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littleredwritingcat · 2 years

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Mother, May I: Part 1

A John Tyler Fic - 18+ only; trigger warnings and content include rape/non-con, mentions of suicide, child abuse/neglect (slight), ghosts, the occult, kidnapping, mention of firearms, painful sex, dark fairy tale elements, dom/sub elements but nothing is safe, sane, or consensual because...well, it’s Tyler, innit? This is a dark one, my loves. Act accordingly.

The glare of flickering red and blue neon, television screens, and overhead bulbs catch the glittering gold, looping pink letters on a white satin sash that read "Bride to Be!" as a woman laughs with three of her friends.

They’re sitting across the bar now, near the pool tables. She’s just a slip of a thing - thick brown hair and blue eyes, delicate features and skin that’s mysteriously sun-kissed even though it isn’t even spring, yet – and certainly not warm enough for trips to the beach.

A flimsy white veil sewn through with plastic heart beads droops lopsided over one side of her head, and there’s a Midori sour in one slender fist, electric green and hoisted into the air as she all but screams the lyrics to a Taylor Swift song.

...Are we out of the woods yet? Are we out of the woods yet…

She looks, he thinks, a little like Jane had on her wedding day - the gray afternoon his baby sister, all dressed in white and newly hitched, had told him they'd never be a family again. That he couldn’t even be around his niece.

Miss Bride-to-Be is an easy target, and John Tyler can't stop staring at the cleavage in her loose and lacy little tank top - can't stop thinking of how easy it would be for someone tall and semi-dashing in a nice new plaid button-down shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbow to charm his way into her little circle of gaggling idiot friends just to ruin all those pretty bright white dreams…

"Nope."

John turns, mildly annoyed, and notices you leaning over the bar's wooden top next to the stool he's standing behind.

Your index finger and thumb are tipped with dark red polish that’s almost black. They’re wrapped around a clear plastic swizzle stick between your lips. Your hair is a startling sight, shining and swept up, and you’d look more at home in a three-star bistro, or at a gallery opening. The black knit dress you’re in is seemingly modest - long sleeved and reaching your knees. When you stand, the effect reminds him of staring at the stem of a black note on a printed-out sheet of music. The posture reveals an off-the-shoulder neckline that exposes a collarbone with divots so deep he could drink liquor from their hollows.

That’s what you are – good sipping liquor – Campari, maybe? And you smell of something smokey that’s edging around his memory, curling it up at the corners like burning paper.

Coral red lips strike him as garish, and they’re so slick it looks like the seam between the top and bottom are bleeding - but your eyes, large eyes look frightened and serious, the pupils wide like a cat's in the half-light.

"Excuse me?"

"Don't, Kid. Just don't.”

"And what did you think...wait, 'Kid?' I'm older than you, young lady. Gotta be."

He smiles and the crows feet under his thick eyebrows crinkle; he’s taken aback. Amused. But then you arch one brow, because you’re not that young and you understand exactly who and what he is. You’re still sucking on the swizzle stick, eyes looking him up and down. You’re appraising him, and it’s insulting. Finally, you give a cursory glance around the bar and sigh.

"She's the prettiest girl here, but she's also getting married in two weeks and she's well past shitfaced."

"And you're implying that…"

John let his voice lilt in the way that people usually found disarming. Maybe you'd feel foolish if you spoke with him for a few more moments.

No, you’re nothing like an aperitif. You’re scotch. The good stuff locked away for years at a time. Smell of deep smoke, of myrrh and resin conjure the memory of head shops he’d visit for incense used in meditation.

Yeah, the good stuff – non-synthetic.

"I'm implying,” you continue, still afraid but a tiny bit bolder now, “that I've seen that look on a lot of men's faces. So here’s the thing - she might be Little Red in this situation, but I'm the woodcutter. You got it?"

Ha. Of all the bars, he had to walk into this one.

And all the women every night in every bar probably represented the wronged and maligned to you. In your imagination, he thinks, you’ve saved them over and over, trying to reach through the past and make up for what you thought of as your worst failings.

