angst-and-ashes

[angst-and-ashes]

Classic Rock Band Imagine #4: Bob Dylan (Solo Musician): Dylan x (Female) Reader

Imagine running into Bob Dylan at a small post-concert shindig that your manager forced you to attend. 

Warning: Mentions of drug use, death, and suicidal ideation.

26 May 1966. London.

“So, you’re a glamour girl now, huh?” 

He laughs, sadly, hit with the urge to smoke. 

Again. ​

A joint would do him good for now. A fat one, preferably. One fat enough to make him just forget.

​Forget about all those pigheaded assholes and their labeling of him as some oracle who magically held all the answers to life.

​Once he plugged in his Fender Stratocaster, they catapulted him with jeers and boos and jibes. Cried, “What the fuck happened to you, man?” as though he had been some pet monkey who lived and existed solely for their consumption.

But he needs even more to forget about the girl standing before him. Or, rather, the memories he has of you. 

Namely, of you and him.

You chuckle, albeit dryly. “Well, it appears to be that way, don’t it?” You toy with the hem of your blouse, eyes dropped down to your feet. Because God knows what could be behind those baby blue eyes of his if you ever dare to find them. 

You have neither the heart, nor the stomach, for it. 

To make matters worse, the Ray-Ban Wayfarer shades he has since become known for wearing are not on his face. ​

Bob rummages in the breast of his coat for a loose smoke. But for anything, really. If he keeps still, he will go fucking insane. 

“You know, I, uh, see you on them magazines. I see you on the newspaper stands. All the time. On the cover of that what’s it called, that Harper’s Bazaar, whatever it is.”

“I’ve shot for that one, yeah.” 

You find his eyes. 

And you would be a damned liar if you said you didn’t miss them. Two years later, and still, you ache for him. You love him still — as much as it absolutely nauseates you. 

You add, in an unusually nonchalant tone, “British Vogue and Mademoiselle, too. Oh, and Vogue Paris. Shot for them a few times.”

“Guess I still gotta get used to you bein’ all dolled up.” He forces out a half-assed chuckle. “Names I didn’t even think about.” 

​Damn if it doesn’t nauseate him to pretend to not be in anguish when it clearly reads on his face. 

And really, he wants to scream, “Woman, who even are you?” at you. But, to be fair, he hasn’t a clue to whom he became, either. ‘64 was the last time either of you had been normal.

Or perhaps “unbroken” would have been a better word. 

Perhaps it was he who had broken you with all of his broken promises.

No doubt, the guilt had broken him.

You scoff. “Did you really expect me to be the same ol’ homely girl singin’ for change up in East Village? I’m allowed to change, aren’t I? Well, I am. Just like you.”

“Just like you.” 

Three words that gash deeper than any jeer of “traitor!” or “Judas!” from any angry folk purist ever could.

For so long, he lamented your burgeoning modeling career, persuaded that you would have been consumed by a world that had not even existed. And the sweet peach you once were would have came back merely a bitter and rotten pit. Those ravenous and parasitic industry hounds would have gladly taken everything from you.

And with no reward on your end. And that girl he came to know and befriend and love will have been nothing more than a husk of herself.​

You had been all in his head as he scribbled “To Ramona” furiously on an old, discarded napkin.

For so long, he had deemed himself to be above the smoke and mirrors that seemed to have lured you in. 

Until you reminded him that he wasn’t.

Sex and drugs and madness and despair. 

The monstrous cycle that each musician found himself succumbing to, he soon followed.

Before you stood an agitated, erratic shell of the awkwardly charming Midwestern boy whose rugged denim overalls loosely fit his stout, ample legs. Now, they are scraggly twigs, having grown limp from three days of no sleep. And the pills, among other things, have made his mind troubled and uneasy. Frantic. Just last night, he nailed the best-looking broad who lacked just enough self respect to throw herself at him.

All while Sara nurses their newborn son at home.

Different, he surely is not.

Silence suddenly befalls you both, deadening the exchange. But the pangs of regret linger among you.

Regret about his failure to see your engagement through. Regret about his unwillingness to be faithful to you. Regret about the miscarriage that he knew for a fact damaged you.

Hell, it damaged him, too. More than he cared to admit.

And yet, he abandoned you still. For that same mythical world he cautioned you against.

* * *

The silence dissipates, at last, once you set eyes on his frame. He looks sick and damn near dead. “You’re not eating much, are you?”

“And you’re askin’ me that, why?” 

He groans. 

I get this shit enough from Albert. I’m done hearin’ ‘bout it.

“‘Cause it don’t look like you are, that’s for damn sure!”

​Sure. Maybe he would have looked better with extra pounds put on. But still, he does not need fifty different people telling him what he already knew. 

It’s no one’s fucking business, either.

But you were never the type to bite your tongue. And he knows it. 

​“Christ, [Y/N].” He slaps a hand on his brow to rub a pulsing temple. “Not like you gotta see me naked anymore.”​

“Oh, we’re well past that.”

“I know, but sometimes,” he confesses, “I wish we weren’t.” He runs a calloused thumb across the fullness of your lip, organic in its pout. “I dunno, babe. I still crave those lips from time to time.”

