#like my art and acting and poetry. and then my brain tells me that the people around me just pity me and dont want to outright

[fatuismooches]

dottore brainrot hit me right in the middle of my poetry class so I'm making it everyone else's problem

dottore with a poet s/o. he's a logical man, he doesn't go into the arts, let alone decipher and examine them. would challenge dottore to decipher their poems. he's STRUGGLING bc how was he supposed to know that "the running water loves the land that hugs it" was meant to represent his hugs?? sometimes the segments can hear him muttering to himself and reading the poem aloud over and over again. but when he figures it out?? he melts(internally) bc it's just so sweet. 100% would support his partner's art

OH YM GOSHHH I FREAKING LOVE THIS. As someone who always adored writing but sucked at poetry like THIS IS SO CUTE BDWQHDWJ ILY FOR THIS ANON (Nah fr though... Dottore probably handed all the literature homework over to you to do for him in the Akademiya because he couldn't be bothered or interested enough in stuff like that 😭)

But even all these years later he still claims to be able to understand it if he tried (lies) so you decide to whip up your own poem to put him to the test. He easily accepts the challenge with his usual confident grin because how hard could it possibly be? He deals in complicated ancient texts relating to science, math, and all these other matters. Surely he can figure out a poem. (He turns out to be wrong. So so wrong.) For such a smart man he couldn't seem to interpret the hidden feelings, or the metaphors and poetic devices used in these poems or writings as quickly as he thought he would. He's POURING over every word, every punctuation mark, stanzas, line breaks, everything trying to understand what's going on. There are literally whole notes, underlining, circling, and more scribbled around the poem. And you thought you made it pretty easy too... of course your poem would be about your love for him!

Despite how much it looks like he's suffering trying to understand what's going on, it's enjoyable to Dottore. Like a stress relief. He knows he's not the easiest person to be around so he wants to understand you and your hobbies too... although he isn't adept at them at all. After a dozen pages of brainstorming he finally reaches a conclusion and he just gets so excited and cocky, like how he does when he finally makes a breakthrough in his research. Dottore will come up to you with his confident smirk again and tell you in plain words what exactly you want. Acting as if you didn't make his brain short-circuit a few times.

"The running water loves the land that hugs it" was meant to represent his hugs??" IS SO SO CUTE IM EVAPORATINGGG AHHH

[vessels-two-front-teeth]

+18 only! Minors do not interact.

Introduction post!

Masterlist

Apple Cider Blondies recipe

Hot Apple Cider recipe

All under age, ageless, and blank blogs will be blocked on sight.

I’m Sid. I am 29 years old. I’m non-binary, trans masc, and pansexual. They/he pronouns. Canadian. I am autistic and have ADHD and CPTSD. Happily engaged. I am currently just trying to do my fucking best.

Tags and additional information under the cut ⬇️

My art tags: [#vtft art tour] is where you’ll find all of my non-fandom related art posts. [#vtft fan art] is where you’ll find all of my fan art. [#my photography] is where you’ll find all the pictures I have taken. [#Sid’s writing] is where you’ll all of my non-fandom related writing. [Sid’s recipes] is where you’ll find all of my original recipes.

My lore theory tag: [#vtft lore theory]

Announcements, random talking, etc. tags: [#Sid talks to themselves, babbles, Sid becomes an encyclopedia]

Ask box open/closed: [#Sid wants asks, Sid does not want asks] wants = open. Does not want = closed.

Mental health journey: [#✨into the thick of it✨] piecing my mental health back together after a multiple month long mental breakdown.

Sleep token category tags:

III: [#bassy boi, the chaos ballerina, fancy vampire man, evil clown man, mad scientist, grim reaper] all tags referring to III. Bassy boi as well as the default [#sleep token iii] are for generic III pics. The chaos ballerina is for any pics where he’s being particularly…well chaotic. Fancy vampire man is for all pics where he’s dressed as a fancy vampire man. Evil clown man is pics where he looks like he’s about to murder the shit outta someone. Mad scientist is for all the pics where he looks like he held onto an electric fence for about 5 seconds too long. Grim reaper is for pics/vids where he’s wearing The Cardigan™��.

IV: [#sir numerals/pinstripe/sparkles the fourth] all tags referring to IV. [sleep token iv] is the default. Numerals/pinstripe/sparkles referring to different outfits and/or eras.

II: [#lemon boi, pocket king, mini evil clown man] all tags referring to II. Lemon boi is the default, as well as [#sleep token ii] for generic pics. Ones where you can see how smol he is get pocket king. Mini evil clown man is when he’s doing the thing that iii does, where he looks like he’s about to murder the fuck outta someone. But make it smaller.

Vessel: [#sleep token vessel] is default. [#the ski-daddler on the roof] is for posts where he’s doing something chaotic or just silly on stage/acting like a proper cryptid/eldritch noodle man that he is. [#(emotion) poetry man] for posts that show vessels different emotions. Example: sad poetry man, angry poetry man, happy poetry man, etc. [#the porcelain mask] think “a mask tells us more than a face.” Saved for magazine shoots. [#happy smily boy, vessels two front teeth, teeth appreciation] are all for posts where he’s either smiling or showing teeth in general. Thank you 🪽⚫️ for your help with these, I appreciate you.

Espera: [#the goddesses, sleep token espera] tags referring to…you guessed it, the espera. They remind me of the triple goddesses, so yeah.

Miscellaneous: [#the boifrienns, smooches, cutie patootie(s)] posts where the boys are being affectionate towards each other…in various ways. Use your imagination.

Now for some additional information about this blog and my goals with it.

Yes this is a Sleep Token themed blog, but I listen to a very wide range of music, like almost all genres. The only songs I don’t like are ones that are objectively bad.

I am currently working on my debut novel, and I just started my very first fanfiction, In The Low Light. I like space and science, spirituality and history of different religions, as well as history in general, and psychology. Just a general rule of thumb, I’m a fucking nerd. There’s a lot going on up here in this brain mush of mine.

As for stuff about Sleep Token, their identities will not be discussed here. If you send me anything with their information, I will delete it and block you. I do know their information, unfortunately, because I was jump scared in the comments of a TikTok and now it’s burned into my brain. I will not post about it. Ever.

I found Sleep Token through The Summoning in January 2023 when it went viral. Almost instantly, they became my favourite band of all time.

As for my plans for this page, I will continue to complete the mask portraits for Sleep Token, in the order shown below. Other than that, my goal is to keep this page as free from political subject matter as possible. I want this page to be an escape for everyone, myself included. I will try my best to keep it light hearted and fun.

I will go in order as follows:

1. IV ✅ watch here: part 1 • part 2 • part 3 • Details •

2. III

3. II

4. Vessel

5. The Espera

Each painting will include their mask in the centre, surrounded by flowers/plants that I have selected based on their symbology. With each painting, I will be counting the total number of hours spent on each one and will go in instalments until each is completed.

I may in the future do portraits of other artists, though at the moment the only ones I have solid plans for are Sleep Token. There are other art ideas that are related to ST, but are essentially (free) commissions for friends. If there is enough demand/interest, I may in the future sell digital prints of my art, however this is dependent on your interest levels.

I do not consent to the sharing, reposting or plagiarism of any of my original works on any outside platforms or social media. If you see my works tell me so I can look into it.

All in all, I am excited to be working on this project and to make friends with all of you lovely people.

As long as we keep the focus on the love of the music, and respecting the boys and each other, I know that this will only become a beautiful thing.

Thank you for joining me on this journey, I love you all.

WORSHIP ❤️🖤🤍

[taciturnpoet]

okay here is the promised anderperry Icarus and the Sun/Apollo post because @73647e enabled me lol

this will be mostly rambling because I love this comparison (and use it a lot) so be happy if there is even a single coherent thought in this okay? talking about this makes my brain go FAST and I went over this about a thousand times so bear with me here

When I had first started thinking about this, I had originally thought of Neil being the Sun and Todd being Icarus. But then I realized no, their dynamic shifts and actually switches roles after Todd does the poem in Keating’s class.

In the beginning, Neil is the one that draws Todd into the group and persuades him to join the poets, all while also encouraging him to be himself and speak up more. While Todd is not only falling for Neil, he’s also trying to take Neil’s advice to heart since Neil is what Todd wants to be.

Neil could befriend a brick wall if left alone with it long enough. Everyone likes him and believes that he is made for great things (though not the same great things he wants to do), and you can tell that Todd wants to get to that point himself eventually. Todd’s been told his entire life that he will never amount to anything unless he becomes this thing he doesn’t even like, and Neil is more of what he aspires to be.

Then the poem in Keating’s class happens and things change.

After the poem, Todd starts to come into himself a little more. He’s gaining confidence in himself and his work—the work he wants to do, the work he’s passionate about—and he’s joking around and talking more with the poets. (Even though this scene is deleted, and I think that’s a crime) he reads a poem out loud to them and Keating at the end of the movie without Neil there.

Now, we know why Neil isn’t there, but that’s not important yet lol

Neil has been Todd's safety net, the person that kickstarted his self-confidence growth and made him truly embrace himself in the long run. By the end of the movie, Todd can show other people his work without Neil having to be there, which is a major development from Todd in the first poets meeting too afraid to speak and always looking to Neil for guidance.

When Todd is helping Neil practice his lines on the dock—another criminally deleted scene—he’s excited. He’s teasing Neil and playing around with him and becomes what he had the potential to be at the beginning of the movie with the help of Neil and Keating. 

Todd’s decided that he wanted to be his own person. He’s not going to try and live up to his parent’s expectations of him becoming a second Jeffrey, he’s going to pursue his writing and be his own person, and he appears to become so much freer after that realization. He’s embraced his passion for writing and poetry and pursues his art without hesitation, just as Neil wants to do with his acting, becoming a shining light of possibilities and potential, and most of all, freedom. 

After the poem, the glimpse of Todd’s brain, and his passion, Neil almost views it as something holy. In Neil’s eyes, Todd and his freedom are something to strive for, to look up to, and hope for like it's something divine. In a way, Todd becomes a symbol of freedom and passion, a beacon of everything Neil could be and wants to be/do.

I know we as a fandom talk about this a lot, but look at the way Neil looks at Todd after the poem, the way the sun is shining on his face and lighting him up only in the way it does whenever he’s having a Moment™ with Todd. No, seriously, it does that to him both when he decides to audition for the play and after the poem, but practically nowhere else in the movie.

Insanity. Anyway.

But then, during this same time that Todd is embracing his freedom, there is Neil. Neil who is practicing and alive and passionate while preparing for the play, making plans for the future, and dreaming of pursuing this life as an actor.

 ["God, for the first time in my whole life, I feel completely alive!" // "Most people, if they're lucky, live about half an exciting life. If I could get the parts, I could live dozens of great lives!"]

And yet, there is another Neil. The Neil who gets confronted by his father and told to stop doing the play, to stop acting, and give up his dreams, his passions, and what he believes to be his life, all to stay stuck in the existence his father wants him in. The Neil that goes to Keating for help and cries that he’s “trapped.”

The moment Neil decides to lie to Keating and tell him that he talked to his father, the moment he chooses to continue with the play and acting despite everything that could happen is the moment he cements his place as the Icarus in their dynamic. He chooses to ignore his father’s warnings against participating in the play and does it anyways. He chooses freedom and passion over safety. Neil chooses to fly.

Neil chose to take a chance, to try and escape and join Todd on the other side of freedom and authenticity, where he could pursue his dream and become an actor. He has his moment to shine, to taste the warmth of the stage lights akin to sunlight as he brings the play to life. All the possibilities, hopes, and dreams, all within his reach in the form of a crown made of sticks and leaves in a small-town theater. He can see his friends and his teacher in the crowd and feels invincible and in his element, bigger than life.

But then comes the melting of the wax and the plummet back to earth as he sees his father’s angry face in the back of the theater, and he knows.

He knew that there was no going back now, no reversing what he’d done, the fact that he’d lied to the two most influential men in his life for just a chance to join the other side. And yet, as someone pointed it out recently (I can’t find the post right now, I’m so sorry), there is a moment when Neil comes out after the play, and he smiles at his father, an attempt to see if maybe he won’t be falling tonight. But then his father doesn’t smile back, and everything goes by in a rushed blur of a freefall.

All of the poets try and reach out to him, to talk to him and congratulate him on his way out, but the only one he looks at is Todd. Todd, who’s so excited to see him afterward, tries to talk to him and get him to come back with them, but Neil smiles sadly at him and lets himself be dragged away. He knew he couldn’t put off this fight with his father forever and decided to stop hiding from it. He’s falling and isn’t trying to stop it.

I think Neil looks at Todd the way he does before they leave because a part of him knows he’s not coming back. He doesn’t want to go, but he can’t slow it down and spends his last moments with them looking at the boy whose become his Sun.

The descent is quick after the car pulls away, and Neil cannot stand up to his father. Every moment that led to Neil’s decision to be a part of the play, to follow Todd, is in the sun's bright light. It makes sense then that he’d die at night, with death embracing him with the sound of a gunshot rather than water splashing.

Todd finds out about Neil's death after sunrise. It's gray and quiet, but the sun still rises even after he knows Neil isn't rising with it.

And he's devastated, and he's angry, and he's no longer afraid to show that. He gets mad at Cameron for blaming Keating for Neil and believing he would kill himself under any circumstances other than his father. [“That is not true, Cameron, you know that. Keating didn’t put us up to anything. Neil loved acting!”]

Then, he gets mad at Nolan, talking back to him in front of his parents in that sham of a conference and in front of Keating's class as Keating is leaving. The same Nolan Todd nearly cried in front of on his first day at Welton because he was so afraid to speak his mind, to stand up for himself.

Todd is grieving, he is angry, and he is stronger than he was at the start. While he stands on his desk for Keating in a show of support, in thanks, he is also standing on his desk in thanks to Neil. For Neil.

Neil's gone. And yet, Todd shows his strength. He stands up for the ones he loves and is thankful for while also standing in defiance for those who played a hand in Neil's end and killing their dreams. He appears to smile ever-so-slightly when Keating looks at him, and Keating must know he'll be okay. 

His best friend is dead. The actor who brought a play to life and cast light everywhere he went was gone, but Todd isn't. Neil's light only reflected what Todd still had and would dedicate to Neil.

The freedom, art, and life that Todd now held were what Neil fell for, and Todd would spend his life creating in memory of the boy who fell trying to join him. Todd had to ensure that everyone would know the story of Neil Perry as much as they did Icarus. They were so similar, after all.

(this started to change halfway through, so idk if it makes sense but that’s fine. please talk to me about anything like this I get so excited about it lol)

[wishmemel]

OMGOMG SAFI congrats on 100 ml !! hihii im here to participate in your cute slumber party event ! (i even brought my fave pillow and totoro plushie)

okok soo yk i'm dria 🩵 black / caribbean, around 5'1 (i promise im so close to 5'2 don't @ me haters will hate i drink my milk and eat my veggies) i have huge hair!! like very big hair, too many curls!! it's alot! i love reading, i write plenty of poetry, which is what i use most of my time to do — i lovelove r&b and early 2000s rap music. however, if u open my spotify rn and shuffle my liked songs it would go in order of hip hop, rap, afrobeats, classical music bcus my taste is all over the place. (i also keep a folder of edit audios for my own maladaptive daydreaming purposes lmao)

im rlly a baby blue girlie, fave flowers are tulips (idk my brain js thinks they look yummy), fave season is autumn ofc bcus rainy weather and i have an excuse to stay inside under my blankets 😭 fave animal would beee a black panther or a tabby cat! (my bby bella is a tabby lmao) i love vintage shows (rlly old noir films of all types of genres) i love cinema and visual art it stimulates me sm (im autistic btw i forgot to say mb) i've watched almost every wes anderson film in existence i love soft color palettes in film so bad <3

i enjoy watching old cartoons to relive my childhood nostalgia, jewelry (esp rings i never go anywhere without one or two on), rainy days, late night car drives, baggy shirts, scented candles, afrobeats n anything astronomy related.

im very much a social science n humanities junkie - yearning to be a clinical psychiatrist or complete my dream of teaching literature / psychology. i cry very easily (im js a crybaby istg) - in general im just very very emotional and more often than not i forget common sense and instinct are a thing bcus wtv i feel i just go with it - though i am extremely introverted and freak out when overstimulated in huge crowds and whatnot.

for the event im picking toji bcus that man is the love of my life bye ☹️ the epitome of sunshine and sunshine protector - tiny human and big scary guard dog ! in terms of our compatibility, we're so opposite it's insane! but we balance each other out well. sometimes i have to serve as toji's brain bcus this man is spending money he does not have on all sorts of things for me js cause i looked twice (my sister hced that he'd go below bankrupt buying me sanrio plushies and rings) he works mostly off instinct where i go completely off emotion so we butt heads alot in terms of decision making but he does not know how to tell me no, all i do is sigh once and HES DONE FOR.

i stress this man out like hes my full time babysitter pls

we acc spend alot of time having deep talks about the world and life in general, (i told him ab the backrooms lore and it messed w his head for weeks) which is a side of him he rarely shows to anyone (also he listens to me rant abt daily pop culture developments bcus he lowkey loves the celebrity drama) he's rlly protective, and even moreso bcus of how my anxiety gets. in a crowd this man is standing in front of me and blocking my view of everyone (he also subconsciously pulls me into his side when we're walking in public bcus my autistic ass will see one thing and wander off never to be found again) im always talking like talk talk talking and he pretends he isn't listening but he's literally able to repeat today something i mentioned two weeks ago - he's attentive, shows his love through actions rather than words. if i even make a face that gives away that im uncomfortable being somewhere, or my social battery is dead, hes taking me home no questions asked not a care as to who says what.

im an affection junkie - physical touch is my thing ! and hes so big! so im always pouncing on him for bear hugs and he acts so unimpressed and cocky abt it like "oh you missed me? im not goin anywhere relax" but he acc melts bcus when was the last time someone gave him affection?? he prob thinks im a figment of his imagination lolol

days off / dates would mainly be : window shopping, grocery runs, sitting in the park at sunset, indoor ramen dates n movie marathons and cuddles !!

AHHH sorry if i ranted way too much omg i can't wait to see what you do safi, i'll love anything u write ily so baddd <33

note: hihi dria, thanks for bringing your fave pillow and your totoro plush to the slumber party.

dria x toji — ꒰ tojria

“in this space right here that we have made for each other, you can say anything and i will not abandon you. unwrap the worst things you have done. watch me hold them up to the light and not even flinch.”

height differences, cinnamoroll x badtz maru, protective touches, 3 am conversations about life, romantic picnics at sunset, shopping together, opposites attract, shy x protective, princess treatment, introvert x introvert, buckling your seatbelt for you, tired bf x hyper gf, teasing remarks, day x night, accidental eye contact, blushing, midnight walks, late night phone calls, giddiness, sunshine x sunshine protector, stealing his clothes, late night drives, deleted texts, holding hands under the table, "mean to everyone but her" bf, head pats, she fell first, he fell harder.

being with toji is not always as seamless or easy as you make it look. He's gruff and protective and difficult and incredibly stubborn. like that time you two fought because he was ignoring what you were saying and he flat-out refused to acknowledge your demand when you called him out on it. to be fair, he'd come home after an eight-hour shift and you'd started talking his head off, but it wouldn't kill him to listen. he wasn't paying attention when you were talking about that new hello kitty cafe with the fun milkshakes and the mini donuts that you wanted to try. hell, he ended up falling asleep on your shoulder after brushing off your argument and as much as you wanted to remain angry at him, you'd softened immediately upon seeing his tired face, all eyebags and troubled frown. and he did make it up to you later by taking you to said cafe and proving that he had been listening, though when you brought it up to him, he pretended not to know what you were talking about. but deep down he cares for you and he's trying — you know he's trying and you don't want to make him feel bad for things he can't control. a lot of the concerns you should bring up to him, you don't — you want this relationship to be easy and safe. you want him to feel comfortable with you the same way that you feel comfortable with him. even if sometimes he comes home with a busted lip and bloody knuckles and sends your heart skidding against your ribcage. but what matters is that he comes to you first and he comes home to you. so you know that no matter what, no matter how he's feeling, if he thinks he can talk to you or not, he'll always come home to you. and even if you doubt his commitment sometimes, he knows that you're home to him and he'll do anything to keep it that way.

NOW PLAYING

the way i loved you, enchanted, daylight, afterglow, how you get the girl, treacherous, sparks fly, so it goes...

join safi's perfect slumber party event — requests are open for everyone!

[dwindlinghaze]

Congrats on 500 followers, that's a huge milestone! Could I please get a 🪞with the character I'm shipped with and a 🩰?

I'm a straight female and my pronouns are she/her

Physical description - I'm 5'9 and I have long and curly dark brown hair and brown eyes. I have a fair skin tone, I'm slim and I've got full lips and fairly large eyes. I also have these dimples that I really like!

I love reading, my favorite genres are poetry, Russian lit, and mysteries! I love learning about new things and knowing a little bit of everything. I adore adventures, witty and playful banter, joking around and having indepth discussions on anything and everything! I adore all forms of art and I have quite a few creative hobbies! I listen to a lot of modern/indie rock and I love watching films very much! It takes me a while to feel comfortable around new people but once I do, I become really talkative and outgoing. I love helping out and I'm the therapist friend, people come to me to vent or for advice and comfort. I'm smart and ambitious; I love being the best at everything I do. I'm quite the hopeless romantic and I love being in love! I adore big and small romantic gestures and I love domesticity sm!! My love languages are acts of service and quality time. I'm a ravenclaw, my mbti is infp and my enneagram is 4w3!