That, or you were still trying to recover from some horrible moment that still gives you nightmares – that one time when you hadn’t been able to save yourself.

He hadn’t seen you come in with the others.

It doesn’t matter, though.

John is patient – always patient - because a direct approach would set off a bevy of mental alarms for most people. But you? Well, you’re one of those women who stays vigilant after everyone else gets too far into their cups to give a damn about someone like him looking on from the shadows.

Tonight, he hasn’t been dancing with his demons but he hasn’t been putting up much of a fight, either. He usually doesn’t these days. Not anymore.

Yeah, John knows your kind and avoids you all like oil repelling water on leather.

“Excuse me, but you’re very rude and I don’t like rude people,” he growls while pushing away from the bar.

“‘Kid’ is absolutely the right word,” you say, a slant of desperation tipping your words.

In your gut, you’re afraid he’ll go through with the half-stitched intentions that are still forming in his mind, pulling at baser urges.

You can’t see them clearly.

No matter how long you work with the gift, the sight – whatever Auntie Tess called it - it’s never like watching television or seeing the scenes of a play.

You can feel them, though. That’s what it’s always been like for you. Just an impression or feeling at first, then color and sound and something visual that develops like still, solid images on photo paper -

Those intentions bubble up and around him. It causes a noxious chill, then floats on a green fog, smelling of copper. Your hand is flat against the wood grain of the table now, palm sweating. You’re trying to reach for something – anything – to stall what you’ve uncovered, destructive, sickening force that it is. You grasp at whatever is on the surface of your mind, trying to find what is useful among the bits of this and that all flowing in one steady current…

Aha.

And just like that, you’ve got the very thing to sink his little battleship.

“Janice sends her love,” you call at his back, loud enough to be heard over the crowd, the music, the televisions. You are steady, and merely conveying a half-hearted message relayed off-handedly from someone almost too far away to understand. You’re a satellite and you’re redirecting a signal. Just sending it towards the nearest tower.

The reception is good tonight, and you’re grateful for that.

He – the Wolf - stops in his tracks, but the motion of the room continues as his swaying gait almost three feet away from you goes absolutely still. It’s eerie, and for a moment you wonder who Janice is.

You don’t have to wonder long.

“She’s kind of upset you’re out so late. ‘Early to bed, early to rise, makes a good boy wealthy, healthy, and wise.’”

Shaky breath, fists clench and unclench. Wolf turns. His eyes are wide, his countenance unreadable. He wears lots of masks, and you’ve caught him in the middle of a costume change.

His facial expression will return after these messages from our sponsors.

“Who…who are you? Who…?”

“Who! Who!”

You mock him a little, your wet, bright lips turning upwards.

“I’m no one. Who are you, Mr. Owl?”

It’s a flip answer, and the grin on your face is too daring. You could lose a finger to jaws like the ones you’re looking at right now. Strong bones under a set of what you’re sure are teeth that can do lots of damage to a girl.

Suddenly, despite the crowd around you, Wolf lunges, right at where you’re sitting – almost lays hands on you, but you’re quicker than that. Reflexes of a cat coupled with decades of existing in the body of a woman has taught you speed.

It’s made you sharp.

So many of your counterparts had fathers, brothers, mothers, and lovers to protect them.

You’d had none of that during your formative years. But now you can protect yourself – and future brides in bars who didn’t even realize they needed protecting.

“Woah there, John Hancock, John Doe, diddle diddle dumpling, my son John! Keep those paws to yourself. Maybe go home like the nice lady wants and lick your wounds. Live to fight another day, eh?”

You’re already on the other side of the bar’s open room, using people as obstructions to place between yourself and Wolf. He’s mirroring your movements, following you with black saucer eyes that are more like hungry pits than God-given tools for seeing. You’ve observed animals in zoos pace alongside the steel bars with less rage.

