wrote an analysis thesis about Armand and even promoted it as a five-star restaurant, I was a bit pricked in conscience because I pretended to know nothing about it and was hiding my identity.
In addition, to lure the 3rd Prince by boat, Michelle borrowed what he had, but he dropped the doll in the water and was unable to return it.
'I said in the first place that I don't have to give it back, but... .'
Since she's Princess Seymour, maybe she couldn't ask for the money back.
Deborah glanced at her, and Michelle barely raised her voice, her pupils trembling.
“Princess, it’s been a while.”
“Last time I suddenly asked you to borrow a doll for the boat, thank you for willingly allowing me.”
'It's just an honor for the princess to remember and even use my doll to do something big! Another honor! So there's no need to thank you with such a gracious attitude... Sobbing.'
However, Michelle could not utter the sentences that quickly passed through her head. It was because she was so crazy that her eyes became white as she got entangled with the lines of the script she had written in advance.
‘Just don’t prepare anything. '
“Michelle?”
The 5 princesses lightly called out to Michelle, who seemed to have forgotten how to breathe.
'I guess I'm a little uncomfortable.'
Deborah opened her mouth with a humble face, thinking that Michelle was having a hard time with her face just looking at her face.
“Seymour will surely pay you back. It will not be easy to find a work worth as much as a doll that you made, but I want to reward it.”
'uh? Wait, I guess it's time to spit out those lines?'
Michelle, who suddenly remembered a line from the script, managed to tear her lips apart.
“It’s a reward. Don't say that. I can feel the wall from the princess.”
“At first, my face was a little cold… .”
“...perfect”
“.....”
“.....”
The 5 princesses, who had been silent for a while in the difficult atmosphere, muttered painstakingly.
“Aha, perfection is a barrier.”
“… I'm just going home sorry!”
Michelle jumped up, dyeing her pale face like a ripe apple.
“hey!”
When she couldn't stand the shame and tried to run away, the silent princess suddenly covered her mouth and shook her shoulders.
Seeing her smile for the first time, Michelle relaxed her legs and sat down.
“ where is the handkerchief?”
Michelle mumbled gibberish.
“Why, you said you were getting dizzy from excitement earlier, but this time you look like you’re going to have a nosebleed?”
“no. Princess Deborah smiled, so the juice was splashing all the way here.”
“.....”
laughter means as fresh as fruit.
“You have to wipe… . ”
“… Would you like some tea?”
“Yes. sorry.”
“Until I’m sorry. It's just the head of the empire's best puppeteer... Hmmm, the sense of humor is just amazing. Every time you say something like a gem, it feels like you're facing the wall of another world. Absolutely perfect. ”
It didn't seem like a compliment for some reason, but Michelle was satisfied.
'I'm embarrassed, but it's okay because the princess smiled.'
Anyway, it was the script produced by this vain greed to spit out the memorable lines of the person I admire, but it worked.
'I got on.'
While Michelle dies inside, Princess Deborah raises the teacup with a smile on her face.
“The tea smells really good.”
“Yes, it is very good. ha… .”
“I brought the tea leaves my father loved, especially for you. If there is a wall that has remained for each other, even tear it down and sleep. Of course, it's not perfect. haha.”
“… I will never do that again... .”
“why? It’s fun.”
'They're both having a good time.'
The awkward spot was warmed up by Michelle's jokes, and Deborah sipping tea while listening to their chatter among her peers.
“Ah, princess. do you know that There is no purple amethyst these days, so I can't sell it. ”
“Purple silk and yarn are also trendy. I tried to wear all the dolls I own, but some were out of stock.”
“I am thinking of suggesting that sooner or later, the color of the imperial emblem should be changed to purple instead of blue sky.”
“What the hell… .”
Deborah was smirking inwardly, but, as always, her expression didn't show it well. And it gave the impression of being detached from popularity.
“cool.”
Michelle said first.
“Then, of course not. You are my girl.”
“......”
'They are really close friends.'