Thank you very much! Your aesthetic is so gorgeous and you seem super sweet! I hope you have a lovely day ❤️

hello and tysm for participating in my 500 celebration

here is your 🪞 in case you didn't see !!

☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩

🩰 : i ship you with remus lupin

╰┈➤ you give off soft spoken and sweet personality which is the perfect pair for remus !

╰┈➤ remus is a big poetry guy so he definitely shares his favourite poems with you and analysing them together subjectively. he'd interpret it too deep while you're being more real.

╰┈➤ having playful banters with him will be so entertaining because the words coming off from both of your mouths are silly.

"lucu gray was a william wordsworth character," you said out of the blue. "no- lucy gray was a hunger games character," remus replied. "but william wordsworth created lucy gray way before suzanne collins was born!" you defended as you watch a playful smile forming on his lips. "there are hundreds of lucy grays," he said. "but lucy gray is an original character by william so suzanne collins basically stole her name!" "you're on first name basis with an 18th century poet now? wow i've got some competition," remus said as he sat up. "oh of course. i love poetic men and you... hmm i don't know," you looked at him with your eyes narrowed. "give me his address." "what're you gonna do with it?" you raised your brows. "tell him to have a drink with me or whatever."

╰┈➤ you'd convince remus to read russian literature with you!!! learning the russian alphabet too.

╰┈➤ watching movies with him!! remus likes the classics so you'd end up watching an old english film with the old english language. but he'd let you pick the movie, wanting to know what your preferences are.

one time you put on twilight as a joke. he watched it with full attention probably because you had put it on. "i always dreamt of having a werewolf boyfriend when i was a kid. guess i've manifested it." you sighed as you put your head over his chest. "i don't understand the movie," remus face was puzzled. "why are they going to high school while being like- a hundred years old and a vampire? why is a vampire and a werewolf in the same school and in a love triangle with a normal human?" you laughed, entertained by the way he was so serious. "that's why i love it. it's so cliche, it fills my brain and heart to the very top."

╰┈➤ remus would definitely be okay with you having to warm up with him no matter how long it might take. he knew that some people prefer to keep themselves private until they know that that person is trustworthy so he doesn't force you at all. you'll ease up when you're ready.

╰┈➤ you're his shelter. he seeks you for comfort because you know just the right thing to say all the time. it doesn't happen only when he needs someone to talk to, he just comes naturally to you because you're welcoming and smart and the best at everything.

╰┈➤ i feel like remus is also a big hopeless romantic. he wants a love just like the books and movies. once he really got comfortable with you and knew that you're the one, he'd make the best of the relationship. both of you are hopeless romantics, resulting in doing lovey dovey stuff to each other to fulfil your fantasies.

sitting by the fireplace with you on remus' lap while he's reading. the room felt warm and comfortable, the soft breathing, the sound of the log, it all were so peaceful. "you have gorgeous eyes," you spoke softly, lifting yourself to kiss his face in which remus responded by gently tugging your waist to get you closer to him.

╰┈➤ remus loves it when you smile (especially if it's because of him). he'd have constant romantic gestures for you; it doesn't have to be expensive, the thought and effort are the things that mattered.

[artdoc07]

January thoughts: Why  I Make Art

By Pia De Girolamo

January 2023

January is a transitional month of endings and beginnings. In art, the god Janus is depicted as having two faces, one looking ahead and one looking backwards. So it is fitting that in January people feel moved to take stock, review the old year, and make plans for the new. During this liminal time at the beginning of the month, I happened to be walking the dog when a memory about art emerged from a stream of thoughts. I remembered reading in a book* on aesthetics that art “intensifies the sense of immediate living” and by art, the author means everything from cave paintings, to tattoos, to pottery, jewelry, poetry, theater etc. *(Art as Experience by John Dewey—it’s a bear to get through, so don’t start reading it unless you really want some brain calisthenics). As one thought led to another, I started wondering about why art exists and why I make it, topics that I find useful and interesting to revisit from time to time.

Callla Lily by Pia De Girolamo

Picasso said “Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life“. While art can be escapist it can also lift a veil and remind us to see and experience reality, the good and the bad, which often gets lost in the fog of our thoughts and the busyness of our lives. When we put ourselves on auto pilot we forget to look, to feel, and to appreciate a tree, a place, a person, a landscape, a rock, a cup of coffee, a crumbling, graffitied building. It allows us to see with fresh eyes and with a “Beginner’s Mind”.

Why do I make art? Making art makes me an explorer of the world.  It allows me to experience things twice-once in real life and once again in the studio. My inquisitiveness is engaged and I look at things more closely and experience more fully in order to get them down on paper or canvas.

Art takes me “out of my head” when a painting is clicking along without me having to think about it and I am in a state of flow. State of flow is like a form of meditation and often like a mini-vacation.  At some point after the flow ceases though, the analytical brain takes over with its narrative of critique-does it work? is it balanced? is it interesting? Which is usually necessary to some degree to bring a painting to fruition. Even though this is the “rational” brain engaging it is a very interesting exercise because it poses questions and what ifs as in “what happens if I change this color, or this shape and so on and how does it affect the rest of the painting”? These questions lead to other questions and keeps me fascinated with the process of creating.

Elizabeth Gilbert in her book Big Magic says she writes solely because she likes to, she enjoys her creativity, and writing is fun! And really isn’t that the bottom line?  I make art because I love making art! I am delighted by the process that takes me from a blank canvas to something completely new. Art making is of course frustrating at times and closing the gap between intention and execution is a tricky tightrope to walk, but the totality of the act of creation is fun and exciting, sometimes just because it is challenging and the outcome is not assured.

Art is a means of connection with other people. I especially love it when a viewer can tell me how and why my art moved them. It’s also interesting when a viewer sees a meaning or feeling that I did not consciously intend but subconsciously might be there. Then I deepen my understanding of the work as well as myself, and that may help me make the next painting. Even if the viewer’s interpretation is way off base, if it helps them make a connection with the work, the art has found a way to forge a personal connection.

Ainsley in the Green Chair by Pia De Girolamo

In early spring an insistent impulse-something not rational-compels me to start cleaning out my pots and my vegetable patch and start getting ready for planting. This winter an impulse (the whispers of Janus?) compelled me to think generally about art and why I make it, which jumpstarted the desire to evaluate last year’s specific highs and lows in my art and then set goals. Essentially, I sketched the outlines of a year and I’ll be painting in the scene, figuring it all out along the way.

[twst-drabbles]

Hi!! Hope we can still send these in :)

Dude, the sience bros would be my clutch lmao. First of all, I think that joining the sience club as someone from our world would just be a slay move in general. I go to an arts school, so I'm not the most involved person out there, but I think even our basic understanding of sience could make for insightful experiences. Just comparing our sience basics to their science basics could be really cool! And hey, if we happen to make an ingenius discovery along the way? Or Just happen to mention Newton's Law and get a Twisted equivelent to the Nobel Prize? I mean... It's the benefits. Maybe we can even decipher a way home lol

But I digress.

I completely agree with anon. Trey Clover because food. If I'm isakied to another world without any money, people who food will be my life-line and absolute favorites. But also, with all the insane shenanigains that go on in NRC? I'm gonna need someone to share an exasperated side eye with. Clover's experience as a junior would just be helpful in general, especially when succeeding from the side lines. I don't enjoy parading my victories around, so being able to take after his example by mostly avoiding conflict while still doing good for ourselves would be nice :) And if we ever wanna prank some people... i think it'd be kinda funny to be the perpetrators AND the least suspected people in the room😂😂

Also, Rook! I mentioned before that I go to art school, so exposure to different media and insightful disscusion/ critique is something I hold dear! In the incredebly survival-of-the-fittest-dog-eat-dog-testostorone-filled-dick-measuring-contest that is our darling NRC, I would heavily consider shrivling away. Still! A lot of the boys can be incredbly passionate about their artistic forms of expression :) From Malleus and his music, and of course Vil and his acting career, I'd respect them so much! But- many of those same boys don't feel the most approachable about more vulnrable discussions. And not even talking about art in a fancy-smanchy way. I wanna talk poetry! Point out how one of my classmate's eyes remind me of nickles, or how the tiles of the school reminded me of hop-skotch! I want to brain-rot about a book and rant about how the thematic elements reflect reality! I concur with Rook's appreciation of beauty in everywhere he looks, and I'd have a lot of fun with him just pointing out the mundane things we admire :) 

Would be weirded out by the stalking though... ha... haha

People I'd dislike? Azul. Probably Azul. Gosh, knowing his backstory as a viewer I want to sweep him into his arms and tell him he's beautiful and has the most darling blue eyes. I mean??? Babe?? An OCTO-mer???? That's so cool!!! Realistically though, I would be a bit disgusted by what he does. I'd still conversate with him, and appreciate his buissnessman-smile face, but deep down I'd try to avoid him. We're already stuck in a world with no money, connections, or information. I don't need the weight of a deal on my back.

Also I want to punt Crowley like a football. At this point I want to high-tail it to RSA and ask them what they know about reality-travelling shenanigains lmao. Hope you're having a good day!!

No worries, you can send them in any time. I was just cooking myself something.

Considering that magic is a profession you can study for in this world, that implies that magic itself is a predictable enough phenomenon that it can be studied, tested and recorded. Though, obviously the main magical classes don't quite account for signature spells since I imagine it would require quite the number of layers in magic spells to be able to replicate them. I know officially signature spells are so unique that they can't be replicated, but in my own head, it's less that it's impossible to replicate and more that it's difficult and tedious to do so with general magic means. The life of an individual, their own stories determine what kind of signature spell manifests in a person, hence why I have the headcanon that ancient magic of old had spell incantations that were fairy tales. Basically, each spell was treated as it's own form of unique magic waaaay back in the day, before more modern, common means of magic were developed.

So yeah, magic science. Any little science nerd would go nuts over this.

"In the incredebly survival-of-the-fittest-dog-eat-dog-testostorone-filled-dick-measuring-contest that is our darling NRC" Yea that really is NRC in a nutshell huh? Funnily enough, I actually had a little short-lived fantasy where the reader comes from an even more testosterone filled world, I'm talking about "gang wars but with colleges" type deal. Buff guys all around wanting to challenge you, to prove their worth and be become the ultra alpha chad or whatever the hell they label it these days. Almost Baki levels of crazy, but not quite, still following some lines of logic. Basically Reader takes one look at Jack, Leona and Rook and go "you are babies to me," not in the adoptive way, but in the, "I would steal your candy."

And speaking of poetry, it's actually my worst skill in all of my writing. See, as you've said, poetry usually does require a certain level of emotional vulnerability, or at least be willing to dip into those emotions and memories and have them come out. Stuffing as much meaning as possible to just a few words. Personal layers that become easier to peel back the more you understand the author, buuuuuut, I'm super private. Incredibly so, and so stuck in this apathetic state of mine that my poetry is bland. It doesn't have any specific details that make it unique. Bare boooones. So rather than remarking on what my classmates eyes remind me of, I'd remark how the sunlight loves the color. Or how the line of the tiles cut through and separate a whole bunch of students apart despite being stuck together. Observer type poems, rather than looking internally.

Wouldn't it be so ironic that the first friend you make was Rook of all people? After avoiding just about everyone "normal," you let Rook talk to you? You're willing to hang out with him? Rook stalks but it's never with the intention of hurting you or controlling you in anyway. If it bothers you enough, Rook is emotionally intelligent enough to leave things well enough alone. Rook stalks Leona but Leona doesn't register Rook as a threat in any way, just an annoyance. Hence why Rook keeps stalking him. So if does give you genuine nightmares, yeah he will stop.

Azul will find those legal loopholes when he can and already that puts him on my shit list. That and I don't like owing that smug motherfucker anything. He lords deals over peoples heads and I refuse to give him any sort of satisfaction just because he was bullied.

Same on the RSA route. Would not hesitate. Like, even if I end up friends with everyone, I would still leave for RSA cause at least their headmage is reliable. I can't stand being under the authority of someone like Crowley even if my friends are there. My well being comes first.

[qnnixa]

the beauty in observing - art in it’s many forms

Hello! This is my first official Tumblr post, I hope you find this topic interesting and please don’t forget to give me any constructive criticism you have regarding my writing or even topics you would like my opinion on. Take care! :) 💕

Ever since I have gained consciousness, I knew I loved observing. It being the way flowers swayed with the wind, the smell of fresh coffee combined with a musky fragrance, or even the little interactions that make us human. I was a very curious child growing up, so I saw beauty in everything around me. Art is in anyone, anywhere, anything. From the definitive forms of art such as painting, drawing, cinematography, philosophy, literature, writing, dancing, and much more. To the way people have conversations, the way they style different pieces of clothing that contributes to their personality, or their daily habits can be art. To observe can be a beautiful thing, likewise you become much more vigilant about the human behavior. Seeing art in everyday things helps us go beneath the surface level, to extract the essence for it to be put in retrospect in such a way that reflects a distinct look upon life. Our eyes are significantly better than any camera ever produced, because it really captures the depth of reality, of the habitual. I picture life to be like a roll of film—one day it ends, and for it to be developed, people have to tell your story. So why not live how you would like to, so people will proudly ‘develop’ your film someday?

Everybody carries a story, maybe one so fascinating that is being kept away where no one could find. But that’s the beauty in getting to know someone. They become your muse, someone of who’s story unravel as time seems to stay put—minutes blending into hours, and those ‘few hours’ of meaningless conversation turn into a complete day. The art of stories and endless conversations.

Often I find myself seeing other people’s potential rather than my own, which has an effect on my sense of identity. It can mess with the perception of yourself, it’s how the brain works. But in some way, it’s quite interesting how people choose to live their life, to analyze their behavior, and their mental capacity. That’s why, when someone new comes into our life, we tend to mirror their acts in a way of showing our love for that person. Eventually we become an amalgamation of all the people that were once important for us. That specific song that the boy from your class showed you and now it’s one of your favorites, the way you tie your shoelaces as the girl in second grade taught you, or the appreciation you have for others in need as your mother always does. The art of observing.

“Those who consider themselves highly perceptive have the ability to access that which is both seen and what is unseen. They sense the finest nuances, are adept at reading body language, verbal cues and the underlying energy of others. Perceptive Souls receive messages from everything in the world around them. A specific lyric of the song that comes on the radio telling them exactly what they needed to hear. Reading the same phrase over and over from different sources. Having a deep inner knowing that transcends logical understanding. Physical sensations in specific areas of the body, highlighting what feels right and what does not. A soft or urgent inner voice, a vivid dream or vision.”- Reddit post

We have been observant beings ever since the prehistoric age. Back then our ancestors needed to be on the lookout for prey, now we are on the lookout for satisfaction such as art. That is sufficient for the human species, that connects us, be it music or drawing. These are what we stay alive for! The art of satisfaction.

“We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.” - Dead Poets Society

Art can be many things, but at the end of the day, it is truly up to interpretation of any being on this planet.

[tireddeadcunt]

Ugh poetry shit:

What’s your favorite flower?

What’s Your favorite color?

Why do you love what you love and how can you tell that it’s love?

I crave love so much that I resent it now, the only thing I don’t resent is art.

The act of creation,

to publicly self destruct would be a loss of creativity? That’s the question I ask myself from time to time…but who knows,

who really knows anything.

I know that feeling good feels really good and feeling bad feels like tournament and I don’t mean to be so dramatic but it’s just that when I don’t feel good, I feel awful.

I know it is better now because I can get out of bed without my head yelling at me, my boyfriend says we are both fucked up in the head but I don’t want to be. Is it true I am crazy? I feel as if I can write my poetry so vividly but when I try and talk it all gets scattered in my head like dropping a stack of papers.

Then trying to reorganize those papers like events in a conversation or a memory in my mind. I don’t know who I am and I wish it was simple, it looks so simple for some people, some girls just know what there favorite color because perhaps it’s the same color as there favorite flower.

I use to say I liked pink, then red then black because I only like pink when I want to be touched and I only like red when I feel secure without validation and I only like black when I feel tired or creative.

But that’s to complicated to remember to whom ever asks the question of my favorite color, so i sometimes say I don’t know, but I do know it’s just the answer to most questions makes my head race with ideas having to take into consideration different times in my life. I have a perfect life but I feel as if my brain was wired in a way that makes me feel insane.

I feel guilty when I lash out then have to clean up the mess I made of misinterpreted words that I didn’t mean so harshly.

K let’s wrap up the sappy shit now <3

[nityarawal]

9/23/23

"OJ"- AKA "Juice"

Morning Songs

How Many Songs

Can I Write 

In A Day

Make It Short

Make It Snappy

I Overtalk

I Know

Lyricists

Cut Back

Rich Refusals

My Poetry Teacher

Said

Is It Songworthy

Put It Somewhere

Else

Maybe It's 

3 Songs In One

Maybe You Have

A Voice

Where Some Have

None

Is It A Coincidence

That AI

Tells Kim Kardashian

Stories

Is It A Coincidence 

Her Daddy Was The

Atty

That Coined The "RO"

For A Murderer

Mommies Silencings'

Is It A Coincidence

Kimmy Can't Speak

Will They Resurrect 

Robert's Hologram 

To Defend

#MeToo Please

Attys Vanity Restraining Orders

Kimmy Can't Speak

Acts Like She Can't Sing

But We Don't Believe It

Everyone's Got A 

Unique Voice

Tune

If They Listen

To Hearts

Callings

Whistles

Kimmy Says She 

Can't Sing

In So Many Words

But North Likes

Her Tunes

And Dances Galore

With Her "Ye"

Ears

Kimmy Says She 

Can't Sing

In So Many Words

Stumbling Through

Christmas Recordings

Kimmy Can't Sing

Clearly Not True

Because

We Like Her Voice 

#FanGirls

It's True

If Kimmy Just Wants To Be A Poppet

"X" Meme

Like Elon

That's OK Too

Maybe She's Being 

Wise

Or Gagged

With Pleas

But Queen's In

40's

Seemingly

Behind Glass

Behind The Sidelines

Mamma 

Queen Of The Globe

Influencer

Got No Pride

Your Life's Not Over

You Outlived 

Your Mothers BFF

Not A Hasbeen

German 

Nicole Simpson

Might've 

Started As A Waitress

At 18 

With A Black Man

12 Years Older

Like Me 

A Nun

When Her Story 

Went Down

Cloistered By 

A Bipolar Monk

20 Years Older

Secretly Engaged

To My Molester

Handler

Pedophile Of Football 

Clinton League

Whitehouse

Boys Stirling Cards Clubs

Co-Creating

Spiritual Center

Manifesting

Heavenly Mountain

Muses And Me

Who Thought 

His Yogi Body

A Perfect Cloak

For A Tiny Football

Players Brain

He Ran Into

Every Pub

At The Mall

After 8 Hours Of

Meditation

Threw Money At 

#MeToo

Shopaholics

Forgetting Us

At Banana Republic 

Or Victoria Secret

Watching 

Modeling Purchases

We Went To Nephew's

Football Games

Fresh Out Of Nunnery

Forbidden Love Stories

Secrecy

Thanksgivings'

3 Years

Alienated

David Kaplan Must've Gone Up

To Bat

For OJ

Like The Whole 

Defense Army

Begging Him

Like Their Beloved

Buddha

"Don't Die Bro,"

They Begged

As They Chased Him

In His White Bronco

A Gun To His Head

They Tried To Shame

The Waiter

Instead 

Innocently

Returning

Nicole's Mothers' Glasses

From Italian Cafe

Brutally

Murdered Kid

For Jealous

Triangulated

"Theoretically"

A Mistake

After "Words"

He Said

Bloody Mess

Stunned

His Son Later Accused

Of Murders

Anyone But Him

Not A Cop's Football Hero

To Be Confirmed Guilty

20 Years In Jail

Per Head

Like Most Civilians

Would've Been

40 Years

At Least

For Even Attempting

Crimes

His Best Friends

Targeted

Atty's Families Pay

Still

Kardashians Paraded

But The Football

Hero "Juice"

Won't Cover His Bills

"Hoe-Flation"

Tax

Candace Owen's Calls It

On ROs

For Poly Trans Losers

You Can Play

The "Barracuda 

Mamma" Song Kimmy

If You Settle

#Nitya4Eternity

Estates

Uncouple My Kids

From This Blessed Mess

And Businesses

Gwen Stefani

Lady Saw

Lady Gaga

Or #FreeBritney

Might Sing For You

Anyone You Want

You Can Play Lori's 

Atty Brands'

Like A Poppet

For Kardashians

If You Wish

"Lawyering" 

Style

But If You Did

Some Yoga

Find Light

In Meditation 

Pranayama- Breathing Exercises

Cardio

Self Oil Massage 

Ayurveda

I Think You 

Might Just 

Find Your Voice

Too

No Need To Let

The Courts

Antagonize

"Ye"

Me

Or #FreeBritney

You

And Ladies

All Singers

Kids

Masses

Abused Today

We Know 911

Didn't Work For

Nicole Simpson

Nor Me

We Know 911

Didn't Work For

My Latina Mamma 

Country Club

Neighbor

When Militia Shot

Her Son Adrien

On Mistakes

We Know 911

Didn't Work For Me

Not Even The New

Fancy Texting

Services

We Couldn't Prevent

Domino Effect

Of A Dozen More

Murders

Idy Missing Peeps

Secrets Hidden

By Sergeant Protero

Young Bribed Investigators

Sheriff Gays

Secrets Hidden

By The Old Art Academy

Staff

Now Dead

Fired

Institutionalized Students

Silenced

My Old Therapist

Posing For CPS

To Traffic Actors

Super Geniuses

Harry Potters

Like Russel Brand

For England

Julie Anne Steiger

A Spy To Rockstar's Attys

In County Courts

How Many Murdered

On ROs

211

With Ashby Clark 

Sorrenson

United Way

Judge Judith Clark

Lori Clark Viviano

911

Until Her

Scuba Diving Demise

Last Year

Was She 

Charles Viviano's

Class Action Atty

Starter Wife First

Or In Walter Clark's

Gay Chain Of Attys

Marilyn

Butterballing

Lying On Radio Ads

Before 

They Became A 

Poly Tribe

Inflicting Sodomy

Taxing Breeders

Her Kids Keep

Advertising Her Expired

Law Scams

"Dead" Orders Now

On Bribes

Even Though She's Gone

Tweeting Onto

Twitter #X

So Can't You

Resurrect Robert 

Kardashian's

#AI Hologram Too

And Rectify

Peace

Forgive

What He Did

To Restrain American Moms

From Kids

With No Domestic Violence

Hotline

Mind-boggling Them

DV's A 1-800 Data Collection Site

A Waste Of Time

On Last Pleas

Calls

Desperate Needs

Reparations

Needed

Now

Rain Rape Clerks Violate

Moms

Silencing

For Robert Didn't 

Know He'd Win

He Didn't Know

He'd Make A Hero

Of A Murderer

In Loving His Brother

"Uncle OJ"

Y'all Called Him

He Didn't Know

Homeschooling

"Tweens"

His Girls Flaunted

In Court

Like Child Trophies

To Shame Moms'

Child Brides Still

He Didn't Know

His Armenian Baes

Daughters

Would Make 

Civil Activists

He Didn't Know

He'd Win

Against Odds

For A Slaughterer

Who Asked Him To 

Go Back To Work

Take the Sordid

RO Job

Still Murdering 25% 

Mothers Annually

From Divorce Courts

Sexualising

Infidelity

Violence

Vows

All He Knew

Was His Road

On The Coattails

Of A Football 

Hero

"OJ"

Capitalism

Won

Kardashian Hung His Head

When They Won

For He Couldn't 

Undo

Sin

An Oath

To His Family

Bonds

A Legacy

Bartered

Peace,

Nitya Nella Davigo Azam Moezzi Huntley Rawal 

[althaiareads]

HOW ARE YOU SUCH A GREAT WRITER?!?!? I swear, every single line is straight up poetry. I loved it so much.