Thank God for well worn-in leather pumps, your, um, intimate knowledge of Rick’s Bar on West, and a decently adept talent for basic glamouring skills. Maybe it’s not really mystical, what you do. Maybe you’ve always been able to wend and wind your way through a crowd without much trouble.

Bouncing Souls, Distillers (and you’d had a massive crush on Brody Dalle, so of course Distillers), and Fugazi – their mosh pits were your training ground.

You’re not twenty anymore, but damn – when you have to, you can still move.

And you do, behind the door reserved for employees. Rick yells at you, his rectangle specs with heavy blue frames falling down his nose and jaw dropping in a bluster of anger as you go through. He won’t stay mad for long. You do readings for his customers on the weekends, and he knows it brings people in along with all their cash.

It’s a win-win; folks love having their fortunes told after a few beers or glasses of pinot.

And no matter what kind of predictions you make, they’ll drink more afterwards to ward off unease or punctuate their feelings of self-satisfaction.

Hmmm.

Still need to tell Rick those new glasses aren’t flattering, though.

You haven’t quite gotten around to it just yet, but you’d better do it soon.

No one else ever will, but you can because the old asshole is fond of you. He knew Tess – was always half in love with her, and you have her hair, her glibness – her skillset.

You peek through the door to the alleyway, but you know –just know because it tingles the marrow of your bones – that it isn’t safe to go down that dark path anymore, so doubling-back it is, and then right out the front entrance neat as you please.

You give the doorman checking IDs a casual two-fingered salute, arch your neck till it cracks, and then hail a cab. Once you’re in the yellow ABC Taxi, you can’t help laughing loud. The man driving – you know that he’s thinking about the chips and eggs his wife has set aside for him after his shift – he asks you if you’re ok in a heavy, musical accent.

Everything is beautiful, you tell him.

Everything shines, and holy fucking shit, it’s fun to outsmart silly over-important monster-men. It’s fun to play and win.

At two p.m. the next day, a tall drink of a man in red wanders casually into Rick’s Bar on West during the post-lunch lull. His hands force themselves into his khaki pockets as he tells everyone his last name is “Miller,” then starts asking the waitresses about the weekly events in the taproom.

“Yeah, I’m – well, you can tell, right? I’m new to town – and I’ve got colleagues coming in from Atlanta next week. Haven’t been in the city long, but I like the…general vibe of this place. It’s congenial without being too neighborhood dive-y. I was thinking this might be the right spot for - for dinner on the first night they’re in town. Good beer list - and the staff is pleasant. Best servers this side of the eastern seaboard.”

He’s kind of handsome in a gangling “Mr. Rodgers” way, so when he winks conspiratorially at one of the waitresses, she grins all big and hands him a laminated card with a QR code.

Trivia Tuesdays, Thirsty Thursdays (with two domestic drafts for the price of one), then Karaoke on Fridays and Saturdays from 8 to close.

But. It’s the very last line at the very, very bottom of John’s phone screen that make his mouth crack open into a grin.

"FORTUNE FAVORS THE BOLD! Let me see yours on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday evenings. Specialties include the deciphering of palms and oracle card readings. Reasonable rates, legendary predictions, and satisfaction guaranteed. Ask for Y/A at the bar."

He’d grown fond of so-called “mysticism” over the years. Everyone religious in his childhood used the word “occult;” said it was of the devil. It would put you in the pit, but it was a comfort. After his mom had died, he thought that perhaps there was still some tiny, silvery thread still connecting her to him. And he’d loved her so, so much.

“Ok, little woodcutter – little fortune teller, mystic, witch, or whatever you are,” John thinks to himself, biting his lip as the pretty waitress says something about the addition of ten cent taco Wednesdays to the menu.

It made order of things. Provided structures without the judgement of bibles and hell and fury.

John never had use for anyone’s fury but his own.

For years – decades – he’d tried to find a path to that connecting thread, through meditation, or other spiritual advisors. He just wanted someone who could talk to her, who could give him one more moment with the one who’d ripped him in twain by her going.