Deborah tried to ignore the twinkling gazes of the two of them, while involuntarily fiddling with her sweaty ring fingers. It was a habit that I suddenly developed as I recently wore my engagement ring every day.
And their eyes naturally stayed in the ring.
“Hmm. I heard that she was engaged to Princess Deborah and the Duke of Visconti. congratulations.”
“thanks.”
“I, that, by the way.”
Michelle shyly curled her lips and bit, then pulled it off.
“At the wedding, the… May I be your bridesmaid? huh, if there are any seats left.”
In Asteia, on the day of the wedding, four or five friends of the bride stood next to the bride holding flowers. It was one of the traditions that stemmed from the custom of protecting the bride from outsiders.
“I am unconditionally sitting next to the princess. Don't look too far, Michelle.”
“Still, the left side is empty.”
Deborah felt a strange feeling as she looked at the two of them fighting. She once said that she was the object of fear, and she didn't even have a young girl who made proper eye contact with herself... .
In addition to the two of them, Margaret and Arin came to me saying they wanted to have another bridesmaid. I've been busy with my life, but when I woke up, I was really surprised and happy that there were so many people congratulating me on my marriage.
The princess smiled softly as she slightly curved her sharp eyebrows.
'Ugh.'
His eyes were dazzled for a moment, and Michelle looked around his eyes... .
‘Isidor, you envious child. '
5 The princess seriously went to Isidor with the latest offensive magic tool collection and almost had a political battle.
Keep supporting me with like, comments & share. Your support encourage me to upload next chapter faster. Thank you.
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Imagine: Celebrating the New Year with Wheatley
(Gender Neutral Reader)
Down in the depths of the Aperture Science Enrichment Center it becomes incredibly difficult to tell time. Most clocks are either broken or out of battery. Any atomic clocks that might have adorned a desk were damaged beyond repair. Two things, however, have never let you down. The first is your always chatty companion, Wheatley. The second: the moon.
You catch glimpses of the beautiful celestial body in a very certain room. You’re on a higher level of the facility for sure, although through the years the floor level designations have long since worn away. There is a hole, large and rotten around the edges as the ceiling tiles wear away from rain. You can see through countless floors, countless miles up, until the moon- sublime and beaming- takes up the star-pocked sky.
You had developed a simple moon calendar based on one Wheatley had mentioned during his rambling stories, and he even gave you a starting date to help. While you couldn’t be sure of his accuracy, you could at least be appreciative of his help. As often as you can, the two of you would return to the room for respite and to add a notch onto your calendar. One night as the two of you chat away about nothing, something comes to Wheatley.
“Oh! Love, mark on that calendar- lovely job by the way, amazing idea I had and you completed, teamwork- it’s New Year’s Eve! You humans take that seriously, don’t you? That whole Y2K incident and all.” His optic rolled at the mention of that. Although you weren’t quite paying attention past his first statement.
“It’s New Years Eve?” You repeated it back to him. It couldn’t possibly be New Years Eve. There’s no fanfare, no fireworks- the world is silent. To be fair, there is no one to celebrate it around here. Just Wheatley, GLaDOS, and you; you highly doubt GLaDOS would be holding a New Years Eve party. “Wheatley, how long until midnight?”
“Around...” He pauses for a moment, glancing up at nothing. “Two hours. Love, I know New Years is important to you humans, but- don’t know if you noticed- we have no traditional means of celebration.”
You clap your hands together and start putting your plan into motion. Wheatley watches you from the position you had put him on a desk, commenting and questioning here and there. You string some rusty paperclips into a chain and hang it using some spare push-pins- really hoping whoever had you asleep kept you up on your tetanus shots- and get to work cutting out some firework shapes from colored printer paper to tape to the walls.
“You like fireworks, Love?” Wheatley asked, oddly quiet for his usual rambling self.