Thoughts and brain dump below jsjsjs.

Tomorrow, you reprise like a chorus. Tomorrow, you’ll act. Tomorrow every week. 

God, this is heartbreaking.

Will sharing your excitement, with only slightly less exuberance, at the prospect of seeing Flaming June, on loan from the Museo de Arte de Ponce and presented at the Frick Collection.

THAT'S ONE OF MY FAVOURITE PAINTINGS EVER!!!

There's something about her that makes her so hypnotizing. Her relaxed pose, the way her dress pools on the couch, the flowers behind her. It's really beautiful.

AND IT IS ALSO ORANGE!!! LIKE THE BEDROOM!!!! Orange seems to follow and hunt them, it seems.

Time has recoiled and wound back like a reversed mechanism. The woman at the centre of the painting, sleeping languidly and with a trustful, serene abandon, is draped in a sheer orange gown, her long, luxuriant hair parted on both sides of her body like a cascading, lush blanket. Above her, the sun sets on a placid sea, under a pastel pink summer sky. 

Okay, this is stunning. That's the most accurate and breathtaking description of a painting I've ever read.

You captured the beauty and the feelings of the painting perfectly. Wow, I am in awe of you.

“Look. I’ve known Frankie for a little over 10 years. To me, he’s always been like- like a puzzle with a missing piece. And then- then I see you together, in the same room… you’re not even talking… and I see the missing piece.”

They both missed the other their entire lives. And it's breaking my heart.

I’ll tell Benny I met someone else, or that I’m not in love and things are getting too serious, I don’t know, he can hate me, it’s probably better, as long as he doesn’t lose his best friend

BABY, NO. Don't do that. My heart is broken.

“I never taught myself to want anything else but you, Frankie. But that’s not possible. You will lose too much. I’ve seen you together. He trusts you. And you love him. I can’t destroy that.”

The fact that her mother was an abusive piece of shit makes this even more heartbreaking.

Okay, first of all, how dare you? Second of all, HOW DARE YOU?!?!?! I am not okay. But I'm so excited to see how the break-up with Benny will play out. Something tells me that she'll be all “we have to break up” and Benny'll be like “no”, which will make it even WORSE for my frail heart.

Also, I don't think Frankie will let her leave that easily. My girl is slowly, but surely learning that you can't always run. I also don't think she really wants to leave. At this point Will is part of her family too, not only Benny's. She's met a lot of wonderful people there, it's gonna be hard as fuck to leave.

One more thing, MY GIRL ROSIE!! I get her anger, I get her hurt, but I need them to be okay, again. She's such an integral part of her life! Things can't be left off like that.

I'm gonna shut up now, because this was long as fuck sjjsjsj. Anyway, I love you, you're incredible, and I look forward to seeing what happens.

Pleased to meet you, chapter 15

Summary: You eventually made up your mind, but acting on it is a whole different story. Time is ticking on you. An afternoon at the museum with Will precipitates everything.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x French fem!Reader.

Rating: Explicit 🔞

A/N: So yeah, Plainsong became Flaming June... Don't ask! You'll see. If you'd like a song to go with this one, may I suggest Maps, by Yeah Yeah Yeahs? And if ever you're interested, @deadmantis (my favourite enabler) sent me an ask (thank you 🧡) that has allowed me to ramble discuss Reader & Benny's relationship further.

A million thank you Fanna my darling for making this gorgeous gif of those two kings. I am still giggly from it and I promise next time I won't ask on such short notice 🧡

@meandorla I don't know where I'd be without you... Thank you for your time, your help, your enthusiasm, your sharp understanding of them and their story. For bearing with me, and helping me find my way as I'm approaching the end of this story 🧡 Ily 🧡

Word count: 5.7k

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Chapter 15: Flaming June

Time is such an odd thing. A social construct, as they say. 

And you have spent so much of it reading on the subject, from nebulous scientific essays in specialised publications that left you questioning your intellectual abilities, to popular articles in mainstream media, trying to understand how two days and three nights in an orange bedroom could have contained all of your past and your entire future. 

How the fifteen years that followed could have lasted longer than ten life sentences.

How it violently collapsed in on itself as you walked into a dingy New Jersey bar, only to be propelled into an ascending spiral, gathering speed and momentum, yet still endlessly stretching on. 

Monday morning finds you rested. With the heavy curtains blocking the early morning sun, for the first time in months, you’ve slept soundly until your alarm rung.

Benny snoring lightly next to you. 

Rested but restless, hating yourself because you couldn’t find it in you to say “no” when he asked if he could stay the night at your place. It took his massive presence in your small apartment for you to realise you own only one pillow. 

But he didn’t mind, of course he didn’t. In appearance unfazed, undeterred, cheerful and patient as always, even when you pushed away his hands under the sheets with a bullshit excuse. 

How you’d wanted him to call you out on the obvious lies, confront you about your distance, the fact that you hardly ever let him fuck you anymore when you two used to get down to it in his brother’s pick-up parked on the side of the road.

Are your lies so expertly hidden, or is Benny so well-trained to your recurrent distance? The persistence of his affection just another blemish on your conscience, another blame for you to carry on your own. Besides, you have no right to wish for him to make this any easier for you, anyway. 

When you set off for work, he left with you, to swing by his house before his morning run and when he pulled you in for one last hug, holding you flush against his firm, wide chest, you let him. You strengthened your hold, threading your fingers through his thick blond hair, incapable of holding back your words, laced with guilt and regret. “You’re so good, Benjamin.”

Time is ticking on you. As loud as the clock back in Rosie’s kitchen when you got up to leave. Relentless, no matter how hard you dig in your heels, how desperately you try to stall for more. One more day. One more night. One last kiss, one last fuck. 

And now it’s 10am again. Forty-eight hours since you’d sat in Frankie’s truck with the unreasoned, remorseless desire to let him know that you’ve never stopped waiting, that you have always cared. That to you, he’s still the same. You could swear it’s been forty-eight years. 

Twenty-four hours since you opened your door and let him in. Twenty-two since you’ve felt his lips on your neck, his skin etching your skin. 

And how long exactly until you can’t pretend any longer that it never happened? That your thoughts are only of him; your sole concern the fate that awaits him when he goes back to work today? 

Tomorrow, you reprise like a chorus. Tomorrow, you’ll act. Tomorrow every week. 

And in the meantime, you hide in the cracks, seeking physical discomfort to lull your sadness to sleep. 

The noise of the bookstore metallic shutters winding up that fills your brain like boulders made of lead tumbling down a cliff.

The sweltering atmosphere in the small, quaint shop when you get inside. The drop of sweat that rolls down your spine with every ample movement, until Suzanne walks in after lunch and turns on the antique AC unit that has only two positions: cold and freezing. 

The rasp in your throat from the frigid, artificial air. 

The unpleasant customers, the chatty ones and the obnoxious, the ones you hope will never visit again. 

The burn in your lungs when you draw another drag, Fayçal’s words adding a guilty flavour to the tar aroma of the nicotine. “Tu fumes trop, cousine.”

The proximity of hot and smelly strangers' bodies on the 7pm bus.

And when you finally make it home, well, another day has passed. Time your unlikely ally. Monday an unexpected truce. 

Tomorrow. Tomorrow you’ll act. 

The plastic handles of your heavy grocery bag is cutting off the blood circulation in your fingers and your key jams in the front door when you try to unlock it, winded from the four floor climb. 

The muffled ringtone of your phone has you cursing loudly at first, before your body stiffens at a sudden thought. 

Rosie. Could it be Rosie? Tomorrow is Tuesday. Could she be reaching out to you? Hope rattles your heart in your chest, the grocery bag dropping to the floor when you grab your phone from the back pocket of your short denim overalls, your other hand frantically jiggling the key. 

The lock gives as you read the caller ID on the screen. 

Ironhead

Will doesn’t text. He calls. You hate it, speaking on the phone makes you uncomfortable, you need time to think over your words. But where Benny can be flexible, Will never caves. You text, he calls. And that’s the end of it. 

However, you don’t hesitate before picking up, kicking the bag inside your apartment, groceries scattered and rolling on the carpeted floor. 

“Allô?” you answer in French, locking the door behind you.

“I thought you were going to send me to voicemail there for a second,” he taunts. “How are you?”

“No, no, I’m only just getting home. What’s up?”

Will marks a pause, and you grimace at your poorly performed deflection.

“Right,” he answers in his measured drawl. “Calling about tomorrow. Shall we meet over there, or should I come to pick you up? Did you finally buy that car?”

Tomorrow.

Fuck.

—

The GPS promises an hour’s drive from your place to 1 East 70th Street, but you’ve lived here long enough to know that the constant traffic will nearly double that, even on an early Tuesday afternoon. Reaching the destination is only the first part of the adventure; finding a parking spot there is always the real challenge. 

You’d be fine riding the subway but Will systematically insists that it’s faster this way. Deep down, you don’t really mind the drive. The New York City skyline appearing on the horizon of the New Jersey Turnpike is a spectacle you have yet to tire of. Growing up in Paris meant learning early on to make the best out of the busy, stressful capital, in particular by preserving your ability to marvel at its postcard landmarks. 

Despite the increasing tension running through you since early April winding you up like a power line, you welcome this opportunity to spend the afternoon with Will, certain that his self-possessed, even demeanour will soothe and balance your own. 

As the car takes the last U-turn before entering the Lincoln Tunnel, where more traffic awaits, you offer to give him cash for the toll, knowing full well he will turn it down.

“I choose the route, I pay the toll,” he tells you with a half smile. “You can pay for the first round.”

The midnight blue, tight polo he’s wearing darkens his eyes. Your gaze lingers affectionately on the large tattoos adorning his brawny forearms, before you become aware that you are trying to memorise them, and you push back the nagging thought that this might be the last time the two of you hang out together.

The tickets have been booked months in advance, Will sharing your excitement, with only slightly less exuberance, at the prospect of seeing Flaming June, on loan from the Museo de Arte de Ponce and presented at the Frick Collection. One of your favourite pieces by Frederic Leighton, whose work you’ve only seen printed in books or badly reproduced on postcards, save for a painting in Orsay and one in the Tate Gallery in London.

Booked before your world was tipped off its axis, and you completely forgot about the exhibition. 

Now, there’s a spring in your step when you get out of the car. You got dolled up, and enjoyed doing so, for the first time in what feels like a long while. Red lipstick and loose hair, you even put on a dress, sleeveless with a deep V-cut in the front and in the back, pretty knots tied over your shoulders. If this is a funeral, let it be one worth remembering.

You can barely pace yourself as you make your way through the mixed crowd of tourists and art enthusiasts across the Garden Court of the Frick. Will’s heavy boots resound on the marble flooring as he lengthens his strides to catch up with you. You step into the Oval Room like others walk into churches for mass, with reverent apprehension, devotion, and respect.

And then, it’s there.

Leighton’s masterpiece punches the air out of your lungs. You stare at it in stricken silence, mouth agape, Will standing behind you to your right, arms folded on his chest. 

There’s a small, wistful smile on his lips, as he lets the painting bring him back to his college years and resurfacing lessons on academic style, Victorian era, aesthetic considerations and concepts. Seemingly unproductive yet essential hours spent debating perspectives and artists’ intents, the reminiscence an indulgence only you and your friendship can provide. A futile and necessary contentment only you can share with him. 

You two have discussed it in the past, early in your relationship, when you had asked him if he had any regrets. He had none, he claimed with dignified resignation, save perhaps for the lack of recognition for what he had sacrificed to accomplish his duty. 

After a moment spent in silent contemplation, he takes a step closer to you, and he’s about to share his thoughts when your absent expression stops him in his tracks. You’re standing a few inches from him, yet you are miles, or rather years away from the Oval Room. 

Time has recoiled and wound back like a reversed mechanism. The woman at the centre of the painting, sleeping languidly and with a trustful, serene abandon, is draped in a sheer orange gown, her long, luxuriant hair parted on both sides of her body like a cascading, lush blanket. Above her, the sun sets on a placid sea, under a pastel pink summer sky. 

The gown leaps out of its frame to grip at your throat, its colour louder than any copy you’ve ever seen in art catalogues, Wikipedia page or websites, and you recognise it instantly. This particular shade has been seared into your flesh and your soul. It’s your past and a lost promise. It is love and safety. It is desire and trust. It’s two worlds colliding on a sunny and warm Sunday morning in July. 

There’s a prickling sensation at the corner of your eyes. Will sucks his teeth in and his stare sharpens. Propping his hands on his hips, he takes another step closer to you, and whispers, “You alright, there?”

You run your hands over your arms to hide the shivers that won’t leave your skin. When you speak, it’s in a distant voice, your eyes locked on the rumpled gown hugging the model’s figure.

“You know, my grandparents had curtains just like that in their living-room,” you start. “My grandma was a seamstress. She had made them herself.”

Will nods in silence. 

“Why couldn’t you stay with your grandfather, after she died?” he asks bluntly, albeit in a soft tone. 

You love his forthrightness and have always appreciated his lack of pretence. It puts you at ease, and grants you the freedom to provide him, or not, with an answer.

“I did, for a couple of months, but he was too overwhelmed with grief. It was as though he couldn’t function anymore, without her. He got very depressed, very quickly, and, well, you know what happened next.” 

Will knows, if not in the darkest details, about your difficult relationship with your mother, and your grandfather’s passing within two years of your grandmother’s death.

“What about your father? You never talk about him.”

“Ah yes,” you can’t keep the bitterness out of your scoff, “him. Said he wasn’t ready to be a father. Then went on and married another woman, who got pregnant, like, fifteen minutes later.”

You keep facing the painting, your spine a rigid metal rod, because you don’t think yourself capable of withholding his astonishment and the question you know he’ll ask next. 

“You mean you have siblings?”

“No,” you reply a little too fiercely. “As far as I’m concerned I’m an only child. These people are not my family. I found out about my father’s death two weeks after they’d buried him.”

Behind you, Will exhales slowly, deeply, and you realise he’s standing closer to you than you thought.

“My father loved art,” he says, eventually. “His parents wanted him to learn what they called a ‘real trade’, but he never stopped reading and learning about it. Pretty sure I got it from him. And he certainly never objected when I said I wanted to study it.”

In turn, you sigh and let your hands fall to your sides. 

You stand in silence side by side for a while longer, before he asks again. “So? Is it everything you hoped it would be?”

“It’s more,” you murmur.

“McSorley’s?”

“McSorley’s,” you reply with a nod, drawing away from Flaming June. 

—

Ever since you had landed in Newark, you’d been more than conflicted regarding the transient nature of your stay here. The part of you that hated to be away from Paris for longer than a summer vacation considered the move transitory. An internal countdown was permanently ticking in the back of your head towards the end of your three-year sabbatical, and you had failed - if not refused - to adjust to your new home in more ways than one. Your stubborn use of the metric system being just the comedic tip of the iceberg. 

Yet you had had all your books and belongings shipped to your new address the very day you got the keys to your apartment. You had never even raised the subject with Rosie, let alone with Will or Benny, instead slipping deliberately into a comfortable routine to neutralise your homesickness.  

Will had first taken you to the historical ale house, an East Village institution, after you had confided in him that you missed Europe as a whole. “It’s not that I feel French when I’m here,” you’d said, “I feel European. I can’t explain.” The Irish pub had been his answer, his own vision of good ol’ Europe, and the bar had quickly become a mandatory stop whenever you visited the city together.

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the dimmer light inside the pub when you follow him in, but the wood chips on the floor, catching on the leather sole of your huaraches sandals, feel comfortingly familiar. 

Will places the order at the bar while you take a sit at one of the round tables, glancing at the hanging wishbones covered in a hundred years worth of greasy dust, wondering, as always, if any of them belonged to a pilot, only this time you know yours has returned from his wars, if not entirely sound and safe. 

Once the waiter has brought in four half pints of McSorley’s ale, you start sharing your impressions on the exhibition, digressing to the importance of the pre-Raphaelites avant-garde in the Victorian Era before the conversation naturally dies. 

The strong ale has given you a pleasant buzz, you’re light-headed, but nicely so, and you prop your elbow on the thick wooden table to rest your face in your hand. Staring emptily at the floor, you’re unaware of Will’s gaze fixed on you. The man is twice your mass and it takes more than a pint of beer to get him remotely tipsy. His next question falls on your neck like a guillotine. 

“So, where do you know Frankie from?”

Your cheek glued to your palm, you pivot your head on your arm to face him, eyes as wide as saucers giving away your alarm.

He leans back against the back of his chair, his forearms on his thighs, impassive, his steely blue eyes plunged into yours, and you feel like a field mouse that fell prey to a hawk.

You want to answer, you really do, but your teeth are stuck together and all you can do is frown, conceal the panic beneath pretend outrage, knowing all too well he will not let go. Sure enough, he seems to rethink and tilts his head to the side, sits up and leans forward over the table. 

“Wait… maybe the better question is, when do you know Frankie from?”

Would it be so bad if it ended here? With Will? The man already knows more about you than his brother does, would the damage be greater if he knew it all? Panic turns to capitulation, and capitulation reshapes into relief. 

The dead weight of weeks of dissimulation slowly slides off your shoulders. You straighten up, eventually, and look your friend in the eyes when you answer, in a flat tone, “1999.”

Whether he didn’t expect such an easy win or didn’t suspect such a long time, Will is visibly taken aback, and you ponder if you should speak first or wait for him to question you further. The man has been trained in interrogation techniques, you might want to take the lead in that conversation. Is he still your friend? 

Your voice is hoarse, and the prickling sensation is swelling again under your eyelids, but your mind is clear. Deep inside your chest, a foreign feeling flares up, one that you fail to identity at first.

“We met at a party I went to with Rosie. It was in July. Just before he joined the Army. We-” your words get stuck in your dry throat, your eyes flicking down to your empty glasses, fuck this is harder than anything, “we spent the weekend together.”

A single tear rolls down your cheek, that you only register when it reaches your jaw and hangs there before it falls on your forearm. Anger. What you feel is anger. 

“So it was just a one-off thing?” he prods.

More tears threaten to spill and you look upward to try to hold them back, breathing in through your nose and exhaling shakily through parted lips. When you look at him again, your face conveys so much pain and disillusion, he falls back against his chair, as if to avoid the ripples of your sadness. 

“What do you think, William? Would you be here, asking me those questions, if it was just a one-off thing?”

You take in the embarrassment on his face when he hangs his head, running his tongue other his teeth. 

“Yes,” he concedes. “So what happened?”

“We got separated by dumb fucking bad luck, is what happened. I lost his number, that’s the short version.” You let the implications sink in. “Does Benny… suspect anything?” you add in a small voice, hoping you don’t sound as despicable as you feel. 

“No. No, he doesn’t,” Will answers slowly. “But he’s worried. Said you were growing distant.”

Tears are freely rolling down your cheeks, now, but your brow remains knitted in anger. You can’t shake that off, nor do you want to, because it might be the last thing keeping you upright. 

Will’s voice is considerably softer when he asks, “What are you going to do, then?”

“I don’t want to hurt him, you know,” you reply aggressively, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand.

“Oh you’re gonna hurt him,” he shoots back matter-of-factly, “I know you don’t want to, I believe you. But you will. I don’t know what you…” he trails off and reaches across the table to cover your hand with his, encircling your wrist with his strong fingers, giving it a hard squeeze as he continues in a tone of confidence. 