No one had yet. Not really.

But then he’d wandered into Rick’s and there’d been a nasty pretty brat with bright lips who’d said her name – had recited the sing-song rhymes from his childhood.

Diddle diddle dumpling, my son John -

His eyes have gone blank and he’s already making calculations.

Went to bed with his trousers on -

There are weaknesses in the windows and doors of your life he can pull and push on – the entrances you don’t lock or have perhaps even left ajar – because maybe you do have a gift, and maybe you will feel him coming, but you’re not half as clever as you think. Not cleverer than him.

One shoe off, and one shoe on -

“I guess, little witch, we’re doing this the hard way.”

Diddle diddle dumpling, my son John -

You don't read tea leaves. That kind of conjuration just isn’t your bag.

Auntie Tess always told you “half of being smart is knowing what you’re dumb at,” and you suck at kitchen witchery, so aside from the occasional sprig of Rosemary from the bodega two blocks away that you use in your famous roasted chicken recipe, you’re a stars-and-cards-and-skin-creases girl.

The day’s easy breezy.

Extra income is on its way this month as your client list picks up. That means you can fix the leaks in the old brownstone’s roof. You’ve inherited it from your aunt along with all its idiosyncrasies and broken down corners. But no more plastic buckets, pans, and plastic butter tubs in the entryway during rainstorms for you.

You’ll have all the money you need soon.

You sigh, and it’s a sound from your center that betrays the unsettled sparks you’ve been feeling in your limbs, stomach, and joints. There’s no reason for it, really. The sun is shining, you’re wearing a favorite pair of lose sage-green overalls with gaucho legs and your favorite black crop top tank,

You’d applied your cat eyeliner perfectly – first try.

Your business parlor is also coming together after months of work – everyone said that black paint on the walls would look too morbid – that it wouldn’t do to have the set of purple satin wing backs near the fireplace right in front of the entryway.

It would all overwhelm.

But you think it’s got a sophisticated mystical quality. You hope your customers agree – besides, part of all your song-and-dance performativity hinges on atmosphere. But you don’t lie to people. You embellish a little here and there, but lying? That’s cursed. That’s disrespect.

Gold frames hold vintage pictures of Tess, her friends, their travels all through the years. Deco light fixtures, cast in frosted glass with delicate etching, lend the kind of quality you wouldn’t have been able to manage if you’d rented a downtown space.

Your aunt hadn’t known about you – hadn’t known you existed - until your late teens. Once your addict mother finally revealed your whereabouts, she spirited you away as fast as was humanly possible. Even though she was gone now, Tess used the time you two had wisely - had taught you how to harness what you’d inherited.

Now the chaos of stars and voices and satellite waves – well, it was still chaos, but it wasn’t as close. You could keep it to a low roar. It was like existing in a quiet room next to an apartment where conversations were happening – sometimes quiet, and sometimes loud. You just ignored it most of the time, unless you needed to hone in. Then you’d be a satellite – an empty glass to the wall.

You were brave now. So much braver than you’d ever been before.

Nevertheless, you’d brought your Ruger down from the bedroom this morning. Just in case.

During your afternoon tea break, you have a good black and cinnamon blend. A little lemon perks the loose leaves up, arches your brows for you. It will keep you alert. Warm. Ready.

But your stomach drops when you see a reflection in the brown and red liquid sloshing counterclockwise in the white bone china of your cup. There’s light at the top of the lip from above like the moon hovering overhead – some flame in the distance which might be fire or even lightening. Lunacy. Danger raging forward, fanned by what is foul.

Foul is fair and fair is foul.

Stars above.

You don’t know what you were expecting, really. No one that deranged would be willing to write you off – go away unsatisfied. You’d whetted his appetite, after all. It’s then that the smell of soggy dog fur and copper fills your nostrils.

You sigh, feeling so very tired.

It’s just a few minutes before your next booking. A woman from somewhere past the bridge on the opposite side of the city. She was worried about a financial decision she’d made and had set something up with your assistant yesterday morning.