“Well, they are loud, but they’re beautiful. The colors glowing against the dark night sky...” Some sadness creeps up on you as you’re cutting out the fireworks, but you push it back down and continue crafting. “Anyways, it really is beautiful. These little things don’t really compare.” You chuckle as you hold up one of them for Wheatley to see. “I think they’re cute though!” You start pinning them to the wall.
“Y’know, Love, I’ve never actually seen them- well, never footage of them at least. Never been out of here anyway, no management rail up and all. I-... Like yours.” His eye is looking at anything but you at this point. He sputters “Could’ve done some science to make them glow- not hard of course, for a core of my intellect.” You giggle and his optic meets your eyes again. As you walk over to him you smile, taking a seat on the desk at a nice spot where you could see both the moon and your little craft project.
“Time check, Wheatley?” You cradle him on your lap, gazing wistfully at the heavenly body.
“From my extensive calculations- very hard to do, by way, very complex- I would say its about to be a minute from New Years Day. I’ve heard you humans- silly things you are- like to count down the seconds. You start from... Ten, I believe?”
“You’re right, we humans are silly... Lets count down, okay, Wheats?” The sadness from before starts to weigh on you. How long has is been since you’ve been outside? Seen the world, seen any kind of civilization or people... Hearing him begin to count snaps you out of it. You join him, rhythmically counting down the seconds until you finally reach the end. You see no fanfare in the sky, hear no booming of fireworks or clinking of glasses. Just the unending silence and creaking of a facility long forgotten.
“Happy New Year, Love...” Wheatley whispers, a rare quiet in his voice. “Thank you- for the fireworks and sparkly banners... Its the best one I’ve ever had.” His kind words are exactly what you needed. You look to your wall of crafts, the paper clips twinkling in the light and your crude paper cut outs finding new meaning.
“Happy New Year, my dear.” You whisper back, holding him close and putting a gentle kiss on his metal chassis. He doesn’t respond, but the gentle whirring of his fans lulls you into peace. Eyes still gazing up at the moon.
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Dipping into the astral, and my girlfriend greets me. I let her know of my joy at having completed the Mitosis Chickens, and how I must move on to the next task: digesting lightening. I was given a globe of it by @hallucinagogia and wasn't sure what to do with it, but I really wanted to eat it, and well, here we are.
I jump off the balcony of my astral bedroom and fly up to view the house, the garden, the barn; My home which I so adore. I'll make sure nothing happens to it.
I dive towards the garage with such eagerness that I skid on my landing and hear my girlfriend laugh. I went to the shelf where I stored the energy, a clear globe which sort of resembles a plasma ball. Before I consume it, I make my hand like a net and pass through the globe, this lightning energy bit me once before, but now it parts around my hand like a school of fish. Does it recognize me as a Sky spirit now? I focus on what I'm looking for, any traces of energy belonging to/of Dei, which I don't want to consume out of respect. My net catches a piece which I pull away, and it takes the form of a featureless white bird, like if you cut out the silhouette of a bird from a piece of paper and superimposed it on the world. I tell it "Go home to your master." And it flies away into the sky, disappearing after a moment.
I carefully hug the lightning into my chest and invite it in. My mouth chews and consumes, but my chest is a vestibule, and invitation to the deeper recesses of my body. The lightning eagerly runs through me, and I pull it in and out of my center. It runs in long loops through my limbs and back to my chest, like blood pumping through the heart and body.
The experience is uniquely euphoric, and I realize that my astral body is now dancing without my control. I yield to it, since I dance daily anyway. I am overcome with the desire to be in the astral sky and I use my last bit of lucidity to make sure I don't rocket through the roof of my family home, I dive out of the open garage door and zip upwards to the sky.
I was recently gifted something by my grandmother, a tool to help me move through the layers of the sky. But this time, I don't think I even used it as I leave the home realm and end up in the Astral Sky. Where this is I don't know, but it feels more like a state of being than a place.