“Look. I’ve known Frankie for a little over 10 years. To me, he’s always been like- like a puzzle with a missing piece. And then- then I see you together, in the same room… you’re not even talking… and I see the missing piece.”

A repressed sob shakes your chest and you pull your arm back to free your hand from his grip, so you can blow your nose, dry your cheeks, anything to give the illusion of composure, but he doesn’t let you.

“I don’t know what you’re gonna do, but I can’t imagine you staying with my brother, now. So whether you leave him for his best friend, or you just leave him, he’s gonna hurt.”

Letting go of your hand, he leans back again, shrugging his bulky shoulders, “It’s gonna be rough, probably on all of us but, I mean, that’s life. It’s not on you. This clown is lucky he didn’t get his heart broken earlier.” 

It’s not on you.  

A couple of days ago, his words would have triggered the imperious need to go home and give up, once more take it out on yourself, smoke a pack of lung cancer sticks, get shitfaced and blackout. 

So that you can keep soldiering on and show the world that you haven’t let your traumas and your losses define you. 

Will moves to stop you from digging your nails in your forearm, but you recoil from his touch, angry tears spilling out. 

“Hey,” he calls, his palm extended toward you, his brow knitted in concern, “hey, I mean it. It’s not your fault. It’s a shitty situation. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

The image of Frankie’s cap on your countertop flashes through your mind, the ghost sensation of his hand spanning your body raising a new trail of goosebumps on your skin. 

“I’m gonna need you to tell me that you’re hearing this,” he tries again. “It is not your fault.” 

Slowly, his right hand reaches your forearm, grabbing it and pulling it gently away from your other arm. His grip on you is almost tender, and after a few seconds, you register the little circles his thumb is tracing on your skin. 

“I hear you,” you articulate, eyes closed, before swallowing thickly, “I hear you,” you repeat, giving him the reassurance of eye contact.  

“Do you have any idea of what you’re gonna do?”

The depth of his insightfulness causes your head to spin a little. Around you, the bar has filled up, people stepping in for drinks after a day of work, tourists with thick annotated guides on their tables, happy chatter and laughter bouncing off the walls covered with framed pictures of patrons from yesteryears, their solemn faces looking down on you. 

“Yes,” you start, aware that speaking your plan out loud will give it substance and compel you to put it into motion, “I’m going to leave Benny.”

He gives you an encouraging nod, but his expression remains neutral, enabling you to continue, “I’ll speak to him tomorrow. I have to see Frankie, first, make sure he doesn’t tell him anything. I’ll tell Benny I met someone else, or that I’m not in love and things are getting too serious, I don’t know, he can hate me, it’s probably better, as long as he doesn’t lose his best friend.”

Will folds his arms on his chest and remains silent for an excruciatingly long moment, visibly weighing his next words. You know him well enough to understand that your willingness to shoulder the blame on your own forces his admiration. You’re not being entirely honest, however. Benny’s not really the one you want to protect. So when he speaks next, his words shoot through your body like a stray bullet. 

“And where does that leave us?” 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper inaudibly under the cacophony of the pub, your throat closing up, and you clench your eyes shut to hold back a new wave of tears, hiding your face in your hand. 

His heavy sigh sounds like defeat. He leans forward, hesitant, reaching for your hand once more, before changing his mind and sliding his napkin towards you across the table. 

“Ok, let’s go, I’ll drive you home,” he offers, standing up and placing his hand on your shoulder. 

“I need you to give me Frankie’s address, Will,” you say, dabbing the corner of your eyes with the tissue, removing small flakes of black mascara from your eyelids. 

His grasp on your shoulder tightens.

“He’s up north. Come on, it’s late, I’ll drive you.”

—

Six months of probation, with weekly drug tests. Any refusal to comply and he’s welcome to seek employment elsewhere.

Frankie slams the front door of his house behind him and throws the keys onto the console table next to it. It’ll be six months until he can fly again, working as a mechanic under tech support supervision, with this asshole Giovanni who ratted him out bossing him around. Back to square one, and for what. A stupid, minor coke bust.

Storming into the open kitchen, he gets a bottle of beer out of the fridge, uncaps it and tosses the cap on the table, where it ricochets and falls on the tiled floor. The cold glass pressed against his right cheek does little to temper his mood, but he leaves it there for a minute, until the condensation runs down his hand and into his beard. 

They had him drive over first thing Monday morning only to keep him waiting around all day, and have him come back again today to inform him of the conditions of his reinstatement, adding humiliation to injury. Well played.

He falls heavily on a kitchen chair, his blood boiling over the fast downward spin his life has recently taken, and the six months freshly added to his sixteen years of penance. 

“You gotta get back on your game, pendejo. It stops now,” he mutters to the bottle in his hand.

Just because you’re not his doesn’t alter the fact that he doesn’t want you to bear witness to his fuck-ups. You’re here. You’re real. 

Two days later, he has barely come down from the intoxicating sensation that came with the smoothness of your skin under his fingers, the weight of your breast in his hand, your scent between his lips, he could almost taste you as he ran his tongue over them, rushing back down the stairs. 

And the elation, the vengeful rightfulness he felt, taking the passenger seat of the Mustang next to Benny. The thought ugly and rampant, stifling his lungs, envy, near hostility, as he glanced in his direction from under the brim of his hat with ill-concealed fury. Resentment over his happiness, simmering and threatening to choke him until he had to remind himself that he would never have found you again if it wasn’t for him. Wouldn’t even be alive, for that matter. 

But fuck. You are his. 

You chased his mouth with yours. He didn’t imagine that. Reached out for his skin, moved by the same frantic need that made him seek yours. Dug your nails in his arms and your scent on that pillow…

“FUCK!”

The chair crashes with a clatter onto the floor when he stands up.

The last time he experienced this level of irritation was on the field, calling out Pope for challenging Redfly’s orders while they were under enemy fire, and his fingers flex around nothing, around the ghost presence of a gun. 

His doorbell jolts him out of the traumatic memory, his dark eyes flicking up to the front door. He’s in no mood to entertain visitors. He’ll sit this one out, he decides, falling still and silent, until your muffled voice comes in from outside, hesitant and apologetic. 

“Frankie?”

He’s at the door in two steps and swings it open so forcefully your hair flies with the pull of air. 

The first thing he sees is your dress, long, black and with a deep cleavage plunging down to your midriff, dragging his thoughts along the way, but when his eyes flicker back up to your face, dread flares up in his gut.

Small red spots linger tellingly around your swollen eyes, and there’s a shadow of wiped lipstick on your lips. 

“What happened? Are you ok?” he rasps before noticing Will’s pickup doubled parked in the street behind you. 

His frown deepens when his friend nods in his direction, starting the engine, and his puzzled gaze follows the vehicle until it turns right and disappears around the block.

You’re left standing here, on his doorstep, silently looking up at him, and he doesn’t know what to do with you. 

“Come in,” he mumbles, stepping to the side to let you pass, but not enough that you won’t brush his arm with yours. 

Seeing you in his home is disorienting, and guilt makes him wince, thinking about what he put you through two days ago. 

You seem lost in the large open space, trying to decide between the living-room and the kitchen, so you turn around and face him, a few feet away from his standing, rigid figure. For a brief moment, he thinks you’ll ask him for help, but instead you take your purse and position it in front of you, so he takes a step back away from you. 

“I have to talk to you,” you start in a breathy voice. 

“What happened?” he asks again. 

“Nothing happened, not like that,” you add. “Last Saturday I told Rosie I saw you again. And she won’t talk to me anymore,” you explain shakily. “And Will knows. We went to the city together today, and he asked… Well, anyway. He knows.“

“Surprised he didn’t find out before,” he grumbles. 

“I think he’s suspected for a while.” 

“Yea, sounds like him,” he agrees.

His understanding stands between you, an overwhelming reminder of their enduring friendship, of their history and their bond. You deflate, suddenly, fiddling nervously with the strap of your bag, averting your eyes when Frankie lifts off his cap and combs his fingers through his dark curls.

“Do you have any alcohol?” you ask. 

He sighs heavily before asking, “What do you want?” 

“Something strong. Whiskey. Do you have whiskey?”

“I’m not giving you alcohol. What do you want?”

His voice is loud and clear. It travels around every surface of the room until it comes crashing into your ears. It’s not a question, not really, it’s an injunction to decide, a desperate demand to set him on his next course, whatever it may be, and as your silence stretches between you, time slowly swirls into a million eternities. 

“I want you,” you answer soberly, your shoulders sagging with the confession, and the sadness he had vowed to chase away forever ago in the orange bedroom dims your wide eyes. “I never taught myself to want anything else but you, Frankie. But that’s not possible. You will lose too much. I’ve seen you together. He trusts you. And you love him. I can’t destroy that.”

His frustration is palpable, it makes the air thrum around him. Everything in his body, in his posture, betrays his state of mind, from the nervous grind of his teeth to the hard grip of his fingers on his hip, from his corded neck to his glaring eyes. 

He wants to tell you that it’s too late. That his fondness for Benny was irredeemably tarnished the minute you stepped into that bar with your hand wrapped in his, probably longer before that, at the very second Benny deluded himself into thinking he could ever give you what you needed. 

That you are not to blame for his resentment. That your self-hatred and your culpability make him want to scream until his vocal cords snap. That he can shield you from it, if you only let him, please, let him protect you from it, and from the rest, from anything and everything.  

“I wish you would let me decide,” he says as gently as he possibly can, but the restraint in his voice remains audible, and threatening. 

And through it, you hear everything he cannot tell you. And you believe him, believe he would keep you safe, from the world and from yourself, that he holds that much power. But how can you possibly choose your own happiness over his? 

Defeated, you let go of your bag, let it sway over your hip before it stills and hangs by your side. 

“I am going to leave him. Tomorrow. I mean tonight,” you state. “And then I’ll go home.”

Frankie straightens up, raising to his full height, lips parted, hardly breathing, for the word has hit him in the chest. 

“Home,” he repeats huskily. 

“Home. Paris.” The familiar name catches in your throat like a large bone, and you clench your teeth with all of your strength, giving yourself the illusion of a will power you fear you don’t possess.  

“No.”

You’ve never heard him speak this loud, and the determination in his voice makes you flinch, your bag falling on the tiles. What happens next unfolds so fast you don’t even think to recoil, your feet are riveted to the floor and all you do is watch, watch Frankie grab his cap and throw it in the room at random, watch him march towards you with heavy footsteps and stop abruptly, an inch short from your trembling body. 

His right hand curls at his side, once, twice, before he reaches up and places it at the base of your neck, large and firm and burning. His thumb is on your pulse point, where your heart is leaping in a frantic, erratic thrum, the exposed expanse of your skin a siren song to his lips. 

He stands so tall and solid, you have to tilt your head up to look at him, and times stills, at last, your whole world contained in the dark pools of his eyes. You feel so tiny under his palm, once again the urge to fit you inside him overthrows everything he has ever stood for. 

“I’m so tired, Frankie,” you implore. 

He lowers his face over yours, his lips brushing against your lips. 

“Stay,” he says, and his entire life vacillates on the tip of his plea. 

****

Bonus: Flaming June, Frederic, Lord Leighton (British, Scarborough 1830–1896 London), 1895. Oil on canvas, 119.1 × 119.1 cm. Museo de Arte de Ponce.

Taglist (thank you 🧡): @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine @nicolethered @littleone65 @bands-tv-movies-is-me @the-rambling-nerd @saintbedelia @pedrostories @trickstersp8 @all-the-way-down-here @deadmantis @hbc8 @princessdjarin @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos @gracie7209 @mrsparknuts

[ankhisms]

feeling the sad little pathetic creature emotions this evening suddenly. i dont really want to dwell in feeling bad but it is a familiar deep sad feeling u know. itll be ok i just have to let it out

[ikeservant]

Hi! It says you’re doing hc requests and your asks are still open, so could you do something for warlords and an MC who is a theatre kid? Singing, dancing, even costumes for her performances? I would live Nobu, Hideyoshi, Shingen, Kenshin, and Mitsunari especially if not everyone. 💖💝

Since in my mind’s eye thinking of this, I picture mc as a highschooler so all these are platonic/fluff and gender neutral (also sorry I am a novice to theater but I know a little so bear with me)

Nobunaga- It’s canon that he knows traditional dance choreography and is probably versed in the arts and entertainment with being the lord of a castle and all, but golly was he surprised when he asked mc to come to his room to interrogate this stranger that popped up out of nowhere. Mc told him everything since he was scaring them, but hearing their stories of their time intrigued him and when he asked what they liked to do in their time, mc lit up and talked about musicals and theater. Now every night he invites mc to his room and in exchange for konpeito they tell him about a play or teach him a song. When mc catches him sneaking in the kitchen he likes to quote Hamilton “If I can prove that I never broke the law, Do you promise not to tell another soul what you saw? No one else was in the room where it happened.” while giving them a piece to silence them as they both snicker and hang out. If mc wanted to host a play, he would snap his fingers and let them do whatever. Make the other warlords participate, give all the fabric access for costumes, make mc the director, have a whole makeshift stage and audience chamber. Anything to make his lil pal smile.

Hideyoshi- When he was suspicious of mc and followed them around, he noticed that they were constantly humming or singing unfamiliar tunes while doing chores and seemed so happy, making his guard go down. When he asked mc about what they were singing, mc lit up and went on a tangent about musicals and it made him warm up to them since they were like an excited kid talking about their passions. When he started inevitably going big brother/ mama hen mode and escorted them around, he often got their tunes stuck in his head. Every time it rained, he would start humming ‘singing in the rain’ and if he saw hills while riding he’d start lightly humming ‘the hills are alive with the sound of music’ because his brain is now hardwired from being classically conditioned by mc to sing/hum along with them. Would always be mc’s audience and supporter if they wanted to host any performances in the castle. If Mitsuhide tries to tease mc about their performances or quirky dances, Hideyoshi is not afraid to pick a fight and defend his new adopted child and their sengoku broadway dreams.

Kenshin- Does not get it or care when mc starts bringing up musicals and plays. “What’s the point if there’s no violence?” “Well, there is one about the French Revolutionary War.” He heard war, he is now intrigued. Mc could only really talk about plays with violence in it to gain his attention, but he got the appeal and liked how people can get creative with murder. Would even catch onto some song quotes, but brings them up in the worst times. The first time mc saw him murder someone, he thought it’d be appropriate to say “He ran into my knife. He ran into my knife 10 times.”, thinking Chicago’s Cell Block Tango would make this modern day teenager brush it off. It did not. When he’s grumpy and doesn’t have sake, pickled plums, or anybody to stab, he asks mc to entertain him with Sasuke acting out fighting scenes in plays, liking a lot of Shakespeare Hamlet and Macbeth but only the violent parts. It makes him happy seeing mc happy, especially when they’re talking about violence, even if its just about a play. Mitsunari- Is really intrigued when mc starts talking about plays and musicals since they’re like stories and poetry from a foreign and distant time. This scholar wants to whip out a scroll every time mc talk about a play or musical so he can record it to read for later. He loves learning about it all. Cats the musical? “Cats can sing in the future?!”. He loves hearing mc sing and dance. They tried getting him to do a dance from Newsies and it ended in a bookshelf collapsing and the sliding door to break over innocent passerby Ieyasu, who further cursed Mitsunari. He would love to help mc rewrite and be a scribe for their new play idea of Azuichi Hamilton Shingen- Wanting to make a nervous mc ease up, he asked them about their favorite hobby or entertainment. Coaxing mc to talk, they started going on a ramble of musicals and plays. He’s hooked on Phantom of the Opera and Grease cuz he’s a romantic at heart and loves the drama and the fluffiness of the Grease story. Obviously mc had to add context due to the time period difference, but he got the gist. Wants to learn the duets of the songs so he and mc can have their dramatic musical outbursts to cut off Yukimura fussing Shingen or make Yuki jump with a “SING ONCE AGAIN WITH ME”. Shingen would kind of be like Hideyoshi but more with a cool uncle vibe. Would brag about mc’s talent of remembering plays and knowing so many songs to sing. Kennyo wants to shrivel away when Shingen goes on a ramble of their amazing adopted teen, thinking that he would’ve been done after Yukimura. Nope, my man trained a warrior, he’s gonna train a performing star.

[havenoffandoms]

72 for Geralt/Jaskier?

I meant to post this a lot earlier... sorry about the wait, nonnie. I hope you like it anyway. I'm not sure how it came out in the end after I agonised over this for the past couple of days, but it was fun going back to my Geraskier roots.

Masterlist

Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier

Prompt 72: Character A has a secret. Character B does whatever they can to find out what it is. When they find out, they wish they hadn't.

Warnings: brief angsty episode, mention of Geralt's traumatic childhood

Also, I love that art! Holy Shit!? So of course this had to feature before the fic <3

Travelling with Jaskier had its downfalls.

For one, the bard talks a lot. He never stops, not even in his sleep, and that would drive any man insane if you ask Geralt. He listens to Jaskier waffling about poetry all day, every day, he doesn’t have to endure a lecture on the benefits of iambic pentameters when he’s trying to fall asleep, thank you very much. Jaskier also likes to complain about every little thing that causes him discomfort, which when they’re on the path, ranges from fly bites all the way to sore feet. Travelling with a human also means that they travel considerably slower, unless they’re both riding on top of Roach, but Geralt doesn’t like putting his best girl under that kind of strain very often.

For all of Jaskier’s flaws, Geralt would hate to have to separate from his bard. At least, when Jaskier is close by, Geralt can keep an eye on him and make sure Jaskier doesn’t get himself into any unnecessary trouble. Having Jaskier travel with him gives Geralt peace of mind. He appreciates the singing as well, even if he could stand to tell Jaskier this a bit more often. Geralt deems that his bard’s ego is plenty inflated without Geralt making it worse. Not to mention that life always seems a little bit brighter when Jaskier is around, and the nights are a little less lonely as Geralt gets to pull his bard close and fall asleep to the sound of his beating heart. Knowing that Jaskier is safe is the only thing that lets Geralt sleep peacefully at night.

You’d think that after nearly two decades of knowing his bard, Geralt would have figured out Jaskier’s secret by now. Geralt is, of course, referring to Jaskier’s near supernatural ability to always come up with coin when he and Geralt need it most urgently. Geralt has no idea how the bard does it - his songs are popular, granted, and on a good night Jaskier makes enough to buy a nice room for the night and the better pieces of meat from the kitchen. Still, being a bard doesn’t pay that well, not even if you were as famous as Jaskier. Just last week, Geralt’s horse and most of his belonging were stolen by bandits, leaving Geralt travelling on foot and too poor to afford to buy a new horse. Two days later, Jaskier came trotting up to their camp atop a gorgeous mare, looking mighty pleased with himself but refusing to tell Geralt how he managed to afford to pay for the horse.

“Would you believe me if I told you I stole her, Geralt, my dear?”

“Not in a million years,” Geralt admitted deadpan, pulling an offended squawk from his songbird.

“Just because I’m a bard you don’t think I can steal a horse?”

“I don’t think you could ever steal a horse because you’re as stealthy as the proverbial bull in the porcelain shop.”

It’s not just the horse, though. Geralt’s armour needed replacing and good armour doesn’’t come cheaply. Geralt doesn’t hire the services of just any blacksmith or armourer to craft his weapons and protective gear. He has his regular suppliers, the ones he always goes back to because he knows that their work is reliable and of the highest quality. And even though these people know Geralt by now, even offer him a friends and family discount on occasion, their wares still come at a hefty price. Geralt, as it turns out, didn’t have the coin to replace his armour for a few months. He desperately needed new boots, though. A new pair of breeches wouldn’t hurt either, and his silver sword broke in half whilst fighting a particularly vicious griffin a few weeks back.

Geralt didn’t even mention all of this to Jaskier. That didn’t stop the bard from going ahead and commissioning a brand new suit of armour, new silver and steel swords, as well as a few casual clothes for Geralt to wear on the warmer summer days. All of this must have cost an arm, a leg and a fucking lung, and yet Jaskier acted like he didn’t just break the bank all for Geralt’s benefit. He didn’t even get anything for himself and that realisation had Geralt feeling slightly embarrassed about the gesture.

“You don’t have to buy me all this stuff, Jask.”

“I know that, dearest,” Jaskier assured him, eyes soft and an easy smile playing on his lips, “but I wanted to. Only the best for you, my sweet witcher.”

The mystery of where Jaskier managed to find the coin to pay for all this remains unsolved, despite Geralt’s questioning. Well, if Jaskier won’t outright tell him, then Geralt will just have to investigate the matter by himself.

"Where the fuck did you get your hand on all the coin to pay for all this?" Geralt asks one evening, blunt and straight to the point. There was probably a kinder and gentler way to ask this, but after spending weeks mulling over Jaskier's sudden new-found fortune, Geralt has lost the little patience he possessed in the matter. Jaskier, on the other hand, looks perfectly unperturbed.

"From the bank," he offers simply as he sprinkles expensive herbs over the hare Geralt caught earlier that evening, "you know, where people deposit their valuables? I know you witchers don't believe in bank accounts, savings and interests, but-"

"Where does the coin come from?" Geralt interrupts, hissing those words through clenched teeth.

"Why, my inheritance."

Geralt stares for a long while. It takes his brain several seconds to catch up to what Jaskier is telling him, and another few seconds to make sense of the words. Inheritance?

"What inheritance?"

"Well, when my father passed away he left me and my siblings a share of his wealth. That's how inheritance works. Say, pass me my satchel my dear, I think I have some more spices in there."