“Tuh! The only lips you should be craving” — you pull back from his taunting caress — “are the ones that belong to your wife.”

You spit the word “wife” with perhaps a bit of resentment. Because had he really loved you as he claimed to have, it could have been you. 

You were still mourning the loss of your baby when he called it quits. You lost both of your loves all at once.

And your dream of an autumn wedding would have stayed merely a dream.

“Silhouettes” by The Rays sounds on the stereo. 

You both remembered it as one of your favorite old records to make love to. Pairs of bodies begin to merge all around you, stumbling rhythmically in a tight embrace. You felt sick. 

“I gotta go,” you stutter, frantically, before charging out of the suite with a light, fast clunking of the heels. 

And there, he stands alone, amidst the barrage of dancing lovers. You have abandoned him, as he had done to you a couple springs ago.

Serves me right.

You were gone.

​And, perhaps, for good.

He leaves the suite for his room. Knowing the risk, he decides to wash down a couple downers with the meager swallow left from his nearly empty bottle of wine. 

If I die, I just die.

He blinks at the typewriter in front of him all night. 

He feels his insides churn whenever he thinks of how badly he hurt you.

And all of a sudden, dying doesn’t seem so bad.

[angst-and-ashes]

jimbert 🥺

It is written, and so it shall it be done.

WARNING: NSFW.

“You feel” — Page paused — “quite good, I admit.” 

He swallowed. Plant softly nipped at his neck. He said next, through a breathy moan: “Though you shouldn’t.”

He did not know or understand what this was. 

This, being the gradual affair that he began to have with the well-built blonde whose curls he loved to grab. Their sessions usually occurred after gigs and shows, and were filled with nothing less than a deep, unspeakable passion each and every time.

Page mused: Maybe we drink too much. Do too much fucking coke. 

Or maybe he had suppressed his longing for Plant for the longest time, and the vodka and coke just happened to unleash them.

What began as innocent, playful and experimental kissing on the edge of Page’s bed progressed into the slapping of flesh. 

Moans, loud and uttered without shame. The occasional cry of “I love you!” from Plant — almost always during hard and painfully slow sex — would ring out into the air, too.

His declaration of love, assumed to be merely a byproduct of the moment, would never be discussed among the two, however. Instead, they’d chat over the prospect of a new song, girls, or anything that had nothing to do with what just happened among them.

“Why shouldn’t I?” Plant probed, having grown tired of concealing this secret. A secret, he thought, it should be no longer. “You shouldn’t deny yourself of feelin’ good and randy, baby.”

Inquisitive fingers grazed against his crotch, slowly stretching the satin of Page’s trousers. 

He bit back a moan, eyes shut.

Whether it had been the whiskeyed stupor that made his mind milky, or something that had tormented him subconsciously until that very moment, Page needed an answer. Even if this had not been necessarily the time to ask. “What you said about loving me, is it true?”

“Of course!” Plant guffawed, as if Page had asked him a trivial question whose answer had been ridiculously obvious. “Whether you love me is the real question.”

Page heard a quick zip of his trousers, followed by a soft tug of the cloth from his narrow hips. 

And when he felt the sudden sensation of his dick being encompassed by a moist warmth being the singer’s very useful mouth, he blurted: “Fuck, yes!”

No longer could he pretend.

[angst-and-ashes]

“Yes, What?”

Hello, loves! Long time, no see! I have an SVU fic that I had started a couple of years ago. With heavy reviving and editing, I have decided to share it now. 

WARNING: This contains lewd NSFW content. If you are under the age of 18, please do not read. This is NOT for minors.

(GIF Source: iheartCarisi)

Sonny.

The overzealous Italian detective. Enthusiastic. Tall. Lean. Hair adorned with threads of metallic grey. He swaggered like a tiger. Ate like a starved horse. Grinned like a Cheshire cat.

In all, he was a sweetheart.

He was your main companion. You made great colleagues, and even greater friends. And he always brought to you chocolate cannolis, your favorite treat, on Tuesdays.

Some few shots of rum at the bar on 14th Street would have complicated everything. You couldn’t get enough of the taste of his frantic little tongue, warm and slick. 

Those pink lips, made raw from your soft nips.

The pangs of regret had strongly been felt within the Precinct on that following Monday. You nearly died when Lieutenant Benson partnered you with him. After a Sunday spent crying yourself sick in bed, you simply couldn’t function.

“[Y/N], you drive up to the scene with Carisi. Find some leads. Question all witnesses.”

“‘Ey, Lieu,” Sonny began to protest. “Fin ain’t doin’ much. Can’t he tag along instead?”

“I’m sure [Y/N] can handle a standard rape case,” Fin remarked, lips curled with slight annoyance. “[She/He/They] spent three years in the grittiest parts of the Bronx, for God’s sake!”

Sonny’s eyes burned. So much for havin’ my back, man.

Lieutenant Benson folded her arms, and sensed tension through the gap in between you and Sonny. Nevertheless, she denied his overt wish. And your not-so-overt wish. “Carisi. [Y/N]. Go.”

* * *

The stark, cold silence infused the cramped confines of the vehicle. Until you spoke, softly.