I'm somewhere stormy, with dark clouds rolling and lightning flashing between them, coupled with thunder like war drums. I continue my dance- I'm there now as I'm writing this- and I'm there now dancing. Grabbing the lightning, being grabbed by lightning, lightning passes through me. We dance together, at first as partners but now it's like we are sharing a body. My god! The euphoria! I am lucid but in the way I am in dreams and realize what is happening, but decide to let it play out rather than take control.
What funny words, "let it". I can't "let" this happen, the lightning requires no permission from me to do what it does, I require no permission to be here. We belong together. I can't let it do anything. We're dancing! Isn't it wonderful? We're dancing! Movements decorating the body like music decorates space. Wonderful! Sublime! I can't end this writing in a more meaningful way than I am now.
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Ken Seeking Barbie
masterlist // ao3
*Summary: He's just Ken. Looking for his barbie out there in the real world. Who knew you could find someone on Craigslist? Ken certainly didn't.
*Rating: +18 for explicit mature content
*Content/Tags: First Kiss, First Time
*Status: Series (Part 1)/Complete?
“And… send. No, enter?” The clueless blond hit at the keyboard. “God these computers are so confusing. I wish Barbie were here.”
Ken was on a trip in the real world to visit his no-commitment close friend Barbara, formerly Barbie. She was all set up in the real world, she had her own apartment, a job, and apparently had seen a gynecologist. Whatever that means, but he was happy for her! He was still in the process of figuring out what it meant to be Ken. Find his purpose, like Barbie had found hers. Until he did that however, he was going to enjoy visiting with his friend. Barbara had taught him how to use the computer to occupy himself for a couple of hours while she worked. He learned more about horses, the patriarchy and its fallacies. After he had gone through Wikipedia he decided to move on to his next site. Without Barbie there to guide him, he had found his way onto a site called Craigslist. He searched for horses first, and to his surprise he couldn’t find more info about horses, but he could buy a horse. He couldn’t do that, he didn’t have any money, and he had learned his lesson from Barbie after ordering pizza that cost over 100 dollars. Apparently that was expensive for humans. He shook his head and moved onto the personal section.
“F24 looking for partner.” His eyebrow raised and clicked on it. After reading through way too much information about what this woman was looking for he decided, “I could do that.”
‘Ken looking for his Barbie
Hi, I am Ken! I am looking for a blonde haired, pretty woman.’ He squinted and looked back over the post the other person had written about what she wanted.
‘A woman who likes to have fun! Someone who likes beach! I can meet you at the beach!’
And that’s how he got to where he was now. He put the ad up on the site, and waited. Almost immediately he got responses. A lot of them asked him to call them. One woman was brave enough to set up a place to meet.
“Sublime!” He then sent her a message to arrange the meet-up before walking out of Barbie’s apartment. He walked and walked before arriving at a beach that was new to him. It was quite pretty with the sunset just on the edge of the waters that actually moved. He found a bench to sit at and waited for a couple of minutes before being approached by a woman.
“Wow. You’re really into this thing.” She said, “I guess you must be Ken.” He got up and turned around to face her. She was tall, and blonde. She was very pretty. Not stereotypical Barbie pretty, but beautiful nonetheless.
“You look very gorgeous.” He smiled at her
“Thanks. You seem nice. So… where do you want to do this?”
“Do what?”
“You know, like… the Barbie stuff.”
“The barbie stuff?” He asked again
“You’re a real airhead. Let’s just go to my house, if you’re comfortable with that.”
“Yeah, I’m fine with that.” He smiled back at her. She rolled her eyes a tiny bit and pulled him into a cab. He liked the way that she pulled on his shirt to get him to go where she wanted him to go. He plopped down onto the seat next to her and watched out the window as the beach drew out of sight. She guided him out of the car after a short ride around town and in front of a tall building. After she exchanged words with the driver and a piece of paper, she took his hand and led him into the building.
“You’re not like other guys. Most guys would be feeling me up by now.”
“Feeling you up? Do you want to be felt up?”
“No,” She laughed and tucked her hair behind her ear, “At least not until we’re in my apartment.”