Geralt wordlessly hands Jaskier his satchel, still trying to process this new discovery. Come to think of it, Geralt knows precious little about Jaskier's family. Sure, that's probably on him for never asking, but Geralt has grown so used to Jaskier oversharing every aspect of his life that he never needed to ask his bard anything. Jaskier just… never talked about his family. Or his childhood, or his upbringing. His life story seems to always begin when he was a student at Oxenfurt.

Geralt is growing curiouser by the minute.

"When did your father pass?"

"Oh? Uh… good question. Maybe a few years after I went to Oxenfurt? I'm not sure. I received a letter from the bank notifying me that a share of my father's wealth was deposited in my account."

Geralt frowns. "You never went back to find out what happened?"

"No."

Well, that's an oddly abrupt response, and Jaskier doesn't seem like he's got anything to say on the matter. Which only makes Geralt feel more curious about the whole thing.

"Why not?"

"Geralt…" Jaskier heaves a sigh before putting on a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, too tense to be genuine. "My father and I didn't get along. I felt no need to go mourn him with the rest of my noble family in Lettenhove when he passed. That's it. That's all there's to it. I was not a good enough man to refuse my share of the inheritance, either, despite my non-existent relationship with him."

That's a lot to unpack. Geralt always assumed that Jaskier had a good childhood. Then again, he would think that, wouldn't he, considering Geralt spent his own childhood being tortured by magnanimous and sadistic mages. Where most children got to spend time outside helping out in the fields or playing with their friends, Geralt was put through drill after drill, after drill… until he was physically unable to walk so much his muscles hurt.

"Wait… did you say your noble family?"

"Hm?"

"In Lettenhove… there's nothing in Lettenhove. Only the Viscount and his family live there on a large esta-" Geralt's mouth clicks shut as realisation dawns on him. "Your father was the Viscount of Lettenhove?"

"Yes. And since I'm the oldest, after he died that title passed onto me. But I much prefer being a bard, so I graciously devolved my duties to my younger brother, who now manages the estate. Are we done with this conversation?"

"I didn't mean to make you mad…"

Geralt watches Jaskier stop dead in his tracks, his shoulders briefly tensing at those words, before exhaling loudly through his nose. Jaskier anxiously rubs the back of his neck as he straightens up and offers Geralt a sheepish smile, that one warmer and softer than the previous one.

"Sorry, dear heart. I didn't mean to be so short with you. It's just… well, there's a reason I don't bring up my family all that much."

"Hm." Geralt gently taps the spot next to him on his bedroll, and Jaskier doesn't have to be told twice. Soon, Geralt has one arm wound tightly around Jaskier's shoulders. Not quite a hug, but the intention is there all the same, and Jaskier eagerly melts in the embrace. "I shouldn't have insisted. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologise. You did nothing wrong." Jaskier nuzzles the crook of Geralt's neck sweetly before depositing a featherlight kiss just over his pulse point. "Do you want to ask me anything?"

Geralt ponders over that question far too long before whispering an answer in the air pocket between them.

"Did he hurt you?"

Jaskier hesitates.

"Not physically, no. He didn't approve of my aspirations and choices. He didn't support me. I suppose it hurt a little when he didn't see me away to Oxenfurt at the age of 15, but he never raised a hand on me."

"Hm." Good, Geralt thinks. No child should ever have to suffer at the hand of an adult. Geralt earned plenty a beating at Kaer Morhen, some justified and others not so much. Just because he went through this doesn't mean he condones it.

"At least I get to spend his money on someone I love," Jaskier offers softly, eyes as blue as the deepest ocean glancing up at Geralt through dark lashes, “That, at least, the old man can’t take away from me.”

A happy little rumble bubbles up Geralt's chest, despite the blush gracing his cheeks.

"I never thanked you for the gifts." Geralt blushes a deeper shade of red at the realisation. "Sorry. It's been a long year."

"Well, good thing we're heading North soon then, hm?" Jaskier straightens up so he can cradle Geralt's face in his lute-calloused hands. Their eyes meet then, amber seeking out blue, and Geralt thinks that he must be the luckiest son of a bitch in all the Continent.

"Yes," he agrees in a whisper, tilting his face to place a kiss on the inside of Jaskier's wrist, "good thing, indeed."

Request a prompt

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

diana. DIANA. DUDE. WHAT THE FUCK. YOU CAN'T JUST DO THIS TO ME. THIS IS HAUNTING. THIS IS GOLD. THIS IS ART.

i am LEGITIMATELY going to be so so so hard pressed not to cap the entire fic to scream my brains out, bc this is spun GOLD. it is so finely worded and expertly crafted. this is an example of words broken over knee to suit your purposes. this is BEAUTY. and ART. i don't usually say craftsmanship when describing writing, bc generally the people who do self-describe that way can be sort of pase, but this is HIGH QUALITY CRAFTSMANSHIP.

"the throat is a double-edged sword. it makes life possible...but so too does it make death readily accessible, boasting the jugular vein...the right angle, the right depth." holy SHIT. this reads like anatomy. this reads like poetry. it's just close enough to the show to be called kin, WHILE STANDING ON ITS OWN TWO FEET. and holy fucking hell your kruegannibal voice is STUNNING.

the artistry of this grisly gift is as terrifying as it is MESMERIZING. HOLY SHIT. and it being a physical representation, harvested and manipulated into a showpiece by his own hands, a GIFT--utterly gut wrenching in a way that feels like the slide of flesh down the throat. this taps on something primal, something incensed with need and desire and apology. total protraction and supplication, while still an unimaginably stark example of everything krueger can do.

i know i've screamed at you extensively about this passage and the next ones in particular in the server, but holy FUCK, diana. the juxtaposition of pedestrian humanity on the palette as nothing more than standard fare, unworthy of applause because it's only meant to be filling, not an experience, pushed up against the utter diefication and divinity of consuming the flesh of a loved one--thereby making himself a tomb, a reliquary, a holy site. how the HELL does your brain come up with such intense beauty, can i make a blood sacrifice in your honor to get a fraction of this skill??????

kjfldksjflkdjdsflKFDKJLDSKJDF GIGGLING. KICKING MY FEET. TWIRLING MY HAIR. STILL BLUSHING IRL. MAKES MY HEART FLUTTER AND MY HANDS NERVOUS. THIS IS SO SO GOOD. HOLY SHIT THE FULFILLMENT OF BEING A THING SO LOVED THAT YOU FILL THE BOTTOMLESS PIT.

"YOUR LIVES WERE JUST PREPARATION FOR THE INEVITABLE RETURN TO THAT SHADOWY LIMBO FROM WHICH YOU'D ALL BEEN BIRTHED" KJSLKJFDLKFJLSKDJDFS BARK BARK BARK BARK. THE TRANSITORY FLEETING NATURE OF LIFE, THE BOOKENDED BLACKNESS ON EITHER SIDE, THE EPHEMERAL BUT CORPOREAL NATURE OF IT. FLESH AND SPIRIT AND PHILOSOPHY.

and KJDLK AHHHHHHHH. GOD. SOME ASSHOLE AT A BAR PUSHING HIS LUCK, DR. KRUGER INTERVENING, A THING HE WOULD NOT DO UNLESS HE FOUND THE ACT AT HAND PARTICULARLY DISTASTEFUL AND GAUCHE, GETTING SOMETHING LOVELY RUINED, AND METING OUT AN EQUALLY GAUCHE FATE. AND AGAIN WITH THE FISHER OF MEN IMAGERY, FUCK. FUCK FUCK FUCK. FISHER AND QUARRY CAUGHT, PREPARED FOR GUTTING FROM KNAVE TO CHAPS.

when i tell you i GASPED at this. mixed with the preceding and successive passages, i was so fucking floored that i had to sit and stare into space for a while.

the glass-smooth transition from an abattoir-esque autopsy of dismantling, so scientific and clinical and precise, to an almost cerebral take on the fact that kreuger does not yell and had done enough of it in his military life, and thinks it almost grotesque and weak or pathetic, knowing that if you have to abuse attention to command it, then you aren't worth a shit anyway. onto this primal crawling through literal blood and guts at his singular command, this animalistic desire. like i'm shaking?!?! what the fuck, what the FUCK?!?!

i have NO WORDS!!!!! I AM OUT OF WORDS, AND I AM INSANE!!!!!!!1 I SLK;LD;FKDLSFFDDS CAN'T FUNCTION IN SOCIETY ANYMORE. AND YOU WERE NOT FOOLISH ENOUGH TO THINK YOU COULD EVER BE THE BUTCHER IN THIS SCENARIO.

I FOR REAL jerked my body so hard the first time i read this that i slammed my knee into my metal bedframe (don't ask, i sit and lie gayly in every environment possible dskljds) and had a bruise for like a WEEK. DO IT THEN. SWEAR TO ME. HALL OF FAME LINE, I ASPIRE TO YOUR LEVEL ONE DAY DI <3 <3 <3 JDLKFJDLKDS EVEN REREADING I HAVE CHILLS.

altered my brain chemistry on a fucking FERAL level. i have this particular nibbin saved in my personal discord in a inspo channel. i would print this out and keep it in a frame on my bedside table. i actually fuckin MIGHT. MIGHT GET IT TATTOOED. I NEVER WANT TO BE FAR FROM THIS. HRHRHGKDHJLKDJFLKDJSLF!??!!??!?!?!?!

okay so first of all, that was SO INCREDIBLY, DELIRIOUSLY, WONDERFULLY STEAMY. THAT WAS A RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE. i'm going to come back to this over and over and over, i just fucking know it. and it's so amazing, jesus god, i get so lucky that i have the friends i have, bc i am inspired by their writing, but this piece, diana, i just feel super charged.

your skill is so vast and breathtaking, something as simple and gruesome as cannibalism transcended so far far far up into art, in a way i have so painfully rarely fucking seen in traditionally published books, no matter the level of acclaim some of them have that they don't deserve. when i tell you this was moving, i'm not fucking around. this is haunting, and gorgeous, and it's making so many emotions swim through my chest. i don't have the words to encompass what an utter goddamned delight this was, nor do i have the words to tell you how hard this has hit me.

i'm so looking forward to whatever you write for this au, if you choose to revisit it, and all things that you write!!!! Thank you so so so SO MUCH for sharing your work with us babe, it’s a pleasure to read, and an even bigger pleasure to think about in the night hours when I can’t sleep 😭😭😭💖💖💖

wrath of the lamb

pairing: sebastian krueger x f!reader word count: 6.9k synopsis: your first time hunting with dr. krueger tags: hannibal au, haunted hoedown, dark, serial killers, a couple that kills together stays together, enemies and lovers, unreliable narrator, unholy mentions of god, religious imagery, no y/n warnings: violence/death, blood/gore, mutilation, body horror, cannibalism, voyeurism (except the voyeur is dead), killing as foreplay, smut (blood + murder kink, hair-pulling, biting) ao3: read here  ← prev

“I am the shape you made me. Filth teaches filth.”

— Sophocles

Bait; that had been your role. The lure, the dangling bit of appetizer to ensnare prey on behalf of another. This particular catch of the day had believed you to be the fish to his fisherman, but you nonetheless had been bait, he the fish, and Dr. Krueger—

The fisherman.

Soon, you would be a fisherman yourself, capable of priming, reeling in, and fatally securing a wide array of aquatic life all on your own. Before that, however, there was much to learn about the sport and the art of choosing one’s hunting spot, of casting one’s net. Naturally, Dr. Krueger had been ever so enthusiastic to help bridge the gaps in your knowledge.  

Currently, the fish was tied up in the foyer, bound by his wrists and ankles to a wooden chair, the same in which you’d sat years ago as Dr. Krueger’s temporary patient. At the insistence of Agent Blaustein and your undiagnosed encephalitis, you had given therapy a shot. These visits had eventually increased in frequency, more so for the psychiatrist’s company than his pseudo sessions. 

Some attributed the progression of your relations with Dr. Krueger to be a product of fate and circumstance, but you knew better than that. Over the past several months, a deliberate and intentional hand had guided you to this very moment, everything meticulously planned and orchestrated by someone with a vested interest in your ascent. 

In your. . . becoming. 

What started as a chance meeting snowballed into a partnership between professionals, identifying and apprehending serial killers across the state together. Thereafter, a friendship did blossom, though this too evolved since your pure empathy made you highly susceptible to internalizing others; him. The line that separated your psyche from his thus gradually became muddied and blurred as you vacated your mind and beckoned in this monster among men. 

You would be hard-pressed to forget just how fervently he had appraised the order and disorder of your headspace. How worshipingly he had looked upon the ever-encroaching darkness that you kept shamefully hidden within the crevices of your bones, stowed away for fear of the day your worser nature might rise to the surface. How eagerly he had called forth that wickedness, that sin, happy to watch you partake and take. 

How easily he had metamorphosed you into the person you’d unwittingly been pursuing throughout all your years of existence. 

“The throat is a double-edged sword. It makes life possible, housing the airways, overseeing the safe passage of air into the lungs. But so too does it make death readily accessible, boasting the jugular vein, exacting a swift end if cut at just the right angle, the right depth,” an accented voice sounded from behind. 

Hopelessly obedient to the pull that locked your soul and his in perpetual orbit of one another, you cast a glance over your shoulder then looked down at the knife in his hand. It was an ordinary carving knife, blade sharpened and thrumming with excitement at the prospective union of steel and meat. More importantly, it was an offering. 

A gift.

Dr. Krueger quite enjoyed showering you with lavish presents, and he preferred the intimacy of being the craftsman in addition to the sender. To court you, he’d sawed off the tongue of the reporter who’d mocked your condition in her crude tabloids, coated the severed organ in poison, and shoved it down her throat until she choked on its toxicity. To express the extent of his devotion, he'd torn out the vocal cords of a suitor who’d made lewd comments about you at the opera house, fashioned them into a noose, and left him dangling from the ceiling to be discovered in the morning by a screeching primadonna. 

And to apologize for spilling your blood on his kitchen floor, he’d Frankensteined together a beating heart, openly baring his affections despite the penetrative gaze of all who sought to imprison the Cut-throat Killer. The sculpture, composed of a decapitated corpse’s inverted musculature instead of typical granite stone, had told a tale of repentance and of yearning.

My heart is yours. Broken and maimed though it might be, you have managed to assuage its ache and mend its pieces. This foreign object no longer fits properly in the cavity of my being, so do what you will with it. Even if you decide to break it once again, the resulting shards are still all for you only, just as it was. 

The twisted love letter had resulted from months of deceptive intentions, divided loyalties, and belated sacrifices. Your inevitable betrayal had struck dead the fantasy of a shared future. In his mourning, Dr. Krueger had gutted you to bestow a matching wound, yours a physical representation of his own intangible pain. However, contrary to previous prey, watching your face lose its vibrancy and a red puddle form around your twitching body had inspired not satisfaction, but fear. 

A certain desperation had seized him then. Losing you, a kindred spirit who had known and seen him, would have damned the man to a lifetime of loneliness. For someone incapable of thriving in total solitude, that was a terrifying notion.

So though the urge to slit your throat and cook you into a feast might occasionally possess him, though he might periodically contemplate cracking your skull open to reveal the beautiful brain that tormented him day and night, such calls-to-action would go unanswered. 

During periods of separation, he could easily convince himself that his feelings for you were an unnecessary suffering. A fruitless agony; a beacon of masochism. Ready to put an end to this mounting misery, a murderous plot would begin to take shape until your mere return resolutely derailed any plans of excising you from his destiny. 

Cyclical, the way he grew hungry in your absence, champing at the bit, gnawing on bone, only to find his stomach brimming with contentment upon spending a single moment in your presence. 

The rude were nothing more than livestock to a refined man like Dr. Sebastian Krueger. Just as the average non-vegetarian viewed chickens, cows, and pigs as rightful staples of their omnivorous diet, he believed disrespectful folk were no different to poultry, cattle, or swine. At least in death, these subhumans could transcend their lowly stations and reach new heights of beauty and value as his culinary masterpieces, as elaborate displays of mutilated art. 

Like God, he played judge, jury, and executioner, wielding the power to decide the earthly ends and undead beginnings of those he deemed lesser.

Between equals, however, consumption was to him the pinnacle of humanity’s capacity for love. Diligently preparing a delicacy of the vessel that housed a loved one, transforming their anatomy into a gourmet meal, was the supreme method of honoring them. Further still, intaking a pound of their flesh meant immortalizing a beloved by becoming the very urn in which the remnants of their existence could always be found. Whether they should depart by nature or by circumstance, a piece of them would forever stay inside this biological graveyard. 

The mixing of bloods, two pulses beating in synchrony, a dialogue between gullets. An irreversible breach of one’s external layer of protection that said, you are mine, and I am yours; the proof resides in the pits of our stomachs.

By his logic, if he were to eat you and satisfy his craving for fusion, then perhaps whatever hold you had over him would denature, eliminating the threat that this love posed to his livelihood. In actuality, a glimpse of you was plenty enough to sate his normally-raging appetite. 

To daily feel a stab of hunger and then obtain nourishment at the slightest bit of eye contact. . . that was how viscerally he loved you. 

Of course, Dr. Krueger hadn’t overtly verbalized these sentiments, but you nonetheless recognized and understood the unspoken truth. After all, pure empathy did not just expose you to the onslaught of his expert manipulation—it also unveiled his best-kept secrets.

“When hunting, one must always consider efficiency. Time is of the essence, as they say. It’s better spent on the artwork itself than on gathering your materials, wouldn’t you agree?” 

Your eyes jerked up to meet his appraising stare. Not the type to waste air on rhetorical questions, he raised a single scarred brow, and it only lowered once your fingertips answered by brushing the palm of his hand. As you plucked the knife from his grasp, its heavy weight took you aback. The hefty task of reaping an unclaimed soul added at least a few extra pounds to the blade, but you adjusted your grip until wielding it became effortless.  

At its core, killing was a fairly quick and simple endeavor. Humans often exited the world as fast as they had originally entered it, and, in a manner of speaking, your lives were just preparation for the inevitable return to that shadowy limbo from which you’d all been birthed. 

The fish had yet to regain consciousness, and you were determined to ensure that his eyes would never again open to anything but a dark abyss. 

You weren’t apologetic in the slightest for what was about to come. This bound asshat had been selected because he’d had trouble understanding the word no at a pub and spilled wine on an intervening Dr. Krueger’s prized coat. Such unprincipled behavior warranted an equally-indecent fate. 

Out like a light, his head was tilted back to rest on the back of the chair, displaying a ripe throat, fresh for the taking. And take you did, aligning your blade at the corner of his jaw and dragging it across the jugular, slitting his trachea, causing it to collapse unto itself. Liquid beads of crimson bubbled to the surface along the laceration, and the macabre necklace enraptured you. 

Your psychiatrist-turned-mentor had earned the moniker of Cut-throat Killer due to his apparent fixation on the neck and its surrounding regions. His kills were linked by this common denominator, whether a body was headless, or had a ripped-apart larynx, or had died by asphyxiation. Sometimes, Dr. Krueger liked to experiment with different finishing blows to keep the FBI on their toes, but his modus operandi never failed to involve the throat. 

It made sense, then, why you too had developed a similar appreciation. 

“Well done,” praised the doctor, now beside you, and the words set alight your bloodstream. His tone held no surprise; your profession had revealed your natural aptitude for the hunt and erased any reservations he might’ve had. From the very first day your paths crossed, he’d recognized what you were, what you could become. “Now, where do you wish to go from here?” 

A loaded question, one that dictated how the rest of the night would unfold. If you stayed in the foyer, cleaning up the grime and gore out from between each plank of wood would be an absolutely dreadful ordeal. If you went to the main room, splatters and stains on his Persian rug and fine fabric drapes would undoubtedly irk the man, and you quite preferred staying on his good side for the time being.

That left his extravagant kitchen. It was the ideal location—the freezer was conveniently placed, and the tools for harvesting meat were at your disposal. Also, in the not-unlikely event of blood running off the table’s edge, you could simply scrub the tiles spotless.

“The kitchen.” You diverted your focus from the dead man to the one who had mastered death itself. Although you were unsurprised to discover Dr. Krueger’s deep brown eyes already intent upon you, a chill cascaded down your spine nevertheless. He’d sooner gouge out the organs that granted him sight than stop his lingering stares, you knew. “Removing the skin from a fish this slimy is messy business. I wouldn’t want to ruin your nice hardwood floors. Black walnut?” 

His wide smile told a tale of predation tempered with adoration. “Wenge.”

You softly shook your head in fond exasperation. Of course he who settled for nothing but the best would choose one of the most rare and expensive species of hardwood in the world. 

The doctor held your gaze as he removed his outer layer, not wanting to sully a tailored, dry clean-only suit jacket. Once it was safely out of range, he cut loose the body from its restraints and dragged it to the kitchen with you trailing behind him. 

After hauling the corpse onto the center of the marble island, Dr. Krueger rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt to his elbows and slipped on surgical gloves from his vest’s pocket, handing you a pair as well. He used scissors to reveal the man’s flesh beneath his clothes, took the murder weapon from your fingers, and made an incision that started at the collarbone and ended at the navel. Wrenching open the ribcage, snapping any resistant osseous matter, the doctor efficiently primed the carcass for harvesting before it could stiffen in rigor mortis. 

His work done, he unsheathed a sizable butcher knife, handed it to you, then stepped out of reach, content to watch you pick up from where he’d left off. You imitated his previous motions, careful not to sink the blade too far in lest you ruptured any organs. The last thing you wanted to do was accidentally ruin the meat. 

Meat. 