“Sonny—”

“Look, [Y/N],” he sighed. “Let’s just forget that Saturday night ever happened, alright?”

You sighed, and watched his sad eyes melt into the congested Manhattan roads. “Alright.” Approaching the corner of 4th Street and Broadway, you could finally breathe.

In your head, you scold yourself. No more dwelling on civilian problems. We’re at the scene. Focus on this Williamson case.

The case hadn’t gone anywhere. Sonny became impatient with the witnesses’ feigned ignorance.

* * *

The drive back to the Precinct was just as intense.

You saw the confusion that stiffened Sonny’s shoulders while he gripped the steering wheel as though he feared it were to fly away from him. Confusion either from Saturday night, the case, or, perhaps, both.

You were not used to this: Sonny not talking to you. Not rambling about Staten Island, updates on Gina’s life, or the overpriced Italian restaurants downtown that his mom’s cooking always ran circles over.

And it ate at you.

Bad.

* * *

Ding.

Shit. How could you forget to silence this damn phone?

You scanned the freshly sent messages, anyway. Much to Sonny’s chagrin. Still, he said nothing.

The first message read:  

Just got back from court. Lost the case. Need to blow off some steam. - RB

Ding.

The second quickly followed.

Come to the office. I have needs to fulfill. Don’t wear underwear, either. - RB

The contact attached to the messages made your stomach coil.

RB...

Rafael Barba.

(GIF Source: mystery-fan99)

The saucy prosecutor.

He possessed a frame relatively tiny for a man, but had been blessed with a big and unrelenting mouth to compensate. He had gotten under your skin, but also between your legs. He fucked like a beast. Kissed like a smooth Casanova. Gentle, but only when he wanted to be. Held a tendency for being quite possessive, too. Felt entitled to your body. Loudly proclaimed that you were his and not to be shared.

You, and your ass, were off-limits to anyone and everyone but him.

And you despised and feared and loved him all at the same time.

Somehow.

But now, it seemed to be purely fear that led you up those marble steps. As weird and backwards as that sounded.

You approached the lofty stone building of 1 Hogan Place with your throat closed. Stomach agitated. You did as Rafael had clearly instructed, and left your underwear scrunched into a ball, sitting behind those files in your bag. His orders were never disobeyed.

And God help you if they were.

You shuddered at the mere thought of Rafael’s anger once he would have discovered that his prized possession had been carefully touched, kissed, and enjoyed by another.

“Hi, Detective [Y/L/N],” Carmen greeted, her bird-like voice slightly taming your erratic nerves. Slightly. “You’re visiting Counselor Barba, I suppose.” She grinned, as if she was well-aware.

She grinned, as if she’d heard you and Rafael fucking from outside the office. And more than once. You had prayed that you hadn’t been too loud, and to each and every deity of every faith imaginable.

How could you not scream, though, after the way he pounded you?

“Hello, Carmen. I have evidence for a warrant,” you said, with a mouth full of shit.

You lied, as if Carmen wasn’t able to see through the lies. As observant as she was? Nothing could get past her. Her right eyebrow, slightly cocked, said it all. Nonetheless, she lead you into the office.

“Counselor,” she announced. “Detective [Y/L/N] is here to see you.”

* * *

“You WHAT?”

Fury was read in Rafael’s smoldering eyes. Meanwhile, the dangerous mixture of excessive dark-roast coffee and betrayal trembled his hands.

“I’m sorry…” you stammered, the volume of your apology reduced to a whisper. “Please— ”

“Do not speak.”

Rafael’s wicked thoughts ran while he watched you, his plaything, crumble beneath his gaze. You betrayed him, and thus, you deserved to crumble.

“Strip,” he commanded. “Do it. Now.”

You knew not to say anything. The obedient removal of your clothes was a response good enough. In spite of the slight terror that glossed your eyes, you actually wanted it. Wanted him. It was displayed through your nipples, perked and hardened.

“You’re just a greedy whore, aren’t you?” he interrogated, quite teasingly, while unbuckling his belt, and grunted through the whites of his teeth. “Let’s see how greedy you really are when I cum in your ass again and again.”

With a fistful of your hair, he forced you over the desk, clutter-free. “You are going to call Liv and tell her you got sick from lunch. Use your sick leave. But not until I fuck you the first time.”

Oh, fuck. He’s gonna wear my shit out.

The unrestrained throbbing tormented your groin. You gazed at yourself in the reflection of the polished mahogany of his desk. A little helpless and degraded, and bad, slut. Made to be a man’s command. But it turned you on. Tremendously.

Rafael tightened the grip on your hair, close to yanking it. But you got even hotter and hotter. His breath seemed to sizzle on your skin. “Want me to fuck you like the slut that you are? Hm? Want me to teach you that your ass is mine, and mine only?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

He maintained his grip even tighter. Your eyes watered. But you were throbbing just the same.

“Yes, sir.”

“You will stay in this office until you learn how to be faithful like a good slut should.”

* * *

[angst-and-ashes]

Classic Rock Band Imagine #3: Freddie Mercury (Queen): Freddie x Reader (Gender-Neutral)

Imagine having a platonic relationship with Freddie Mercury.

5 October 1968. London.

“This is not the ideal place to take a photograph.”