“Okay.” He smiled back at her, and felt his hand squeeze hers tighter. She looked down at their hands before going back to what she was doing. She opened the door and turned the lights on. This apartment was smaller than Barbie’s but it felt so much warmer?
“Sit down.” It sounded like a command, but she said it so nicely that he sat down, “Any particular outfit you want me to wear?”
“Do you have anything pink?”
“Of course I do.” She smiled at him before going to another room and closing the door behind her. He looked around her apartment while she was doing her thing. So many dolls… wait, did she have a Ken doll? He didn’t want to disobey her, but he really wanted to check it out. He quietly got up from the couch and looked at the Ken. He was cool looking. He ran his hand over the head of the Ken, but didn’t want to think about the implication of what he was doing, and put the doll back. “Ugh I’m having a hard time finding my outfit, you can watch TV if you want!”
“Okay!” He called back to her and sat back on the couch. He flicked the TV on for a second before she came out in a bright pink, sparkly dress. “Wow.”
“You like that?”
“Very much.” He smiled from ear to ear, “Also that Ken you have is really cool.”
“Aw thanks.” She smiled back at him, “Not a lot of guys notice him. But I’ll be honest. He’s my favorite. I just think he’s so… dreamy.”
“Can I?” He asked
“Can you what?”
“Can I get up?”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Okay.” He walked over towards her and placed his hands on her hips, something stereotypical barbie would never let him do. “You’re…. Prettier than Barbie.”
“Don’t say that.” She giggled, “I am Barbie.”
“No, you’re not. And that’s what makes you so pretty.” With a feeling of conviction he had never felt before, Ken put a hand gently on the back of her neck and leaned in to kiss her. She wrapped both her arms around his neck and pulled him into her. For her, the kiss seemed so chaste compared to what she’d normally get from guys. After kissing like teenagers, she asked him
“What do you want me to do to you Ken?”
“Huh?”
“I mean I’m your barbie, you can do whatever you want to me.”
“Anything? Like boyfriend girlfriend stuff?”
“Yeah. Anything.” She kissed his cheek
“Okay.” He smirked and took her hand, before realizing he didn’t know what room to go in. “Where’s the bed?”
“In there.” She gestured back from where she came from. He nodded and guided her into the bedroom. She sat on the bed and twirled the ends of her hair with her finger
“Wait… can you act like stupid?”
“Oh, like a bimbo?”
“Yeah.” He puffed his chest out a little bit
“I thought you’d never ask!” Her voice went up and was even more girly than it had been a second before, “I just don’t know what to do without you Ken.”
“It’s okay.” He sat next to her, “I can help with that.”
“You can?! Yay!” She smiled and rested the palms of her hands in his lap. She shifted so that she rested on her legs. He pulled her closer once again by her neck and kissed her. After a couple soft kisses, he pushed her onto her back and she let her arms flop over her head as she looked up at him. He carefully lifted up her dress and looked at her underwear. He put his hands on the hem and pulled them off slowly. After they were off, he threw the garment onto the floor. She bit on the tip of her finger as she watched his confidence slowly build up. He ripped his shirt off right over his head and threw that in another direction. “Can I touch you?”
“Yeah.” His voice caught a little in the back of his throat
“I mean, I really don’t know what I’m doing but… I think….” She drew her words long to make it sound like she was confused, “This is how you take a belt off.” She unbuckled his pants and took the pair of pants off of him. She saw that there was the name ‘Ken’ embroidered into the waistband and swooned, “That’s like so cute!”
“I’ll show you cute.” He growled in a low tone, one he’d never heard before in his life. He worked his underwear off and then moved his hands onto either side of her body. He held himself up before leaning down onto her to kiss her. She pulled him down by the small of his neck and kissed him back, her head moving around. He shoved his left arm underneath her body and pressed his whole body into her. He arched his back a little before deciding he needed to be inside of her. He sat up a little bit and moved her legs apart carefully. He paused for a second, but then did as he had wanted and shoved himself inside of her. She let out a quiet gasp and he asked her, “Are you okay?”