You’d discovered a couple of months ago that the delicious protein scrambles shared with you by the kind Austrian man had actually contained bits of strangers. Initially, the revelation had repulsed and angered you in its violation of your right to informed consent. But now, while you didn’t see the appeal of human cuisine, you could admit there was something uniquely intimate about a shared hunt, about the subsequent communion, the breaking of bread and bone. 

It was with this logic in mind that you proceeded to dissect the body according to the anatomical direction given by the doctor. First, you extracted the lungs, then the spleen and liver, next the stomach and gallbladder, the intestines and kidneys, and, lastly, the heart. 

The turn of the hour quickly came and went. You moved to push back some hair that had fallen out of place, wishing you had worn a hairnet, when you caught a glimpse of your lover’s current state. He stood to the side of the counter a few feet away, hunger plain on his face, erection evident through the fabric of his slacks. 

As ravenous for your fill of him as he was for a taste of you, you set the knife on the cutting board and started to walk over to—

“No.” 

The lone, measured syllable echoed throughout the large kitchen, ringing in your ears, and you instantly halted mid-step. A trait that separated the doctor from so many other men of his stature was his refusal to resort to yelling. He’d done a lifetime’s worth of it in the Austrian Armed Forces, had been his explanation, and it was beneath him. It signaled that one lacked omnipotence and control, that they didn’t have an effortless dominance with respect to the masses over which they resided. 

Dr. Krueger, however, had no shortage of charisma and no trouble garnering an obedient audience. The personification of sin beckoned you forward. “Crawl to me.”

Without hesitation, you slowly descended to the floor, gaze steady and stuck on his looming figure. Your clothed knees met tile first, then your palms followed suit as you navigated your way towards him through a pool of blood and innards. Something unnamed coiled tight in your stomach the nearer you drew to him who looked down at you, stoic and unfazed. From here, a passerby might think you a worshiper bowed in supplication to her god.  

For what purpose did you plead? 

If I should die, let it not be his blade that strikes the finishing blow. 

To what end did you pray? 

If he should rot in a cell, let it not be my testimony that sends him away.  

When your fingers brushed against his shoes, imprinting red on the fancy leather, the doctor leaned forward to snake a hand around to the nape of your neck, lightly massaging your scalp. The soothing pressure made your eyes roll back, but the false sense of security it had given you evaporated at the following sharp tug on the roots of your hair.

His grip firm, Dr. Krueger pulled you up until you were on your feet once again. Before you could properly calibrate to the change in orientation, he spun you to face the kitchen island then sandwiched you in between his pelvis and the counter. Squirming against him, your instincts commanded you to escape, but you remained steadfastly in place. Trapped.

Ensnared.

Skillful hands made quick work of your attire, throwing your belt to the ground, shoving your jeans and panties to bunch at your ankles, unbuttoning the flannel he’d called hideous yet endearing, snapping free your cheap bra. Satisfied with your current state of undress, Dr. Krueger used his teeth to tear off his gloves so that he could begin exploring the treasures he had uncovered.  

You never let him touch you with gloves. The sensation of latex on skin was too reminiscent of a butcher prepping slaughtered livestock to be further chopped up into refined cuts of meat. And you were not foolish enough to think you could ever be the butcher in this scenario. 

His hands journeyed up your front to your neck, rubbing at the splatter of blood there that had yet to be cleaned. Adamant on dirtying you further, he smeared it downward as he cupped the heft of your breasts and rolled your nipples between his fingers. You must’ve looked like a sacrificial offering to some deity, back bowed, though the only who would partake in the enjoyment of your flesh was him.

Once you were sufficiently marked, the man wiped any excess blood off his right hand and onto your stomach then continued his descent to the epicenter of your heat. When he finally reached your mound and dipped an explanatory finger inside, he found you wet and wanting. 

“Filthy thing,” Dr. Krueger admonished with a click of his tongue. “I’ve barely touched you, and yet here you are, already dripping onto the floor. Tell me, how long have you been like this?”

“Since you—” The rest of that sentence died in your throat, cut short by the featherlight brush of his thumb against where you wanted him most. A sudden jolt traveled through your body, and you struggled to form a coherent thought, let alone string together a sensical series of words. “Since you rolled up those stupid fucking sleeves, you bastard.” 

His answering smirk could be heard in the gravel of his voice, smug and self-assured. “I didn’t know my forearms had such an effect on you.”

Said forearms came into view as he encased you, both of his hands relocating to either side of yours, flat on the countertop. A knee replaced where his hand had been between your legs, and he ground it upward, pulling back whenever you tried to reciprocate, relief just out of reach. 

“Like hell you didn’t,” you snapped, your frustration getting the better of you. “Don’t play dumb, Doctor. It’s not a good look.” 

All traces of his humor evaporated at the snark. Announcing no warning, your lover sank two fingers into your weeping core, curling them to stimulate the spot within that never failed to make you see stars. He scissored you open and gathered enough slick to begin working in a third finger, intent on making you plead for forgiveness. Absolution. 

Most nights, Dr. Krueger prided himself in his patience, in his ability to draw out one, two, three orgasms from you before his cock got anywhere near your cunt. But tonight, you knew, would be different. It would be hard and fast. 

Carnal. 

Upon deeming you ready to take him, you heard the unclasping of a belt buckle followed by the zipper of his pants coming undone. A soft caress along the notches of your spine, and then he aligned himself with your entrance and immediately surged to erase the distance between your bodies, filling you to the hilt. 

The force of it caused you to double over, and your elbows buckled at the sudden shift in weight. With the side of your face now pressed against the counter’s cold surface, you couldn’t help the way your ass slightly elevated and protruded. This position felt explicit, dirty, and you gleaned from his sharp inhale that you looked as much from his perspective. Rather than allowing you to rise, Dr. Krueger dug a hand into your hair and pushed you further into the granite. 

“Have I neglected you, mein Schatz?” Each thrust was punctuated by a tug on your hair, a scrape against the surface, the repeated motion jostling you forward, while you fucked back into him. “Have I left you wanting? Is that why you’re so needy tonight? So rude?” 

When you didn’t answer, he retracted his hips until the tip was all that remained nestled in your warmth, leaving you empty and unfulfilled. Then, as though sensing you were on the verge of complaining, the doctor slammed home, yanking from you a pitiful mewl of agonized desire. 

“Please.”

This particular word was a shapeshifter; it adopted a different meaning based on ite context. Here, it served as a Hail Mary, as a cry for mercy, but you weren’t sure whether you were imploring his punishing rhythm to abate or for him to give you more. Regardless of your intention, Dr. Krueger intensified his torturous movements, a dark chuckle tumbling from his lips. 

Damn sadist. 

“Begging will get you nowhere. Not tonight.” At your despairing whine, he laughed again. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, you’ll get your wish. Eventually.”

So attuned to the ins and outs of your body, was this man, so intimately aware of where to press, where to pinch to elicit sweet melodies and moans. And yet, he toyed with you, glossing over these erotic zones, waiting for you to confess something before he might grant you penance, a token for your suffering. The thread of your sanity was wearing thin. 

“Stop teasing, or I swear to God.” 

You’d expected him to ignore your pleas as he had done before, but instead, you felt him thicken inside you. “Do it, then. Swear to me.”

His ego almost earned him an eyeroll, but you couldn’t help giving into his demands. The relentless pace he’d set was very persuasive, and you were only human.   

“Sebastian—”

It had the desired outcome. Hardly ever did you call him by his name, so if you did, that meant something. Due to said infrequency, using his name had a kind of Pavlovian effect on the man.

“Scheiße,” he groaned out the curse, hips stuttering forward and reaching a newfound depth that made you both gasp. “Yes, my heart, that’s right. You’ve made me your god, and I’ve made you. . .” 

. . . mine. 

Because that was the truth, wasn’t it? Dr. Krueger had plucked a rib from the cavity of his chest, sharpened it into a blade, and carved you into his vision of perfection. In turn, you had turned him into a conduit for your enlightenment, for your becoming. He was your tangible nirvana, and you were his sole gateway to heaven. 

The two of you had found religion in each other, and there was little else more dangerous than that. 

“Is this what you wanted? What you were so impatient for?” At your jerky nod, he seized your slackened jaw and tilted your chin up to direct your attention towards the kitchen island where the corpse still laid. “My, we haven’t even cleared the table yet. Can’t let the meat sit out, or else it’ll go sour.”

When your brain finally caught up to what—or to whom— he was referring, an epiphany struck you with startling clarity: 

This dead man was evidence of what had transpired here tonight. Better yet, he was the first witness to this taboo consummation. Perhaps it was stupid to believe that gave your relationship any real legitimacy in the world’s eyes, beyond the perimeters of this manor. Nonetheless, the thought caused you to involuntarily tighten, and you prayed the correlation would go unnoticed.

Dr. Krueger froze, because of fucking course nothing ever got past him. “Oh, you like that, do you? You like that we have a guest for dinner, that another finally sees the truth of what we are. Hunters. Lovers.” 

Oftentimes, being known was a riveting experience that bridged the gaping chasm of solitude. But there came moments when you wished to conceal the ugliness. You lowered your head, mortified that he might at last realize you were unworthy of his affection, his touch. 

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of when you’re here. This home is yours, Liebling,” he murmured, reverent as he resumed his torturous ministrations, regaining momentum. “I can think of no more beautiful a sight than you happy and honest in it. Never hide from me.”

A horrific prospect, baring one’s heart to someone so well equipped to tear it to shreds, but your walls were already beginning to crumble. Brick by brick, he dismantled you, intending to undo a lifetime of repression then reconstruct you in his image. 

Sex with Dr. Krueger wasn’t just a physical release. It was near ritualistic in its conjoining of two souls. It was a collision between two supernovas, a calamity in progress. 

It was an inevitability.  

What a pair you made—serpent and Eve. Ravisher and ravished, entangled in a web of debauchery and death. 

In spite of everything, you didn’t believe that he made you worse. He made you real. 

Time after time, warnings that this should never happen again would echo throughout your mind, but time after time, you found yourself in this same position, wrapped up in him. Coaxed by his sweet nothings and consumed with the way he alone understood what you still refused to speak aloud, it was through this union of flesh and bone that you elevated each other to art. 

And hell, if he made you worse, then you accepted that to be worse was to be honest. In this realm, you were closer to God than to the Devil. 

And was it not so that every devout follower hoped to be in league with their god, to be rewarded for their unshaken faith? What better way to actualize that hope than to devour?

A well-angled thrust brought you back to the present. Man or monster, God or Devil, neither distinction mattered as he pummeled into you, a fusion of the ultimate caliber. In this room, he was not your enemy, just the equal who helped you ascend to great heights, who guided you until your eventual arrival to the precipice. 

Lucifer before the fall. 

“I—” The word broke off in an airy gasp. Second attempt. “Sebastian, I’m—”

That too went interrupted, for it was then that your lover decided to circle your swollen clit with his calloused fingers. Dazed and nonverbal, you felt him wrap your hair around his fist and use it as leverage to assist in his corruption of you, tugging your head to his chest, baring your throat, arching your back. 

“I know, it’s alright,” he lovingly hushed your cries, lips nibbling on the rim of your ear. The wet roughness of his tongue licked away the tears that had begun to flow freely from your eyes, glossy and unfocused. “You can let go now. I’ll be here t catch you, yes? I’ll always catch you.” 

It shouldn’t have been a comforting sentiment. This was a man who killed people for being rude, who had seriously told you it’s only cannibalism if we’re equals. And yet, hearing that he would be there to envelop you in his arms if and when you plunged into the deep end was what at last sent you over the edge.  

Before him, no partner had successfully brought you to an orgasm. He loved to lull you into a state of la petite mort, compensating for his inability to actually kill you by inducing several little deaths whenever you laid together. But he had your brain short-circuiting as you came apart, your thighs trembling and jaw unhinged, your nails notched into the muscles that rippled across the expanse of his back, a bright light behind halfway-closed lids.

Thick fingers crawled across your left cheek to enter the black hole of your wet mouth, and you instinctively closed your lips around the intruding appendages. As you sucked and lathered them with spit, you pushed your ass further back into his pelvis, wordlessly encouraging him to use you to chase his own release. Several strokes later, his pace grew desperate, erratic, and he removed his fingers to cup your face, angled it just right, then bit down on the side of your neck, drawing blood. The brief flare of pain made your walls flutter and take his cock even deeper, your bodies reluctant to separate. 

Harvest me, and don’t waste a single drop. 

The moment of stillness that ensued when he at last emptied his seed in you was something holy, you decided. Ropes of cum seemingly endless, the pulsing of his member combined with his low groans brought you unparalleled bliss. While he descended from his lustful high, he lapped up the metallic trail along your throat, and the pressure of his tongue soothed the wound’s mild ache. Dr. Krueger, the man who had no qualms about eating within his species, was content to stop his consumption of you here, at a bite and a drop of ichor. 

Is my taste as divine as you imagined?

His hips continued to jerk and lurch in the aftershocks, and the noise of skin ricocheting off skin was more audible now that your senses were starting to return. Some might consider it to be an obscene sound, blatant and crude, but its obviousness appealed to you. Anyone who heard these echoes of anatomical convergence would have no misgivings regarding the recreational activities in which you and the doctor participated. 

I fear I would give you the most tender parts of myself, if only you were to ask. 

One hand caressed the top of your head, smoothing back your sweat-slickened hair. The other used his pristine white shirt to wipe the sweat from your brow, the gore from your body. Its fabric was rough against your overstimulated skin, but his movements were gentle. 

So please—

The doctor finished remedying the mess he had made of you and tossed the clothing aside, murmuring something about how he would have to explain to the lady at the dry cleaner’s that he’d spilled red wine again. Wrapping both arms around your waist to pull you impossibly closer to his chest, he then pressed a soft kiss to your nape. 

Your eyes fell shut. 

—do not ask. 

The manor was silent save for heavy breathing, yours and his. A sudden foul stench of rot and decay reminded you of the gruesome company on the kitchen island across the counter. You forced yourself to meet the vacant stare of the fish whose death had started this spontaneous coupling session, passion fueled by elevated adrenaline and a godlike rush of power.  

“I thought you didn’t get off to killing,” you murmured, energy half spent. 

An affirming hum vibrated through your bones, and you felt him rub his forehead against your back, up then down, nodding. “You thought correctly. I do not.”

A snort escaped from your throat since very recent evidence pointed to the contrary. Still inside you, his cock twitched at the sound. 

Perhaps he found the noise undignified and the response rude. The man had probably killed people for far pettier reasons; nonetheless, you continued to push the envelope because he continued to let you. 

This risky game would someday reach its limit. Someday, you might cross a non-negotiable line, and then you’d be dead before you knew what hit you.  

But today was not that day. 

“There is no sexual gratification in my hunts,” he further clarified. “Such perversion indicates one who is subjugated to the whims of his more primitive nature, one who is being controlled rather than doing the controlling. 

“Arousal at its most basic implies common ground. It drives us to seek a favorable mate with whom we can sire offspring to carry on our legacies. Should the hunter find this kind of pleasure in the hunted, it would mean a debasement of the self. Dethroned from the top of the food chain, he would forever live among his lessers. Since my prey are not and never will be my equal, killing is a strictly nonsensuous act.”

You are my equal, my mate, were the words you heard him omit. 

“But I keep discovering how much you defy my logic. I did not expect to be so. . . moved by that insatiable look in your eyes, by your presence in my kitchen, holding my knife.” The sigh he exhaled contained genuine frustration, not at you, but at himself. At his lack of self-control, at his underestimation of your ability to undo him. 

His right hand strayed from your midsection to ghost over the swell of your ass, vexation having seemingly passed. “And what a lovely painting you made of yourself. The only improvement is for you to coat your bodily canvas with my blood instead of that unworthy pig’s.”

Your brows furrowed at the thought of him gravely injured, stained red, and you grabbed his wrist, gave it what you hoped was a reassuring squeeze. “I don’t want to hurt you, Sebastian.”

The rare occurrence of you using his first name outside of sex had him nuzzling deeper into the crook of your neck and lightly nipping at the soft skin there. Although his teeth were eager to pierce flesh, his canines maintained a respectable distance. In the afterglow, he was always so, so careful not to cause undue damage. You were at your most vulnerable, and he was at his most untamed; a dangerous combination, like fire and gasoline.

Who was the struck match that would sacrifice wholeness to ignite the other, and who was the ignited that would disappear without a trace post-explosion?

Did it even matter?

“Very pretty lies, Liebling, though not quite as beautiful as you.” 

Despite his sardonic delivery, the fondness with which he uttered the term of endearment betrayed his affections. Complicated relationship with the Cut-throat Killer aside, none could deny that there was genuine love between the two of you. 

An unconventional, tempestuous love, true, but love nevertheless. It made the dichotomy between your loyalties all the more messy. 

Because yes, you appreciated his craftsmanship and were awed by the artistry behind his kills. Yes, you had moments ago indulged in your first hunt alongside him and had enjoyed it.  

Yes, you would probably do so again in the future.  

Yet somehow, the FBI profiler in you still felt obligated to confront the man, to put an end to his reign of terror. Why your lover would forever be visited by the need to eat and savor every inch of you, why you couldn’t ever entirely relax in the breadth of his embrace. . . it all tied back to this:

You couldn’t reconcile your ethical code with your want for him. The enormity of your desire approached suffocatingly-absurd levels, and the extent to which you ached for and craved this man was sickening.

No matter your personal feelings, the bitter reality of the situation remained unchanged. Before you could irreversibly walk the path of either love or duty, you needed to perceive your brain as something other than deformed, to conceive that the unnatural was a natural product of the universe in its own right. You needed to believe that the person who returned your stare in the mirror was not a disfigurement of humanity, nor a bastardization of goodness. 

But what constituted good, and what qualified as evil, anyway? Who had the right to decide which was which? Was it Agent Blaustein, who had pushed you to the point of breaking, who saw your mind only as a tool, caring not if he damaged you beyond repair in the field? 

Or was it Dr. Krueger, who had made you question your sanity, who wished for you to access and become indivisible from the rawest pieces of your marrow, even if it damned him in the process?

One thing was for certain: until you unabashedly accepted the darker elements of yourself—the same facets that he reflected back at you—this game of cat and mouse was cursed to resume and repeat, over and over. The roles seemed to reverse each time; you had first been the mouse to his cat, then you’d briefly turned the tables as the cat to his mouse. 

Recently, neither of you could puzzle out who was who. 

And the scariest part about all this was that you had never known yourself as well as you knew yourself when you were with him, a fucking serial killer. How frightening, that your ability to acknowledge and make sense of your own existence might hinge on whether or not he was in your life. 

Even a fool could see how you had changed under the gravity of his influence. In the beginning, you’d shunned the ugly bits, the chunks of you that proved too abhorrent to swallow. Now, you were learning how to indulge, how to see the beauty in the so-called horror. During the day, outsiders reminded you of your malignancies, of the shame that accompanied the sin of authenticity. However, at night, with him, you at last shed these social shackles and basked in fantasies of what could be, for the mere weight of his stare had the power to propel you toward self-actualization. 

Obviously, Dr. Krueger was well aware of this war between your moral duties and your innermost shadows. You expected as much, considering he had almost killed you for it. 

In your quest to unmask the Cut-throat Killer and confirm your suspicions, you’d nurtured a budding friendship with the doctor. You had wormed your way into his good graces by telling him exactly what he wanted to hear, nevermind that it had been you at your most honest. When the scheme eventually fell apart, murdering you had surprisingly not been his immediate reaction. Instead, he had offered you the chance to come clean so as to leave all the secrecy in the past and move forward anew. 

Together. 

It made perfect sense for Dr. Krueger to try holding onto his one true companion in life after getting a taste of reprieve from loneliness. Except, oblivious of your blown cover, you had doubled down, giving him no choice but to clutch you to his chest and carve his heartbreak into your gut. As you drifted toward Death’s door, as regret and fear willed him to frantically press onto your wound, the man had realized just how much you’d changed him, too.

Although you were indeed the harbinger of his ruination, he’d concluded that imprisonment paled in comparison to the grief of losing you. He loathed to imagine spending the rest of his days in a jail cell, but he could not commit to killing you, his greatest weakness and threat. You sought to cleanse this town of him, but you too could not pull the trigger on this evildoer. 

Two halves of a whole, locked in a stalemate. 

Can’t live with him, can’t live without him. A grotesque and ghastly piece of work, this man you called lover. And yet, you wouldn't dream of leaving his side. 

Because Sebastian Krueger was never going to get better without you. And you were never going to become better without him. 

“Apologies, but I insist we skip our entrée tonight.” 

That caught your attention—an absurd statement from someone who would probably make the time to properly dine even if the FBI was actively storming the gates of his manor. You twisted your spine to at last come face to face with him, and awaiting your curiosity was his hungry brown eyes, his dark blond hair freed from its gelled confines. 

“I know you worked hard to provide us this meal, and the meat will not go to waste,” the doctor assured, expression neutral, the perfect picture of calm if not for the way his fingers dug further into the meat of your hips. “The problem is me. I simply cannot curb my craving for dessert anymore.” 

You nearly scoffed. “Was this not dessert?” 

“No, mein Schatz,” he chuckled, as if you had just told a funny joke. The low timbre of his laugh caused a wave of desire to pool in between your legs, and you pressed your thighs together to trap the renewed heat.  

Ever intuitive, Dr. Krueger moved one arm away from your body to rest flat and steady on the countertop then dragged the other down to pinch your inner thigh, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. 

“That was only the appetizer.” 

fin.