You inspected the strange faces. The reddened eyes. The inebriated bodies that stumbled throughout the aisles, all in search of nothing.

The Market was where most of the upscale folks of Kensington convened. They killed time purchasing the trendiest peasant blouses and faded bell-bottomed jeans while high on spliffs.

It was the regular spot for post-concert hangouts, too.

That particular evening, The Market had seen an influx of what seemed to be laughing, dancing zombies. You remembered that The Who had performed some hours ago in Chalk Farm, at The Roundhouse. Around a 12-minute drive from the Market.

It all made sense.

No wonder your former flatmate had been resentful of the customers all night. He had been aching to hear Keith Moon live. Grab a pint with a couple of lads. Smoke a well-deserved spiff, too.

But here he was.​ Miserable at the job. Given the tedious task of inspecting Bohemian skirts that had been shipped earlier in the day. Not to mention, having to hear you complain.

“If you need that project done by tomorrow,” Roger Taylor said, checking for tears at the hems of the skirts, “you have no other choice.” 

He glanced up at you with indifference dimming the blues of his eyes before adding: “Fred will be here soon.”

​The aisles reeked of grass. It was enough to make you shudder in a cough. While you indulged from time to time, you still could never get past that smell. 

God. All for that damned term project. 

“Why would he ask to be photographed through you? He could have talked to me himself. He knows me.” You paused. “Somewhat.”

“The poor lad gets a little nervous,” he said, a bit vexed. “You know how reserved he is.”

Three bearded men lounged around the fresh merchandise, lost in their daze. Roger shooed them away.

He continued, “Besides. Fred gets a bit antsy around people he’d like to know a little bit better.”

“He does? Really?” You felt your cheeks flush.

“There is just something about you he seems to like. Have no clue what that could be.”

​“Fuck you, arsehole!” You laughed and met his shoulder with a light tap.​

Freddie Bulsara was a quiet bloke. Undeniably skilled. And perhaps one of the most promising student artists in all of Ealing Art School.

You both spent a term in the same art course. He’d rarely listen to the lectures, which, you admitted, were tedious and not even worth attending. He spent the time drawing pen-drawn doodles of rock singers instead.

And you had secretly admired the impeccable line-work that made John Lennon’s sharp Roman beak so accurate.

You sat an empty chair away from him. But your eyes met on quite a few occasions. It felt different each time. 

Though the same strange emotions had been invoked. 

And an unexplained strain of heat had encompassed you each time. It was a warmth that coated the stomach and dampened the skin. 

* * *

“And here is Fred to save me,” Roger cried, waving down the little figure that struggled past the intoxicated mass.

You stiffened. It was one thing to see him in the lecture hall. Another to see him here. Where he and Roger sold apparel and his painted portraits. 

And something rose in the pit of your heart.

“Hullo.” You had been quick to realise the slight crack in your voice. Though you preferred that to allowing the anxiety to impede your ability to speak ever.

“Nikon Photomic?” he asked, nodding at the camera in your hand. “That’s the kind Linda Eastman uses, right?”

“Yes, actually,” you stuttered, your thumb fumbling with the rim of the camera’s lens. 

How on God’s Green Earth did he know that?

The wheel of answers spinning in your head had finally slowed as those chocolate eyes had seemed to have contained the key to your soul and all of its contents and secrets.​

“Rogie said that you take nice photographs. Are you going to make me look fabulous?”

He glanced down in an attempt to hide his open-toothed grin. He must have practised that line before meeting you.

You beamed and uttered simply:

“You already are.”

* * *

14 September 1975. London.

“Oh, you are so bloody stubborn, Fred!”

You chuckled, indulging in a small sip of Malbec wine before swapping Roberta Flack out for David Bowie on the record player. You had not necessarily been in the mood for croony Rhythm and Blues ballads, but for that special amalgamation of smokey glam rock and Broadway show tunes.​​

“No Led Zeppelin this time? Thank Goodness!” he cried, slapping a hand against his heart. “I would have had an aneurysm if I had to listen to that god-awful Physical Graffiti album one more time.”

“Do not avoid the subject, Mercury!” Your attempt to be stern had been foiled as you failed to contain a laugh. “No, but really. I hate it when you smoke. You must quit.”

“And you must be mad if you believe that I am throwing away my ciggies.” He paused. “Or my boas.”

“No, I love your boas.” You leaned across the lacquered sofa to caress the purple feathers that sat upon his shoulders. “You remind me of Marc Bolan when you have them on.”

“I am not another Bolan,” Freddie scoffed theatrically. “I am Mercury. And I will be a legend that way.”

You beamed and nodded. If you had held even an ounce of the confidence that had molded Mercury, the world would have been cradled in your hands.

You nodded. “I believe you.”

You recalled the day Queen, the band Freddie sang lead for, formed. You remembered being pestered by Freddie and Roger to take their ameuter photographs back in ‘73. You especially remembered being enamoured by Brian May and his curls. Remembered even fancying him a little bit.

Now…

Queen was up-and-coming. Scored hits in Britain and Japan and even in America. And the shy third-year student you met at Ealing Art School when you were a first-year, Freddie Bulsara, had now been seen in authentic Japanese kimonos, travelling around the world with a microphone in his hand and money in his pocket.