“Little rough, but I’ll be fine.”
“Sorry.” He apologized, “Don’t have much experience.”
“That’s okay.” She pulled him back up to her and let him get used to the feeling of being inside. “Now what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to make you feel good.” He smirked a little
“That sounds so good.” She put her hands on his waist and he leaned forward, starting to slowly thrust into her. “Yeah, just like that.”
“Like that?”
“I do. Can you go faster? I bet you can.”
“Yeah I can.” He repeated his motion, but faster this time. One more time, and again. Again. Again. She moved her hands up from his sides to fully on his back as he found a rhythm to it. She kept him pressed close to her and felt himself… getting hard. That’s all he could think about. He hoped that that wasn’t a turn off for her. She quietly moaned underneath him. He grunted and kept pushing himself further into her with each thrust of his hips. He let out a broken moan from his lips as he felt a warmth pool in his stomach and came in her. Her legs clenched around his waist as he came, and let a little noise out as he slowly came down from whatever high it was he was just on. His whole body felt limp and he toppled onto her. His chest heaved against hers, and she held onto him. When he regained strength in his arms he wrapped them around her frame and rested his head on top of her chest. He listened to the soft thump in her chest as it went from every second to slightly longer and her whole body went from on edge to at ease. He rested there for a while. And a while got a little bit longer. His eyes fluttered a couple of times, and when she saw that he was getting sleepy, she ran her fingers through his soft perfect blond hair.
“If you want to go, you can.” She offered to him quietly
“Okay.” He got up and looked at her, “Wait.”
“Yeah?”
“What if I want to stay?” He asked
“Then you can stay.” She smiled at him
“Okay.” He cuddled up beside her and wrapped an arm around her back before looking down at her dress. “That’s still a really pretty dress.”
“Thanks. I made it myself.” She beamed, “I’m glad you treated it with such care. Most guys are too eager and just start tearing.”
“That’s awful.” He gasped
“Yeah I know.” She rested her head on his shoulder. Ken could have squealed with excitement, but instead went to hold onto her hand. “I never got your name.”
“Oh. It’s Ken. I’m just Ken.”
“You’re cute.” She closed her eyes and grinned
“Thanks.” He smiled up at the ceiling. He didn’t know when he’d get back to Barbara’s apartment, or how. That didn’t really matter to him right now, because Ken had finally found a purpose. And his purpose was his barbie.
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Lunch Date
Characters: Arunae, Fledge
Word Count: 1,505
Context: Arunae and Fledge are somewhat recent defects of the Alternian fleet. They currently reside on a neutral space station known as Parable that orbits the star Paem.
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There are three star systems within a standard jump from Paem. Most cruisers were only capable of a single jump before needing to recharge; the power to do so was reserved in a bank intended for emergencies. Charging the reserves for a jump was nearly as expensive as the ship itself, and most batteries would lose their capacitance after a single discharge of that magnitude, necessitating replacement. It was unfortunately true: no battery worked as well as a helmsman. It would cost fortunes to consistently travel by cruiser only using batteries, and inviting a stranger to join a party of two was, to Fledge, just as costly.
It was good, then, that she could power jumps without either. It was equally good that Arunae wasn’t privy to, nor particularly interested in, the specificities of space travel mechanics. She knew how to independently gimbal the rear thrusters to donut tightly enough around the spires of Parable to make Fledge forget for brief moments that she had ever been anywhere else, and that was plenty. So long as neither of them ever discussed the specifics of their travel, it would stay that way.
Every so often they stole away to a colony for a few days. This perigee, it was Thalamos-7. The planet had established itself within the empire long ago through mining. Between the sparse new-looking towns were mining camps, and between those were swaths of land peeled back to expose the shells of the planet's long scooped-out insides, now scattered throughout the galaxy. The canyons revealed labyrinths of caves containing reserves of the planet's remaining clean water. In the past few centuries the local population had been making an effort to restore the landscape and reestablish the colony as a place with a viable future, rather than a husk to discard. Land that could not be repaired would become civil developments.