[jarofstyles]

Crush

A/N: this one.... biiiitch.... giving you all a little college!harry, he’s so cute 👉🏼👈🏼 enjoy hehe 😈 - n + d

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masterlist

pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

warnings: smut. FILTH. 

word count: 9.7k

Harry felt a bit creepy. 

It wasn’t as if it was on purpose! No... but she was at all of the places he went. At first he had thought it was a coincidence, but as he developed a routine for his classes, he found that they were often around each other for similar reasons. And usually? He would try and go up, introduce himself, and make a friend. The problem was... she was pretty. 

Not like normal pretty. Pretty as in, holy fuck you make me so nervous and perhaps I’ll word vomit, pretty. He was shit at making the first move. She was in his Monday and Friday classes and sat not far from him, he noticed. And they always ended up at the Coffee Bean on Tuesday and Thursdays, sitting not too far from one another again. She got tea with a few cookies, and he got a black coffee and an orange scone. They’d work on their coursework and Harry would wait for her to leave and see her make it to her car before he would leave, not wanting to make it seem like he was following her. He’s found out her name through friends stopping in to see her. It was Y/N. Gorgeous, just like her.

Funny enough, Harry wasn’t the only one who had a bit of a crush. Y/N realized in the second week of classes that Harry was in fact one of the most intimidatingly cool and attractive men she’d ever seen. College boys weren’t supposed to look like that, but he was all soft in his sweaters and baggy pants. She wasn’t sure how he pulled it off so well, but she could admit she was jealous. 

Seeing him at the Coffee bean was a relief because well, he walked in after her every time. She assumed it was because he had a class that ended later or something, but it didn’t go unnoticed that  he was there. Usually it wasn’t too busy or loud so she could glance at him from the corner of her eye as they sat at one of the big tables. She felt like it would be too weird to talk to him, he seemed so... quiet. She’d never heard him speak, hell, she’d only ever locked eyes with him for milliseconds. Y/N wished she could be one of those girls that could effortlessly flirt, ask for a pencil or something, but she knew she’d freeze up and forget her rehearsed line. 

Today however, when Y/N arrived, Harry was already there at his usual spot. Okay, Y/N... act natural. She thought to herself, going to order her usual before walking to boldly take a seat across from him. It would have worked out fine if her tote bag didn’t accidentally catch the corner of one of his books, sending things flying. 

“Shit— sorry, I—” Y/N swore, setting her bag on the table before bending down to get the book and a few papers and a pen. Real smooth.

Harry was slightly startled when his shit went flying, but when he saw who had knocked it over, his heart picked up. Oh, shit. 

“Oh— it’s okay, don’t worry about it.” Harry’s voice was a bit gruff from not using it much today, pushing his chair back and bending down to grab the stuff with her. “S’my fault for putting it so close to the edge. I used to do that at home and my cat would knock it all off.” 

Great. Already rambling. 

Y/N didn’t register it at first, but he was british? Fuck. If she wasn’t already on her knees she would dropped down anyway, biting her lip to stop any noises that could have escaped. She giggled when he said his cat used to knock things over, “mine too.” She mumbled and went to stand up, feeling a tug at her arm. 

“Ah, shit.” Harry had caught his ring in her sweater, pulling one of the threads. “Damn, I’m so sorry.” He blushed slightly, knowing how annoying it was to have a pulled thread. His collection of sweaters was immense, thanks to his nan— and he felt terrible. Damn his chunky things. “They always get caught in mine too but I wear them anyways. I can replace the sweater, if you need.” Damn it. He was trying to come off as smooth... not so nervous. But he was. She was so pretty and she was up close, she smelled like peaches and vanilla and a bit of sweet mint and her hands were so soft.

“Oh no, It’s fine! it’s old anyway— I can just cut it off or tuck it in or something.” Honestly, Y/N would figure it out. The last thing she wanted was for him to feel bad, it was an accident after all. She let him untangle it, holding her hand still though it seemed like he needed some help. “Smaller fingers...” She mumbled, using her nails to get the thread gently off of the ring. “‘s a nice ring.” Y/N complimented, finally meeting his eyes and feeling the breath leave her lungs at the close proximity. Her lips parted naturally, scanning his face for any signs of discomfort.

She was beautiful Harry though he may get sick because wow. Wow. He had imagined holding her hand and kissing her but this exact moment he hadn’t a clue on what to do. So he improvised. 

“Are you in the 8 am psych class on Mondays?” He tilted his head. “I know I’ve seen you before.” Oh, he had seen her a lot. Especially in his dreams, day and night. It had been a bit intoxicating, really. At her nod, his grin came on his face. “Sick. S’that what you’re gonna study for?” He didn’t bring up the other class because... it would be embarrassing if she hadn’t noticed him before and he knew all too much. He needed a refill of his coffee though so he grabbed his cup, gently taking her things and placing them on the table next to his. “At least let me buy your stuff though. I feel awful about your sweater.”

“I’m actually just waiting on them to finish making mine, I was on my way to secure a spot but—” Y/N blushed, realizing the mess she had made. “Could you get it for me while you’re up there? It’s for Y/N. I can sit here and watch your stuff.” She felt like that was a subtle way for her to tell him her name. 

This was the most she had ever spoken to him and it had been about a month or so that she’d been eyeing him up. She knew he was in her English literature class as well, but psych was her major. Y/N wondered if maybe he too was a psych major, maybe that’s why they sort of had the same schedule? Regardless, she felt a bit nervous making conversation so she spent the time he was away coming up with what she was going to ask him and how she was going to keep the ball rolling. Hopefully she didn’t interrupt his studying, if anything she’d leave him alone.

“Y/N?” He tested it on his tongue out loud for the first time. It tasted good. “Yeah. M’Harry. I’ll be back.” He nodded, going towards the front. His heart going a mile a minute, he couldn’t believe how quickly his luck had changed. He ordered an extra cake pop today, for her. she had said it didn’t matter but to him, it did. Eventually he hoped he could buy her a replacement. Or... maybe she could wear his around. Wow. That would stroke his ego and his fragile heart to the core. He could already see her on his lavender fishermen’s sweater, in front of his fireplace back at home. She would be so cute. The voice calling her name snapped him out of the fantasy, Harry grabbing it and then his own shortly after before returning to the table. “Here. I got the last cake pop for you. Don’t tell anyone I’m the offender.”

“Ooo you’re a dead man if they find out.” Y/N said, looking around before gently taking it from him. “Thank you... that’s sweet.” She blushed, taking a bite of it before taking a sip of her chai latte. Now that she had stuff to fiddle around with she could take a breather and not have to worry about filling space. “But um.. did interrupt something? Don’t want to distract you...” Y/N nodded over to his laptop, secretly hoping that he wasn’t up to much so that she could chat to him. She just wanted to know the basics, literally anything would satisfy her craving. Harry was quite literally her wet dream, she’d been looking all around campus for someone like him to come around. “I uh... I think I’m also in your English lit class? I feel like I see you around often.” Y/N spoke, pushing a piece of her hair behind her ear. “What’s your major?” She felt like this conversation was light, something that would eventually lead into other things like... if he was single and looking for a girlfriend.

“Oh, you’re not bugging me. I’ve kind of been staring at the screen and zoning out if m’honest.” Harry chuckled, embarrassed a little to admit it. But everyone could relate to that, right? “And yeah... actually I think so.” He smiled lightly before taking a sip of his drink. Victory! She had noticed him too. He wasn’t the lonely creep who stared at the first who had no idea who he was. She knew who he was, kind of. He gently drew his sweater over his hands like little paws before going to her question. “English. I want to write and stuff, edit maybe. My dad has a publishing company so, I’m lucky I like a bit of the family business.” He tried to joke, looking at her. God. It was unnerving how beautiful and also, how fucking comfortable she was to be around. What a contrast. “And you? What major?” He took a nibble of his scone, not wanting to make a mess.

English? He’s a writer? Goodness. She was going to lose it. 

“That’s cool, any specific genre you like to write?” Y/N asked curiously because well, it would actually tell her a lot about him and the kind of person he was. “I picture some mystery or possibly poetry, could go either way.” She said and squinted her eyes as she looked at him, pretending to size him up. “I can’t say I’m all that interesting, a psych major. Just like every other artsy person who doesn’t exactly want to commit to an art degree.” Y/N chuckled, “still deciding between criminal justice or counseling but... either way I’d be happy to get to pick someone’s brain. She did have the habit of analyzing people but only so she could understand them better. Y/N knew that all people wanted at the core was to be understood and loved for who they are, for the most part. Harry seemed reserved, calm and relaxed, secure in himself that’s for sure. It was extremely attractive.

“Oh? That’s really cool though.” Harry was genuinely interested in what she had to say either way. The major didn’t matter in his interest in her but it gave him information and something to talk about. If she was marketing or math he would be just as interested. “Criminal seems particularly interesting. Like that criminal minds show then? You’ll learn how they work and all of that?” He didn’t really know what it meant or why she had chosen it. “But close. I write romance novels.” He blushed fully. “Don’t judge me for it. But s’easy for me and I’m good at it, or so I’ve been told. I’ve been writing for a while.” He felt himself loosen up as they talked. Even if she intimidated him, she was really nice and sweet. “Poetry too, lots of it. But romance is my main thing, I’d like to do novels and that sort of stuff.” He could see she didn’t think it was lame, rather interesting. Which was a major relief. He wanted to impress her, so so badly.

“Sorta, yeah. Like... being able to predict a criminal's next move, psychologically.” Y/N explained and shrugged, “feel like it’s really fun and interesting but terrifying all at once. Dunno if I could actually interview a criminal without feeling like it was going to cry.” She let out a laugh, knowing she was quite soft. Her face lit up when he said he wrote romance novels. Wow. Well, as if he wasn’t a character right out of a romcom himself! She felt like that’s what this was. A romcom. Bumping into him at a coffee shop like a scene straight from one. “Really?! So you’re a proper romantic then? Buy the last cake pop for every girl, hmm?” She gave him a bashful smile. The very last thing she was doing was judge, she was more so thinking about their wedding. Yep. Already. Daydreaming because she swore she’d hit the jackpot. Wasn’t even sure if he liked her yet, but she was hopeful. After all, she’d turned on her charm.

“I guess I am.” Harry smirked to himself slightly at the good reception. Damn. He had been so worried and hesitant- he should have just talked to her. She wasn’t... that scary. Only a little bit. 

He let her talk a bit more about her degree and Harry went on to speak about his favorite authors, and then the conversation shifted towards their classes and how he had been struggling slightly in psych— which led to her offering to help. Harry was shocked because honestly he hadn’t expected it from her, but he was pleased. He was happy to have an excuse to hang out with her more. See more of her and be able to teach himself to relax properly around her. He felt like a damn wind up toy, giddy and excited. 

“That would be so helpful, if you could. And if you don’t mind.” He stressed. “I have a place off campus, if you’d want to go there? I’ll buy you some pizza or something for your help.” He was a giver and if it meant getting a $20 pizza for her because he wanted good quality, then he would!

“Yeah, that sounds good.” Y/N was practically jumping up and down with joy in her mind, this was a turn of events. She went from secretly crushing on him to being invited over his house in only a few hours. “I can never say no to pizza, but it’s really no problem. They say if you can teach it to someone else then you truly understand it so it’ll be a good test for me. Y/N also knew that they wouldn’t just study. Come on. It was a Friday night and study was practically code for hook up, especially considering he had invited her to his place and not the library. She had to prepare, had to make sure she looked cute and everything. She’d shower before hand too, the whole nine. “I can be there around 6?” Y/N suggested, checking her calendar app even though she already knew when she could come. She had to at least look like she wasn’t jumping at the idea.

“That’s cool. Uh— here, if you want I can put my number in your phone and whenever you want I can text you the address?” Oh, fuck. How, how the tables have turned. He had gone from wistfully staring at her every day to having a scheduled study session with her, the girl he’d been practically having wet dreams about. Having a full conversation and then her having his number! He was giddy and playing with the sleeves of his sweater as a result of the excited nerves. “Do you have any allergies? I do have a kitten at home.” He wanted to make sure he wouldn’t have to put Marie away. He loved his baby but he wanted to try something and see if she would be cool with him in a private setting. It would be less hard to talk about deeper things without people around. He took her phone from her and typed in his number, adding his name with a little  📚 after it. That wasn’t too much, right?

“Aw you do! I have one too, well... he thinks he’s a big boy.” Y/N shook her head at the thought of her sweet little Milo. Despite not doing anything she planned to do at the coffee shop, it still felt like a productive day in her eyes. Finally getting to chat with Harry felt like a breath of fresh air and he wasn’t all that scary now that she got to chatting with him. She took her phone back and smiled at the cute little emoji, sending him a text to let him know it was her before hesitantly getting up. “Alright well, I gotta get back to my kitten... but, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Y/N smiled, watching him stand up as well. The two of them walked out of the coffee shop and to their cars, Y/N being bold enough to give him a hug before opening her car door. “Night!” She was surprised with herself. Y/N was proud, completely over the moon and honestly she wasn’t sure how she was going to sleep tonight.

-----

Harry laid out on the bed that night with Marie on his chest. He had told her all about how the pretty Y/N had met him and that she would be coming over. The pretty cat was a long haired white kitty, and she purred along with Harry as he spoke. She liked hearing Harry be happy. It made him want to squeak when he heard his phone buzz and a little text from her popped up— he saved her as ‘Y/N 🌼’ because he felt like it fit. Part of him wanted to put a heart but he would be mortified if she saw and thought it was weird. She wore a yellow flower shirt one day so he figured that’s what he could excuse it as. 

‘Hey, happy to hear from you! :) I hope your kitty is doing well. I meant to ask, you aren’t vegetarian are you?’

Y/N smiled at his text and attached a photo of her gray kitten laying across the top of her head while she laid down. 

‘Yes, he’s quite cozy.’

‘I am actually! But I’m not too fussy.’ 

She couldn’t help it, she loved animals and she couldn’t bring herself to do it anymore. Occasionally, she would indulge in a chicken nugget or seafood, but for the most part she didn’t feel like she had to. 

‘I’m going to get some sleep though, Good night Harry 💓’

That wasn’t too much was it? It was just a heart! She sent them to everyone. Y/N stayed up for a good ten minutes just digesting the day. Tomorrow would be even better, she had a feeling.

——

Harry was... well, he wasn’t sure how to describe the emotion. When Niall inevitably quizzed him on why he was acting strange, the best he had come up with was a mix of nerves and giddiness, also terror and extreme happiness. He was going to hang out with the girl he had been silently crushing on— and they had been texting quite frequently in the short time they had each other’s numbers. Was this going to be a regular thing? Was it going to blossom into more? He knew that he had wasted time before, not talking to her. She wasn’t scary! No... she was so sweet and kind and beautiful and everything she said made him a literal heart eye emoji. She had taken to sending him random photos, even so quickly in and it felt comfortable. He had even sent her a shot of Marie on the counter this morning, on top of his school notes. It was odd. The excitement he felt when he heard the bing from his phone of the vibration in his pocket... it was incredible. He liked this feeling. Damn it. This was such a new thing. He wanted to do more. 

He saw her in class, watching as she crept in a bit after the last call should be with a sheepish smile on her face. He waved to her silently and watched her climb up, his heart beating quicker when she chose a seat closer to his than before. She wanted to sit near him? He clutched the rainbow patchwork sweater by the sleeves and fiddled with the cuffs, nerves and excitement swirling in his tummy.

If class wasn’t already on, Y/N knew she would have tried to spark up some conversation with Harry, but for now all she could manage was passing him a note. 

‘I like your cardigan :)’

It was really cute. Most of Harry’s wardrobe was and in her dream world she already stole a few to wear. English literature wasn’t exactly the most exciting class, but Harry seemed invested. Y/N enjoyed watching him focus and take notes while she mostly doodled some random flowers and bears in her notebook. Her mind was thinking about what she was going to wear to his house and how she definitely needed a shower before and that she had to put on the lotion that matched her perfume. Was she overthinking this? Maybe. Of course it was just a study date, but you could never be too sure where things could go. And if they did— she wanted to be ready.

He knew that he needed to contain himself but his smile made it hard. She liked his cardigan. The random compliment had him feeling mushy and happy and there was definitely a blush on his cheeks as he clicked his pen and wrote back to her. 

‘Thanks :) my nan knitted it for me. I like your little head band.’ 

He passed it back before opening his notebook back up. Her stare could be felt and he wanted to smirk a little at it because, well, who wouldn’t? She was so great, and he wanted to experience more of her but he was trying to not rush shit. He was a romance writer after all. All of it felt so in tune with his own wants and he had a hard time believing it was real. Sweet little Y/N wanted to hang out with him and she complimented his cardigan!

‘Awe!! That’s cute and thank youuuu 🥰’ 

She drew him a little smiley face with hearts around it, felt like it was very on brand for her and her emotive texting. Y/N felt all giddy because she had made a new friend but she was really hoping they wouldn’t just be friends. 

Y/N knew she was hard to read because she was generally nice to everyone and honestly, Harry seemed to be the same way. She could only assume he liked her because he asked her to hang out so quickly. And he’d bought her a cake pop and was planning on buying pizza tonight. Was it a date then? Gosh, she needed to stop reading into it. Her leg kept bouncing up and down, mind trying to refocus and thankfully, their professor was discussing something she too had noticed in her reading. She still managed to steal quick glances at Harry for the rest of the class, giving him shy little smiles. It wasn’t till class ended that she ended up speaking to him, but even that was quick. She needed to get home and get ready.

Harry had gotten a quick hi, and a ‘see you tonight!’ With her hand brushing his arm before she skipped off to.. wherever she went. And that had him nearly sprinting home. Cleaning top to bottom, vacuum, scrub, vacuum again. Changed his sheets— why, he wasn’t sure— put his laundry in the basket, filled up Marie’s food and water, fluffed the pillows, cleaned the windows and coffee table... he did it all. Even cleaned out the fridge! Like she would care? Harry didn’t know. All he did know was that he was finally showered and smelled nice, hair fixed and the pumpkin patch candle was lit! The tv was on low because he was nervous and needed some filler noise to keep himself from overthinking.

Y/N was doing the same, not cleaning her apartment but cleaning herself. She stripped out of her clothes when she got home and immediately got into the shower, taking one of those full maintenance ones for good measure. Once she was positive she was squeaky clean and smelled nice, she jumped out to take the next steps. God, she really wanted to impress him. He’d been her crush for a while and she needed this. She wanted to look like she didn’t put in my effort when she did so she decided to put on some light makeup and chose an outfit that was more laid back. Usually, she was seen wearing sweaters and jeans, nothing too fancy, so that’s exactly what she settled on. Y/N wanted to look warm and inviting. 

Milo mewed beneath her feet as she collected all her study supplies, rubbing against her ankles in need of attention. “I’m sorry bubs, I know I didn’t get to spend lots of time with you today but don’t be too mad.” Y/N pouted, picking him up and giving him a cuddle for a few minutes. She held him up to her chest as she finished up, deciding she needed to leave now.

‘Leaving now, be there in 20 ✨’

She sent, hopping into her car with nerves bubbling up in her stomach. God, she really hoped tonight went well.

——

When Harry heard the knock at the door he shot up, wiping his sweaty hands on his pants before forcing himself to be slow, walking to the door. And when he opened it, it really did feel like being hit in the gut. Seeing someone so beautiful, so up close? It got to him. He had to admit that. Y/N has this natural beauty that he drooled over. That felt like a hit. Every time he saw her he swore she got more beautiful. 

“Hi.” He spoke with a smile, opening the door up for her. “Come inside. Marie is wandering around so I have to close the door. A little escape artist, she is.” He joked, letting her scurry in and close the door behind her.

“Hey! Oop— okay!” Y/N giggled and stepped past him into his apartment. It was very cute and very tidy. Y/N felt a little flutter in her belly, it was freshly cleaned. She stepped out of her shoes before further examining the decor. The style was something she very much expected for Harry, it was cozy and artsy. Lots of earth tones and that sweet autumn smell coming from the candle made her feel that much more excited. “It’s so nice in here! I love the pillows.” Y/N complimented, liking how some were fluffy and some had funky patterns on them. It was then that she heard a meow from below, Marie sniffing at her sock covered toes. “Oh hi there... sorry if you can smell Milo on me, gave me lots of snuggles before I left.” Y/N cooed down to the kitten, dropping down so she was closer to the ground and extended her hand for her to sniff and get used to. 

Y/N realized this was very real now, especially because he had gone out of his way to make his place look nice. Most guys wouldn’t care, but maybe Harry did this for everyone. When she stood back up and turned to face him, she got a whiff of him and noticed his semi damp hair. He showered too. Oh—

Harry smiled at her and Marie, happy his kitten seemed to like her. Usually she would sniff his friends and run off but she began to weave over her legs and beg for pets. He was in awe. Christ. She had him by the balls already. 

“Do you want anything to drink? I’ve got diet soda... apple juice, lots of teas. And water.” He hummed, going into the kitchen with her behind him. It was an open concept though, the kitchen the first thing near the door and it opened into a large living area, the hall down going to the master bedroom. It was simple but perfect for him in college. He gave her a moment to think it over as he looked at her. So cozy and... cuddly. He wanted to slide his hands under her sweater and feel her warm skin and nuzzle into the crook of her neck, let her fingers play through his hair.