With nails coated in a jet-black polish, he brushed through some of the disarrayed strands on your head while you laid against him. “And I believe that you, my dear, will get on the map. Your photographs are too marvellous not be noticed.”

“I want to believe you, Fred. But a Mick Rock or a Linda McCartney only come once in a while. I am average at best.”

“My arse!”

“But I am.”

“Stop that.” Freddie frowned. “I can’t stand it when you say egregious shit like that.”

“I’m sorry,” you uttered, timidly. You stared at the half-drunk bottle of wine on the table. Soon, your gaze would have moved back upwards with the all-too-familiar sensation of circles being traced on your hand.

“No need for apologies, [Y/N].” He delved into your soul. Again. God, those eyes. 

So intense. Too damn beautiful.

He proceeded to speak:

“Do you realise that I was afraid to talk to you six years ago? Because you were absolutely beautiful and intelligent and kind and everything that I deeply admired but at the same time was scared to death of?

“The day I met you in the Market, I had to convince myself all that day that I was even good enough to get to know you. I felt as though I wasn’t for the longest time. Because you were so perfect to me. In fact, you were too perfect.”

You froze. Freddie was not usually the type to disclose admiration for anyone else. So, when he expressed those deep sentiments that stirred from within, you knew it was real.

You once again brushed a hand on the feathers that made Freddie appear smaller than he already was. “Funny. I felt the same about you.”

“You are still perfect, my darling. Nothing that I feel about you has changed.”

“Just like my love for you hasn’t.”

Those same pangs of warmth you had felt back at Ealing came back in full force. Shy Bulsara had seemed to resurface, as he had spilled his heart. You felt Bulsara, too, in the sweet little kiss he pressed against your brow.

“I adore you, [Y/N], my dear. And I always will.”

And the world, once again, seemed to fall back in place.

* * *

[angst-and-ashes]

Rafael Barba Comforts You During a Hurricane

For @loveforpeace. Stay safe out there, dear. (This is @bonham-babe-blues, btw.)

My heart goes out to those who are being affected by these natural (or man-made) disasters. 

This is dedicated to all of you. <3

> Known to be highly efficient, Rafael has gathered all the provisions. Water. Food. Blankets. Likewise, he spent his entire Saturday cleaning out the bedroom’s spacious walk-in closet. A space that you both would share for a considerable amount of time.

> However, these careful preparations do little to calm your nerves. And they are only exacerbated with the Weather Channel being on his little radio all day. He doesn’t realize the extent of your anxiety until he spots the tears having glossed your eyes.

> “Hey.” He frowns. And the profound concern softens his eyes. He touches your lips, ever-so-slightly, with his own, and whispers, “I’m not going anywhere. Alright?”

> You hear the violent winds. The snapping of trees. The tumultuous clash of the elements. And, like a frightened child, you clasp onto the girth of his waist. “It’s alright, sweetheart,” Rafael coos, placing gentle kisses upon your damp forehead. He holds you, much like his pride, for the rest of the evening. Warm bodies sheathed with blankets. 

> “You know you’re safe with me.”

[angst-and-ashes]

“59th and Lexington.”

Hello! This is a little one-shot, about four-hundred words. About ADA Rafael Barba, the current fan favourite of SVU. This one-shot is quite troubling and tragic and showcases the classic angst. There are, I warn, no happy endings here.

A/N: There are mentions of rape and sexual assault. This will, of course, be tagged as a trigger warning. Also: This one-shot features an original character (“Candace”) with whom Barba has had a history. And I may, or may not, use her for future projects.

And I will definitely write more SVU stuff! Between Barba and Carisi, I have an abundance of ideas! <3

“Now, Candace McCullough may be many different things, but a liar, I’m certain, is not one of them.”

Rafael took another quick, careless swig of coffee. House blend. Not his favorite. Besides, it had been made too weak, but it was enough to energize him. Power him through another case. And a rather tough one.

One that hit too close to home. One that tested his refinement.

The report. The rape-kit results. The overwhelming presence of semen in her underwear. Rafael had clenched both fists. Clenched his teeth. Held back tears. Underneath the masquerade expected of a prosecutor was a desire to hurt those pigs. To kill them. God knows he would have. In an instant.

Wait ‘til I see those bastards in court…

He attempted to keep his emotions in check all throughout the excruciating half-hour consultation with Olivia. The sub-par coffee, though, had given him the shakes, and therefore, more chances for recklessness.

“So,” she suggested, “you’ve worked with her before?”

“Not exactly work.” His exhausted gaze met the polished mahogany of his desk. “I knew her. Quite well.”

Rafael sensed the curiosity that bubbled in Olivia’s eyes. Silence made the office stale. His coffee grew cold.

His eyes wandered into the distance, blank. Going nowhere. His mind, meanwhile, traveled through a thousand images. Went through a thousand more memories.

Candace McCullough. The cheery girl with the soft thighs. And majestic lips. Rafael referred to her as Candy.

His Candy.