The efforts seemed to be moving along well, all things considered. The brochures and websites Fledge and Arunae had poked through seemed to think so; they touted newly lush rolling hills, and exotic fauna and flora carefully selected to remake its home within gashes left by the empire. Their website described its vistas as unique and speaking. The greenery crawling over the rough but methodically slashed crevices demonstrated en large “the same sublime perseverance of a scar.”
It wasn’t the sort of poetry Fledge cared for. The beauty lines that wrapped their way around downtown were convincing enough for her.
The cafe she and Arunae sat outside now was called “The Copper Street Mealblock”. A short menu existed only on the inside walls in neat chalk handwriting. There were potted plants in the windows, and the brightly colored chairs were comfortable despite how they looked. The food came out in plastic baskets lined with brown paper. After lunch they were going to take a ride beyond the town to see if the photographs were being generous.
“Kind of hoping they’re overselling it; I’d love to dig Runner’s fins into the side of a quarry. Bet it’d be like a huge skatepark.” Arunae had already annihilated a sandwich and was picking away at her side.
Fledge snorted at the idea as she moved a fork through her salad. “Couldn’t we do that on any moon?”
“Sure, but no moon is within ten minutes of a place with fries like these.” Arunae waved around an example before violently sacrificing it to her maw to join nearly a full basket of its brethren.
“I told you to get a large.”
“And you were so right.” She shook her head solemnly, and Fledge tilted hers in sympathy.
The teal swung her clawed arm over her chair and gazed out at the street. “Imagine living here, though, in one of these little town-hive apartments, coming down to a cafe for breakfast and then, I dunno, going spelunking.”
Fledge raised an eyebrow. “You want to go spelunking?”
“Maybe! I’ve never been. But we could, and that’s what matters. What else was it they had here?” She patted herself for a pamphlet she quickly realized she left in the ship. “Base jumping? Sky diving? Shit, we could watch a movie. A new one, even. In a movie theater.”
“Not sure I could handle that kind of excitement,” Fledge joked.
“It’ll be a far cry from my tablet and your little med-bay bunk, but I think you could handle it.”
The cerulean flashed a smile. Arunae consumed another fry.
“Seriously though, what do you think?”
“About going to the movies?”
“No, about moving here, living here.”
“You make every place we go sound nice.” Fledge’s fork played with a little tomato.
“Any of them stand out, though?”
Fledge shrugged her shoulders.
“Maybe we could take a lease out somewhere. Try living on a planet for more than a week. See what it actually feels like, y’know?”
“Maybe.” Fledge’s fork poked through the tomato.
“I know you don’t expect us to stay on Parable forever.”
“No.” She turned the tomato on her plate. “Of course not.” she added.
“So?”
“So--” she set the fork down and crossed her arms over her chest. “-- we’re both defects. I don’t know.” She let out a breath. “I feel like it’s kind of risky to settle down anywhere, especially somewhere that’s Empire controlled, even a small colony like this one.”
“I’ve been thinking about that, actually.”
“What do you mean?”
“About them finding us.”
Fledge glanced down at the table.
“It’s been six perigees, right?” Arunae began to explain, “Parable is safe, sure, but it’s not secret. Six perigees, and not a whiff of the fleet?” She gesticulated with a fry. “I honestly don’t think they’re looking for us. I wouldn’t be surprised, either; I mean, me, I’m half metal, half liability and you--”
Fledge’s eyes shot up at her. Arunae was still finding her words.
“--Well, we know they didn’t treat you right.”
Fledge sank again, and stayed quiet.
Arunae tightened her lips. Seated across the table from her, Arunae saw herself: fickle and afraid, single tethered and constantly gauging the ropes girth. She grabbed at her memory for Cyther’s words; what would she have said? She always seemed so sure. She could spin ideas into action like threads through a spindle and sweep Arunae up with her. It seemed so stupid, mulling over townhives when Cyther was planning raids in a night.