“Apple juice sounds good.” Y/N smiled, having picked up Marie at this point to carry her into the kitchen with them. She had a feeling she’d get along just great with Milo if they ever got to meet. “You’re a sweet little thing, aren’t you?” Y/N cooed at the kitten, seeing her comfortably settled against her. “Does your Daddy spoil you with snuggles too?” She asked toying with her little paw before looking up at Harry with a smile. He had fumbled a bit with the lid of the juice at her words which made her giggle, “How are you? How was your day today?” Y/N was genuinely curious, deciding to make some small talk before actually sitting down. In her head she could already imagine the two of them hanging out here constantly, tangled up in one another, kissing and laughing and doing all the cute things that Harry likely wrote about in his stories.

“I’m— im good.” Harry’s mouth was dry. He knew that she hadn’t meant anything by it, but he heard her say ‘daddy’ in reference to him, and his stupid cock had jumped, tummy felt hot. Damn it. He wished he wasn’t so deprived but... she had been at the forefront of his mind. “It was a good day. I was happy to talk to you. You’re fun to talk to.” He meant it too. She was so interesting and funny and he was completely whipped and okay with it. Damn. He wished he had maybe a bit more restraint with his imagination but he didn’t. Not at all. “I have a harder time meeting people... i can be a little shy sometimes. I’m in my own head a lot you know? I have my core group of friends but... it’s hard to get to know people. I want to know them.” Her. That translates to her.

“Yeah?” Y/N felt her heart jump. He was happy to speak with her even just a little bit? He wanted to talk to her and get to know her? It wasn’t just a one sided thing. They were both making an effort in their own way and she was thinking someone had to break the tension. “I’m happy you think so.” Y/N blushed, “I um... I also like talking to you.” She had her little friend group as well but she never thought she’d actually end up being friends with Harry. Listening to him explain how reserved he was definitely made her feel special though. He chose to open up to her, she was special enough for that and that made her cheeks grow warm once again. “I’ll tell you just about anything you want to know.” Y/N smiled, hesitantly placing Marie down before taking a few steps closer to him to get her glass of apple juice.

“Ooooh, a little daunting. Anything? Your social security number?” Harry was joking. Trying to clear the air and make her relax because she was a bit shy too and he wanted her to be comfortable here. This place should be a good spot for her. He motioned for her to come sit on the couch with him, Marie trailing after Y/N. Little traitor had a new favorite already but... he couldn’t say he could blame her. “I dunno... it’s hard sometimes, in this age to make genuine friendships. Feels like everyone’s already got their friend groups and you don’t want to infringe upon them yeah? And... I write a lot. I’m not a partier. Not to sound cliche but again.... I’m a writer.” He chuckled.

“I said just about!” Y/N chuckled, shaking her head to herself at his joke. She felt like she was an open book, she was pretty open with the things she liked and generally she aimed to spread positivity and love where she could. Her hobbies included lots of things, music, knitting, reading, gardening. That kind of stuff. “But yeah, I get that... I’ve been pretty content with my group of friends, though I think most people are open to making new ones. At least I am... I am a bit shy though.” Y/N took a sip of her apple juice before setting it down on the coffee table again. “Yeah, you said. Romance novels.” She smiled and leaned back into the couch, getting comfortable. “What sorts of romance novels?” What? Could you blame her for wanting to know what sort of content was in them? Maybe it could give her some insight on what he wanted.

“Oooooh. Hard hitting stuff.” Harry huffed out playfully. “I’m... it’s a variety, I think. I’ve done supernatural, classic tropes, historical romance was very fun. I am partial to enemies to lovers or forbidden romances though. They’re the most fun to write.” Y/N genuinely looked like she cared so he continued. “I’ve been trying out different stuff but....” he blushed again. “I’m... looking at erotica right now.” It wasn’t something he usually would blurt out but hey, she seemed trustworthy. Plus she didn’t seem like she would judge either. It was a new favorite of his. The rawness of it and writing sex scenes... it was amazing. Reading it, writing it, he thought he could do some on the side and sell it under a pen name. It would be a fun thing to try.

Erotica. This man sat down and wrote detailed sex scenes, likely kinky, for fun? Thankfully she didn’t have any juice in her mouth because it surely would have been spat out. 

“H-how are you finding it?” She asked, reaching for her apple juice because she felt like she couldn’t sit still now. How else was she supposed to go about things when all she could think about was sex. Sex with him specifically. Y/N wasn’t blind, she knew that Harry was very attractive and very much gifted with beautiful hands. She could only assume he would have a wonderful cock as well. She knew there was no way someone so quite couldn’t have the filthiest of minds, she knew hers was. Her fantasies were where she roamed free.  

“I mean... I do like it a lot, actually. I hope that doesn’t come across as creepy or pervy but I like to be able to write something like that. It’s freeing, in a sense.” Harry couldn’t really properly describe why but, he was a kinky dude. You’d never think it. He was soft and wore sweaters a lot and drank tea at home from a kitty mug but he was.... a kinky fucker. And he loved sex. There was just something about it. He wanted to try more and more of it but he had a tendency to get attached to his partners, even hook ups... so he had put that on a hault. 

“I’d like to read some...” Y/N felt like at some point, she’d want to read his writing. If he felt comfortable now she didn’t mind. It was just writing, wasn’t it? 

“You want to?” She looked at him with bright eyes and her a fast nod so Harry decided to say, fuck it. If they were going to work as friends... or lovers, which is what Harry really wanted... she would need to accept this side. He grabbed his laptop and boosted it on, letting himself grab the latest completed scene. “Here. You can read this, i'll order the pizza.” There were obvious nerves in his belly from letting her read filthy smut from his computer but Y/N... she was different. He couldn’t put his finger on why, but she was.

They were meant to be studying. 

That was long forgotten though as Y/N nodded and got comfortable on the couch with his laptop sat in her lap. It felt a bit taboo, but she figured she could separate the writer from the story. 

The scene was from a male character’s perspective, describing him having a long and hard day at work where all he could think about was his partner. Y/N felt her face get progressively warmer as the character spoke about his partner, she couldn’t help but imagine this was how Harry was when he was horny and needy. 

Y/N knew that if she was his, she would certainly brighten up his mood after a tough day at work. Seeing her own name in the document however proved that Harry thought the same. Her eyes nearly bulged out of her head, her eyes lifting from the screen to look up at him as he ordered the pizza completely unaware of her discovery. 

This is what he imagined? This is what he wanted to do.... with her?

Harry ordered two cheese pizzas and some cinnamon dessert thing because there was a a special going on. He had thought about getting more but he didn’t want to go overboard with it, so he finished the order. Thank god for online ordering.

“Okay... it’ll be here in 25 minutes I think.” He hummed, looking up and freezing slightly. She looked blushy and her eyes wide as she read the post and he wondered why she looked a bit startled. “Hey... y’alright love?” He asked quietly. God damn it. Had he freaked her out too much? Was it just too much in general for the first time they properly hung out? He couldn’t remember exactly what scene he had pulled up. Just that it was recent, a billionaire type of thing.

Y/N casually moved the laptop on to the coffee table without answering his question. She didn’t think twice before she climbed on to his lap, hands settling on his shoulders. Sure, it was a risky move, but after what she’d read? She felt like she had to make her move. She wanted to be just as hot and sexy as he had imagined her to be. Harry’s shocked expression made her smile, hand going up to cup his cheek. 

“You left my name in the document...” Y/N’s voice spoke low and slow, thumb brushing over his now parted lips. Never did she think she could be so bold so soon, but fuck did it feel good. She felt so powerful, so sexy, and so so horny. “Thought about me riding your cock so much you wrote about it?” Y/N whispered, leaning in to kiss the skin just below his ear before nibbling at the skin. “Noticed me before we properly met... thought about me... is this what you wanted, baby?”

Harry blanked. 

Oh. fuck.

He hadn’t expected her to climb into his lap. Climbing on and straddling him, cupping his cheek, talking in that hot little voice that had his cock filling a bit. Holy fucking shit. 

“Oh—” He was cut off by her thumb over her lip. She was into it, into him. How had this happened? He had to be dreaming. But... no. Her heat was too real to be a dream. Her eyes too clear and dark, her smell too real. It was real. “Y-yeah...” He whispered, gasping when she kissed his skin, hand grabbing her waist. Oh, hell. Under his pants, his cock was quickly hardening. You couldn’t blame him, his dream woman, his crush, was straddling his lap and kissing his neck. Talking like this. 

“Thought about it ‘lots.” He muttered. She was so bold for this and that was something he found so sexy. When her teeth scraped his skin and bit down a bit harder, a dark groan left his mouth, hand on her waist tightening. “Holy shit... Y/N.”

“Hmm... feels good?” Y/N questioned, licking over the spot that she bit before moving to a new one. “Think I can make you cum in 25 minutes?” Y/N felt like she could take on the challenge, his cock was already hardening beneath her and she was a bit of foreplay away from being completely soaked. “Wanna try all of it, yeah?” Y/N muttered, nipping at the spot just where his jawline met his neck. “Riding your cock.... you bending me over, can choke me too. Please do...” She moaned at the thought, her hormones completely taking over. He still seemed to be frozen, despite his hand now on her waist so she moved her hips forward a little bit and tugged at his hair. “Wanna make you feel good.” 

Y/N had a kink for giving but it seemed Harry did as well. She expected a needy hook up, rough touches, quickness, pure lust. It’s exactly what she needed. It’s been a while since she’d hooked up with anyone and she was desperate for Harry to break her dry spell.

“Ah, shit.” Harry hissed. The tug at his hair sent a shock of hot arousal down his spine. That got him going so quickly. She wanted to fuck? Right now? He would be a fool to say no, and he wasn’t raised a fool. “Yeah? Y’want to ride my cock?” He asked lowly. “Fucks sake... I didn’t know you were so dirty.” He never would have guessed it from her either but... they were here. And he was snapped out of his shock by the tug, and now he was ready to do whatever the fuck she let him. “What did y’want the most, love? Tell me.” He had taken into account that she wanted to be choked, raising a hand to gently cuff her throat, bringing her close to his face. The confidence was soaring now, and all because she was leaking it. She wanted it, desperately. “I said, tell me.” He gave a quick squeeze to her throat. “Want to know what you need.”

“Need your cock, daddy.” Y/N moaned out, eyes blown and glazed over with desire. Y/N could feel the tension in her bones, cunt throbbing and aching to be touched. “Need you so bad, please— wanted you for so long, please make me cum, please!” She pleaded, fully giving into the fantasy. Y/N was never one to hold back and from what she had read, he certainly didn’t want her to. Her body felt like it was on fire, hands grabbing fist fulls of his sweater in hopes that he’d just take it off. Y/N wasn’t sure what type of body would be beneath it, but she didn’t care. She just wanted to feel his warm skin, lick and kiss all that she could while she worked her magic. Y/N waited for his directions, falling into the submissive role easily despite her initial approach. “I’m gonna fuck you so hard you’re gonna have to re-write that scene.”

Harry was going to give this girl any fucking thing she wanted. He let her guide his sweater off, the cool air hitting his skin not even getting a chance because her hands and mouth were all over him. It was like she had fallen into a heat, and Harry.... he loved it. He placed his hands under her sweater, feeling her hands smooth over his chest as she kissed at his neck and over his jaw. Her skin was hot under the sweater, his hands gripping her waist and smoothing over her hips, going up and sip to her ribs where he realized— fuck. 

“Not wearing a fucking bra?” He hissed. “Jesus... you’re a little minx, aren’t you? Off with this.” He spoke lowly, grabbing the ends of it but barely had a shot before Y/N ripped it off of her body. Fucks sake. She was sexier than he had ever imagined. “My god... you’re so sexy, baby.” He whispered, sitting up and burying his face between her breasts. Kissing the hot skin between them, working his way up with the wet, open mouthed kisses to her throat.

“Oh Daddy...” Y/N’s body shuddered at the feeling of his mouth on her, head falling back as she let out a happy sigh. He seemed to like her hand in his hair so she happily gripped at his locks as he scattered kisses over her skin. “Come ‘ere...” She whined, guiding him up to her lips. “Wanna taste your mouth.” Making eye contact with him in this moment felt intimate. All those quick glances in classes and at the coffee shop, all the day dreaming, it all built up to this moment where she fully felt she could let herself let go. The both of them wanted this, it was so reassuring, this was a safe space and they could do whatever they wanted. Y/N’s body rolled forward, pushing him further back onto the couch and angling her hips so she could tease the both of them before she let herself have it. Fuck was he hard... and full. Another moan left her lips, sounding more like a plea and cry for more.

“Fuck me... you’re needy. I love it.” Harry hissed, pulling her mouth to his. It wasn’t soft. No, this kiss... it was hot. Heavy. Her mouth opened and immediately he dragged his tongue inside, meeting hers. She tasted like the apple juice and a bit of mint, and he could groan just from how good it was. Sweet little Y/N wasn’t too innocent at all. “Fuck— keep teasing me like that. S’like you want to end up crying.” He had a feeling now that she did. She wanted his cock inside of her pussy, thrusting in and out and letting herself soak him. Yeah... he wanted it too. “Keep calling me daddy. You’re so dirty. Who would have fucking... known.” He spoke between the kisses, hands going for her jeans. He wanted them off, like hours ago. He was finally going to get her. “M’gonna lay you out in my bed after... first m’gonna fuck you, but M’gonna clean out your cunt with my tongue. And then M’gonna take you again. Yeah?” She has come for studying but was staying for hot sex and he hoped to turn it into a nice marathon. He had all weekend and he was hoping she wouldn’t have to go. He had too many idea for her. “Gonna let daddy lick it up?”

“Fuck— yes, gonna let daddy have his way with me...” She kept her hips rolling against his slowly, keeping the rhythm in check with the passionate kiss they were sharing. Y/N already knew this was going to be the best sex of her life, the kiss alone let her know that. His tongue would work wonders on her cunt and she’d be more than happy to return the favor. Hesitantly, Y/N began to stand to get her jeans off, one of her hands staying put on the back of his neck so the kiss didn’t break. She let him fiddle with the zipper, feeling his fingers hook both her jeans and underwear before yanking them down to which Y/N let out a little squeal. 

Y/N knew she had to pull away from the kiss for air but she didn’t want to, waiting till the very last minute until she couldn’t anymore and went to get his jeans off.

“Come on. Be good.” He murmured against her lips, brushing his hips up so she could get his pants off. She tugged and easily they came down, Harry kicking them off as he pulled her back in his lap. His hands gripped her bare ass and groaned when she pushed into them, not thinking twice before pulling his hand back and smacking it the sound rang in the room and she let out the most sexy noise against his mouth, making him hiss. Fuck. He wanted her so fucking badly. This girl... she was everything. One hand went to feel and fuck. Fuck shit, motherfuck, it was wet. She was so, wet. “Jesus— you’re so wet. Baby— holy shit, you’re soaked.” He whispered. “S’cause of me? You wanted daddy’s cock this bad?” He pulled his fingers off slightly, the arousal still stringing to his fingers. He placed them at her mouth and pushed them in. “That’s it. Clean them up, sweet girl. You’re so filthy, y’know that? Precious little thing. So slick and hot, want cock so fucking bad don’t you?” He cooed, feeling her suck on the digits. “Now.... rub it against your pussy. Don’t put it in yet. get it wet.”

Y/N sucked at his fingers as if it were her job, making sure to treat it like she would his cock which included eye contact. She loved looking at him, seeing his hungry expression and his eyes that seemed to say so much more than he did. Even the feeling of her cunt sliding over his cock sent tingles up her spine. It had never affected her this much with other guys, but she assumed it was different with Harry because she had wanted him for so long. Y/N let out a whimper, feeling a gush of wetness accumulate when he pushed his fingers in farther. Harry was hot in ways she couldn’t explain, there were little things he did that just hit the spot and made her want to fuck him even harder. Y/N was practically bouncing on his cock, aching for him to let her have it inside.

“You’re such a good girl. Listening so fucking well.” Harry took his fingers from her mouth, smirking at the whine and slight chasing of his fingers when he placed it on her breast. She gave it all to him and honestly, he was ready to just... lose it. “Go ahead. Take what you want.” It was not even a moment later that he felt her begin to sink down. She was tight— so damn tight, and he choked slightly at just how good the squeeze was. He let out a hiss, head thrown back in the couch as the slick, hit cunt sucked over him, squeezing hard as she stretched open slowly. “Holy fuck.” He growled, gripping both hips now and looking at her with a darkness in his eyes. “You’re so bloody tight— Christ, you’re squeezin’ me so good.” He whispered.

“Daddy!” She whimpered as she slid farther down on his cock until she couldn’t fit anymore of him in. “I’m so full— feels so good.” Her eyes rolled back a bit as she began to bounce at a slowed rhythm. Small moans and little huffs came from her throat with every stroke of her hips, it wasn’t until she felt warmed up that she actually went for it. Y/N shifted so that she had better balance, keeping her hands on his shoulders before dropping back down on his cock. “Fuck!” She squeaked, making sure to clench one her way back up before repeating the action at a quicker pace. It felt incredible. He was touching every little part of her, feeling small waves of pleasure spread throughout her body. “Daddy! Fuck— feels so good ahhh!” Her moans were pornographic, whiny, desperate and needy. She didn’t even know she could sound like that, but apparently it was possible when she was as thirsty for cock as she was.

Never would he have guessed that this would be the outcome of their hang out. He had hoped, sure. Dreamed? Absolutely. But the reality was so much better. He had the hot, wet and extremely tight pussy gliding up and down his cock. She was moaning, tits bouncing in his face, and she was vocal. More than he could have asked for. The infatuation he had with her was only growing. 

“Fuck, you’re a good girl. Such a perfect little cunt. Like bouncing on my cock, hm? Knew you’d be the perfect girl for me. Keep going.” His hand squeezed her ass, encouraging her to work herself on him. “Feels so full, yeah? Such a big cock filling such a little pussy. A nice stretch for you hm? So eager to be filled up...” her face was of pure bliss and Harry couldn’t help but take a mental photo. He hoped this could happen more than this once. “Knew you’d be good for me. Throwin’ yourself in my lap and begging to be fucked. Never guessed you’d be such a little slut, but I love it.” He took his hand, bringing it down sharply on her ass.

“Fuck!” Y/N gasped, her own hand moving to cuff his neck. It wasn’t as effective as him doing it to her, but it got the point across. The both of them grabbing at each other roughly, him thrusting up into her each time she slammed down. It could only be described as pure ecstasy, surely the hottest sex she had ever had. She needed him, she needed him to cum. Y/N couldn’t stop herself from leaning down to kiss his mouth again, making a mess of the two of them. “You’re so fucking good— love your cock, daddy... fucking love it!” She moaned between kisses, increasing her pace just enough so she could fuck him hard and steady. “I want you to cum for me daddy, wanna feel it nice and deep.” Thank fuck for IUDs. “Want you to fill me up while I cum all over your cock, can you do that for me? Can you cum with me?”

He was panting, lowering himself so he could properly thrust into her sopping cunt. He hadn’t gotten any in so long but this blew any and everyone out of the water. No one could ever understand how good this was. All the pining and imagining had come to an even better conclusion. 

“I’ll do it... but you... gotta promise me.” He growled, giving a particularly sharp thrust inside of her, making her wail. “Promise me I can do it again. Let me have this pussy more.” He didn’t want it to end if it was the only time he could get it. It was too good to let go of. Drooling all over his cock and her soft whimpers and dirty words had him more worked up than anything else. “Promise, baby, and I’ll let you have my cum.”

“Promise— I promise— fuck!” She felt her breath get caught in her throat at the particularly hard thrusts Harry was giving her. “Please Daddy, please give it to me.” Y/N whimpered, moving her hands so they cupped his cheeks, keeping eye contact with him as they continued to relentlessly thrust into each other. There was nothing more satisfying, nothing that managed to hit every part of her both physically and spiritually and made her feel so alive. When you’ve wanted something for so long it makes getting it that much better and she knew that she’d always be chasing this high that only he could give her. “I’m so close, fuck, daddy—“ She mumbled between kisses, squeezing around him and continuing at her pace to bring herself to the perfect high. “Cum with me daddy, please— ah!”

Harry would work on his stamina next round. But after the whole thing, he was close to losing his mind. She was giving him the most tempting offer and he wasn’t going to give it up. 

“Oh— fuck me.” He thrusted in again and again before he let himself go. Feeling her clench up around him and sob against his mouth, he let out a deep growl as he buried himself deep. Hot cum shooting inside of her cunt, rocking his hips in to get it all in there. There was no doubt that this was some of the most intense sex of his life but he was almost ready to go again, as soon as it ended. Holding her shivering form, her orgasm was tapering, he could feel her clenching still. “That’s it. Take all of it inside of you. Good girl.”

Y/N gripped Harry’s shoulders, loud screams of pleasure coming straight from her throat. There were no words to describe the high, she almost felt out of her own body as he showered her with praise. With her body shaking and face contorting with a silent scream, she found it in her to come back down letting out a pathetic whimper.

“Daddy—” She swallowed thickly, mouth finding his messily, pressing kisses to his lips and his face. The two of them were both lightly covered in sweat, breathing heavily and enjoying each other’s company. Y/N was far too blissed out to think about what just happened, but blissed out enough to know there would be many more rounds of this tonight. Y/N smiled as she nuzzled against his neck, still sponging kissing to his dampened skin. “Better?” She mumbled, smirking against his skin a bit.

“Mm.” He hummed, hands holding her hips still. Holy hell. This was the beginning of an amazing weekend- because he didn’t plan on letting her out at all, if he could help it’ he wanted her to stay, to let him indulge in her. “So fucking good.” He muttered lowly, rubbing his hand up her back and smoothing over her skin. Fucks sake. This was paradise. Nothing could pop him out of this. 

At least, that was until the doorbell rang. 

“Ah, fuck. The pizza.”

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