She was the young eccentric who, every Thursday, hung around the station on 59th and Lexington. Singing Dylan and Simon and Garfunkel songs. Strumming that Dreadnought guitar which, Rafael assumed, had been the only thing of value she’d left home with. Often, he would place a crisp twenty-dollar bill beside her, and occasionally make conversation.

“You have a good voice,” he’d tell her. “Ever played for an audience?”

“No,” she’d say, a tint of regret coloring her voice. “I’ve always wanted to, though.”

He’d offered her a temporary home. Living alongside him. And they prepared meals. Drank from Rafael’s ample liquor cabinet. And they made love. Slowly. Savoring every moment. Shedding some tears after climax.

“You were great.”

He’d been too proud to admit that he loved her. His actions, though — including the tears shed after making love — had only made the words more unneeded.

She left. Out of the blue. Returned to performing for change between 59th and Lexington. And Rafael purposely avoided that particular station. Especially on Thursdays. He made it a habit to walk home.

And, just six months later, he’d fallen apart all over again…

Seeing her name. On that dreaded report. Written in ink:

McCullough, Candace, Marie. 20. Victim of Sexual Assault.

[angst-and-ashes]

Late Night Ficlets: Conan O’Brien.

Here it is, @conanobrien1963 and @wouldlovetolove! A fluffy little Conan fic that I’ve kept hidden within the depths of Google Docs for the past year (It has collected some dust. LOL). However, with a bit of re-writing, I have, at last, made it ready for the public! 

I may write more Coco fics in the future, so stay tuned -- if you like the fic, that is.

A/N: This fic takes place roughly around 2010. Otherwise known as the aftermath of the infamous Tonight Show conflict. Sad times. In this fic, Conan experiences the blues. 

2010.

He’s tired. Fatigued. As if not even sleep itself can guarantee his wakefulness.

It hadn’t occurred to me that he’d been depressed. It wasn’t until I spotted an empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s lying around on his nightstand. He’d been using it to wash down the anti-depressants that he was prescribed.

He had no longer been the vibrant and goofy firecracker that I had accidentally bumped into on the thirty-fifth floor of 30 Rock while holding a large cup of fruit punch, back in the Fall of ‘98. He simply laughed it all off, despite his new suit being stained beyond repair. Ruined.

He just hadn’t been the same. He looked significantly older. Definitely sadder.

Leno. That treacherous, two-faced snake. I never liked him. Or his big chin. He made this mess, all the while hurting Conan in the process. Meanwhile, I have to watch the man that I love become a shell of himself.

“I’m here for you, Ireland.” I place a soft kiss onto his pale, crinkled brow. “And I’ll always be.” I brush the wild strands of copper-red hair that have protruded from his head, putting them, carefully, back into place.

I feel the air travel freely from his lungs, and out from his lips, heating my lap. He lies like a child, and I keep raking his hair between my fingers.

“I hate when you call me that.” He groans, throatily, much like a grouch. His head remains on my lap. “Out of all the names, you pick Ireland. Why don’t you call me Coco, like everyone else? You’re so weird.”

I chuckle, softly. “Please. I am nowhere as weird as you, my dear.” 

He sighs.

“You’ve got me there. I guess. But I’m the fun kind of weird. The creepy kind.”

I laugh again, but it has escalated to a full-blown cackle. He doesn’t smile, though. It wasn’t like him not to smile. Or laugh. NBC had damaged him. Thank God I left when I could. For a while, I’d been miserable, too.

We sit in odd, thick silence for a while. I see the hurt that frosts his eyes.

“It will get better, dear.” I peck him on his forehead once again. “I promise.”

“I hope. That’s all I can really do at this point … ” 

[angst-and-ashes]

“Ayesha.” (Michael Jackson One Shot)

Here is an MJ one-shot that I have been beating myself up to write for weeks. And I am delighted to say that it is finally here! This is during the HIStory Era (1995).

A/N: This fic does include a literary cliché (i.e., the infamous “damsel in distress”), but I like it anyways. This is written in Michael’s point-of-view.

June, 1995.

South Central hasn’t done her any good. In fact, it has harmed more than helped.

Her clothes had been stained with blood when I’d first spotted her limping along the street. In her eyes, I saw a girl misguided and obviously abused. Used to give her body to those who weren’t even worthy.

I have brought her to Neverland, where death and violence are far-fetched fantasies and where life, love, and peace are plausible realities. 

* * *

“Mike,” Ayesha calls, hesitantly, twiddling with her fingers. For the months that she’s lived here, I’ve picked up on some of her nervous habits.

“Yes, Esha?” I recognize that she’s squirming in her seat, moving against the chippy wood of the bench beside the carousel. Her favorite ride.

She glances back at the house before asking: “Lisa hates me, doesn’t she?”

“No, of course not, Esha. She doesn’t. Why would you think such a thing?” I bite my tongue. I know what she suspects isn’t far-off, really.  

She sighs. “Mike, I heard you both arguing about me this morning. I know.”

Darn. Something told me that I should have made sure the door was closed. I assumed that Esha was sleeping, as she always was at six AM. I should have closed it, regardless. I’d never seen Lisa so angry. So hateful. I spent half of the time trying to dodge the assortment of Gucci shoes that she was throwing at me.