Was it possible Cyther wasn’t sure back then? Perhaps she had convinced Arunae in order to convince herself. Maybe she had just gotten good at it, and Arunae got better at agreeing, until Cyther didn’t need her to anymore.
Arunae didn’t want to pretend. She wasn’t sure the fleet wasn’t looking for them, and gauging what felt like home wasn’t really in her repertoire. However Fledge was feeling, she clearly wasn’t keen to make another life changing decision anytime soon. Maybe leaving that day was all she had in her, and Arunae couldn’t argue with that.
What was it that had let Arunae go, the day she left for the fleet? The day she told Cyther she was leaving? Had she truly believed she could make a change from within the fleet? Fuck, she wanted it back. Whatever it was, she wanted it back. She wanted to take Fledge’s hand and lead her somewhere beautiful, unafraid for her, gesture out to the world and tell her “Isn’t this great? We could be happy here.” She wanted to mean it. She couldn’t.
“Could we not talk about this in public,” Fledge finally peeped. “It makes me nervous.”
“Oh, yeah,” Arunae accepted Fledge’s request to cut the conversation short. She ate her last fry and sat at the impasse she had created.
“I know—” Fledge piped up again, “—we have to talk about it. I know we can’t be there forever. We’ll talk about it, I promise. I just need to think.”
“It’s cool. It’s not like we have to decide now.”
Fledge nodded and stared out into the street.
After a moment, Arunae reached her hand across the table to hold Fledge’s.
“I have a different important question to ask you.”
“What?” she looked to her.
Arunae met her gaze and squeezed her hand gently.
“Can I have some of your fries?”
Fledge snorted. She took her hand back to nudge her basket towards the other. “Go crazy.”
As she watched her dear friend make fries disappear with feverish abandon, Fledge’s mind swam with thoughts. Was it really possible that the fleet wasn’t looking for her? Why wouldn’t they be? Was she would be too much trouble? For the first perigee on Parable she couldn’t sleep. She had spent days awake, watching the door of the apartment, waiting for a fleet official to come busting through to take her back. She thought the weight in her stomach during those hours was fear, but now, she wasn’t so sure. This, the concept that no one was ever going to come for her, that no one was even looking, stirred her insides. It was much more terrifying.
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A double treat: Sophie Menter & Emil von Sauer
This evening I suggest you listen to two recordings by two of my most favoured pupils: the German born Emil von Sauer and my musical daughter, Sophie Menter.
These two recordings have been obtained with different techniques at the very start of the phonographic era. One of them is an object with a physical memory tangible enough; the other, all sound.
This I believe to be an electrical record of Emil's elegant Campanella. Pay attention to the tone, mood and trills; no dragging, no rushing.
This instead is a piano roll. And no other than the most splendid Sophie could encapsulate such sublime feeling into a mechanical recording, incarnate the absolute and suave into wood and paper. Hear and feel this great pianist, so near, and yet elusive. Here is Un sospiro.
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This album never stops being perfect. Chet Baker had a sad life, but lately I’ve been thinking a lot about how music is this art that lives with people in all their moments, sublime and miserable and mundane. What a gift it is to be a musician.
We do not really celebrate Easter, though I’m sure I’ll at least listen to Jesus Christ Superstar once today (paging @ghostwrittenbyme lol). It’s a strange holiday for me because growing up it was a big deal. Easter baskets, special dresses for church, Easter lilies on the altar, hymns, egg hunts, and a big lunch. We do an Easter basket for my big kid but never hype it up. I haven’t even mentioned the Easter bunny in years. My kid still somehow believes in Santa, but I’m not willing to keep gassing him up over a giant anthropomorphic rabbit. He didn’t even notice his basket this morning.
I did pop some frozen lemon blueberry rolls in the oven and we’ll have sausage and cheesy scrambled eggs. I’m going to do my best to have a lazy-ish morning of reading the Sunday paper and drinking coffee before I have to do chores and grade.
Happy Easter, I guess.
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