* * *

“I do not want that prostitute here, Michael,” she proclaimed, hotly. “Either you get rid of her or I will. I don’t want her around you or our kids.”

“So, you’re wanting me to kick her out and put her back on the streets? Is that what you are really asking me to do? That’s heartless, and you know it.”

Quickly, she put what seems to be like her fourth cigarette of the day out, despite it being only six in the morning. “I don’t care. You need to get her out.”

“Lisa. No.”

She scoffs. “You are pathetic. I don’t know why I even agreed to marry you.” She buttons the top of her blouse and stomps off to our walk-in closet.

I follow.

“Lisa. Ayesha needs me. What kind of man would I be if I dropped her off like that? That is just not who I am. You know that. Besides, I’m all she has.”

She suddenly stops compulsively shuffling through her blazers, turning to me.

“I know you’re fucking her, Michael. I know it. You are not fooling me one bit. Stop trying to feed me your ‘heal the world’ humanitarian bullshit.”

I freeze. My muscles turn cold, stiff. Never has she ever said a more ridiculous thing. “You know me better than that,” I say, firmly.

She keeps a fixed, piercing stare, unable to look away, even if she wanted to. “I don’t know, do I?” 

“Well, if you really think that, then I guess you don’t.” I walk away, though a heel flies into the back of my leg. It hurt worse than the last one.

* * *

Ayesha looks down blankly at her trembling fingers. “Maybe I should leave.”

“No. You shouldn’t.” I inch closer to her. “You can’t go back to South Central. I won’t let you. No matter how Lisa feels. I love you way too much.”

“You love me?”

I examine the smoulder that sheens her eyes. And the long braid that runs along the curve of her left breast and reaches her hip. And the natural, irresistible pucker of her lips. I’ve often tried to suppress the love that I’ve kept for her. And I’ve tried my hardest. But it is only a matter of time before I eventually dwindle into a fool who’s lost his mind.

I caress her cheek, bringing my fingers down to her jaw. “Yes. God knows.”

Ayesha speaks no more. Just kisses me. And I bring her in by her shoulders. She tastes sweet, like candy. I want more.

“I love you,” I repeat, caught in between our parted lips. Tongues. I’m invited into a new dimension of her, characterized by the sound of her moan, and the feel of her breasts. And I’m stuck on Cloud Nine.

And I would prefer to be stuck for as long as time could ever allow me.

* * *

[angst-and-ashes]

“Sanguine” (Robert Plant One-Shot) - NSFW

Here is a god-awful little ficlet that I wrote a couple of months ago. Half-smut, half-romance. I think (LOL).

A/N: This is badly written from a male’s point-of-view. This was my first time writing as another gender. Also: the ficlet is essentially about the loss of virginity. 

Profile:

Relationship(s): Robert Plant x Original Character (Nameless)

Category: M/F

Genre(s): Romance (w/ a bit of sex love-making)

Warning(s): NSFW. Blood Mention.

Terminology (for those who aren’t familiar with Brit slang): 

Pound (n.) – British currency (1 British pound = 1.30 US dollars).

Shag (v.) – To have sexual intercourse.

Bloke (n.) – Informal word to describe a male; the equivalent to the American expression, “dude.”

Knickers (n.) – Women’s underwear.

Fannie (n.) – Female genitals.

1969.

She likes neither booze, nor hard rock, nor the idea of wild sex. I bet each dress in her wardrobe doesn’t rise above the knees. She’s innocent. Too innocent.

I want to change her. Well, I want to fuck her, basically. Last week, I made a ten-pound bet with Jimmy: If I get her in bed within the next month, I win.

“Should’ve bet fifteen pounds,” I say, “if she’s a virgin.”

Jimmy chuckles. “We can do that. But if she really is, and if you do shag her, Robert, then I need to see evidence.”

“Evidence?”

“I need to see her blood, Robert. Girls bleed after being fucked by a bloke for the first time. It’s a sign of womanhood. Or something.”

I laugh, quite hard. “The used condom, too, I suppose?”

“That might be taking it a bit too far, mate.” He winces.

* * *

That evening, I join her as she watches the English sunset. She says that it is nothing like American sunsets. I say nothing in response, but hold her hand.

Her lips are soft, but her arse is undeniably firm. She moans as I suck on her dark nipples. Her knickers are quite moist, her swollen fannie even more so. I dive my face in between her legs, easily spread.

Fuck, she groans. Until now, I haven’t heard her curse. She definitely ain’t the sweet little American church girl her mother raised her to be. 

She comes. Quick. I must have licked her around fifty times. Fast, hard flickers of the tongue. 

She is nice and tight. Just as I expected and hoped for. 

* * *

She bleeds. 

It soils the cotton of the sheets and stains our bare, damp skin. She is crying out. Bawling, almost. I panic. It is shown through my calmer movements. I kiss her more. I apologise for hurting her.

I press deliberate kisses upon her small breasts, flattened from her lying straight on her back. And all the while, I fear delving any deeper into her. She might scream.

“Please,” she begs, and tucks in a loose curl behind my ear. “Don’t stop ‘cause of me.” Her sweet American twang softens into a whimper. The tears roll down her pretty face. “I’ll be okay.”

And I lick them away, washing her pretty face clean. I whisper: “I’m sorry, love. I’ll be finished soon.”

She continues to lay beneath me. Our heartbeats touch. I bring her legs to enclose my waist. And with discretion, of course, I engage in a few deep strokes. Neither too rough, nor too quick. She sucks in a small breath. She starts to handle it better.

“Good, babe,” I coo. “You’re getting so much better.” Not long after, I come. Hard. I collapse on her, resting against the inviting warmth of her breasts.

Rivulets of blood have travelled down her legs, and continues to blemish the sheets. We lay in silence.

The sanguine colour of her lipstick is smeared all over my mouth. Her blood is the same colour, I recognise.

I wipe the remnants of her tears. I don’t care much about the bet anymore. But I care mostly about her.

She stares at the English moon. “It just ain’t the same,” she murmurs before she rests her weary eyelids.

* * *

[angst-and-ashes]

Classic Rock Band Imagine #2: John Paul Jones (Led Zeppelin)

Imagine hiding in Jimmy Page’s room with John Paul Jones when a fight breaks out at a listening party.

“Let’s go!” You clutch onto Jonesy’s hand, pulling him close.

Frantic, you both scamper out of the flat’s main space, on the quest for safety. And you’re lucky enough not to run into any flying chairs or hard fists.

“Take that, fucker,” Bonzo roars, thickly, smashing a beer bottle against another bearded man’s head. That’s the last sight you see before you’re finally free.

You’re both secure, grateful, and huddled in the dark, secluded corner of Jimmy Page’s narrow corridor.

“Look! Jimmy’s room,” Jonesy announces. “Let’s hide here.” His soft blue eyes, amidst the scared tears, are glistening, brilliantly, with utter solace and hope.

“Genius.” You beam, appreciative of Jonesy’s fine mind. He’d always been so intelligent and sweet and … cute?

Yes. Very cute.

* * *

“This is more like the Tower of London than a room,” Jonesy reports, and scopes out the room’s perimeters. “It just has that Mediaeval dungeon look.”

You’re a bit surprised that he’s never seen his band-mate’s room before — as much as they’re together.

“Well … This is Jimmy’s room. What else did you expect?”

“Satanic paraphernalia.” You let out an immediate holler. Jonesy always killed you with his blunt one-liners.

Bonzo’s wild, maniacal cackling is heard clearly throughout the flat, and permeates through the walls. “He must be having the time of his life right now.”

“I hope he’s careful. The band can’t do without him.”

He rests at the edge of Jimmy’s King Size bed, and the brilliant Ivory glaze of the English moonlight rests upon the side of his mousy, yet statuesque, face.

You sit beside him, though reluctantly, but you cannot help but to admire him, and openly. You draw close to him. Real close. To the point where your lips, cold and chapped, are merely inches apart.

You whisper, softly: “And I can’t do without you, Jonesy.”

Just then, you’re captured by his mouth, soft and sweet. He tastes distinctively of cigarettes and peppermint, and, as demonstrated by the deeper kisses, you can’t get enough of the compelling flavour.

Jonesy’s fingers, slender and calloused, begin to wander, gently travelling from the cusps of your shoulders, lightly skimming along your body as if you were his prized possession, too precious to be spoiled.

“God, I love you,” Jonesy murmurs, and peppers your face and neck with kisses. “I’ve always loved you.”

[angst-and-ashes]

Classic Rock Band Imagine #1: Robert Plant (Led Zeppelin)

Imagine Robert Plant arguing with you over shampoo.

“Babe,” Plant calls, his voice tinged with slight unease. “What is this?”

You gaze over at the Stud, whose lips, thin and small and pink, are pursed, tightly. “What’s what, Robert?”

“This.” He takes out a green bottle, and hands it to you. “Herbal Essences?” His smooth, grey eyes are glossed with dissatisfaction. “You know I don’t use that.”

“No.” You frown, disappointed; not at him, but at yourself. “I didn’t, actually.”

“Jesus. You’re killing me, honey.” He throws his head back in frustration, and his voluptuous curls, resembling puffs of golden smoke, bounce as he does so. “How long have we been together? Five years, right?”

“Yes. But — ”

“For God’s sake! Even Jimmy knows what kind of shampoo I use.”

Here he goes with this shit, again. Jimmy this, Jimmy that. As much as you loved Jimmy, you’ve gotten awfully tired of hearing Plant worshipping him.

“That’s because Jimmy’s your lover,” you quip. Though you aren’t kidding, entirely. Plant’s bond with Jimmy really did resemble some type of relationship.

His eyes widen. “Now don’t you get sassy, my dear.” The angry scowl on his face, of course, doesn’t last. He grins, crookedly, and begins to chuckle. “Y’know, you’re not the only one who thinks that.”

“I know. Bonzo and I joke about it … all the time.” You, too, begin to lose your scowl, and you’re eventually cackling with him. At the end of the night, you’ve forgotten that you were angry with him, and the whole shampoo fiasco didn’t even matter anymore.

Surely, Plant has pissed you off, and has for five long years. Although you could never be angry at him for too long.

He’s just that man. He’s your man. And you could never ask for another.