Your personal assistant had added her to your calendar.

Emily, who has gone home early for the day – a pipe burst in her apartment, so she’d dashed out by eleven in an understandable panic. And now it’s your turn to feel unease. Had it been the simple wear and tear of time, shoddy plumbing, and bad piping that assured you were alone this afternoon?

Not fucking likely.

There hadn’t been a booking at all - you know that now.

You sit down teacup and saucer and reach under the heavy oak table you use for readings, laying hands on the Ruger. Shaking, you pull it up, fingering the thumb safety in anticipation. You’ve no more than flipped the latch when two hands emerge from behind, one gently taking the gun from you and setting it down on the table top.

“I don’t think there’s a need for that. You might hurt yourself.”

Then you’re being pulled, back and up until Wolf’s mouth is close to the shell of your ear.

Smell of copper, now so strong that you might be able to taste pennies in your mouth if you concentrate hard enough.

“Jeepers. You are the real thing, aren’t you?”

You try to throw an elbow straight into the waiting rib cage of the man you know is at your back, but it’s a futile move – there’s only a grunt, and then both arms are pulling you again, lifting your body as you struggle, limbs wriggling forward against the motion forcing you in the opposite direction.

“I should tease you. I mean, I’ve been here for around 30 minutes. You had to go upstairs to make the tea, remember? And Emily was so detailed about your routine after I…explained to her what I needed to know and why. I came right in.”

“If you’ve hurt her -”

“No, no, no,” and his voice goes a little softer. He might as well be comforting a child.

“She’s a little shaken. Not hurt. But you really should be more careful about who you hire. That one’s a real pistol, huh? Yeah, quite the past. It’s one I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want her parents finding out about it, so we made a deal.”

You twist and lunge, snarling into the air and Wolf makes more shushing noises from above your head. You’d already known about her second job at the club – it was actually a woman-owned establishment and is about as safe as those kinds of places can be. She’s working her way through nursing school, and you don’t care about the stripping.

Not that her ultra conservative Fox News-watching folks from Nebraska would’ve agreed.

“A creep and a prude. Kid, you’re an utter dee-light.”

“Quiet. Be still for me, or this can get worse.”

The last phrase grinds into the air, throaty and rough from a flash of annoyance.

You’re hauled towards the front staircase, still kicking. In a last-ditch attempt to salvage your freedom, you manage to grab onto the railing - but long, dexterous fingers pry your hands from the wood, making your knuckles crack in the process.

You’re cursing so loud its almost screaming – long strings of punctuated sound forming into words that you’d know make the top of Wolf’s ears go red if you could see them.

The prick-and-pinch of a needle into the underside of your elbow – into a vein, you figure – almost goes undetected, but Gods, this is worse than you thought and he’s trying to sooth you – “Just let it happen. Just let go.” - and the back of your head pounds once more into Wolf’s sternum before you start to slump into a dark, still place.

“There,” she says, her voice low and satisfied. Pleased with itself. She sits back up and twists the nob on the end of a lipstick tube, admiring her work.

Then you’re sitting upright, ankles crossed, on a strange and uncomfortable couch with rust colored paisley fabric. It’s almost like the one Mom had in her trailer when you were growing up. You’d sit on that thing for hours, watching PBS and letting Trix cereal go gummy in your mouth while you waited for someone – anyone – to get home.

The light feels gold and dusty – it looks like late afternoon, and you’re sitting on this couch in a strange house on a quiet street somewhere in the past – but not quite. It’s a pocket you’ve been slipped into by an invisible hand.

The strong smell of stale cigarette smoke hits you, and a woman is leaning in, wiping something across your mouth…no, your lips.

“So much better than that garish orangy color you were in the other night.”

“Janice?”

You’re stunned - put your hand to your lips as she smiles. Her hair and eyes are dark except for little flecks of copper that you can see gleaming too brightly in the glow from an open window.

“If you want to know what lip color men will find most attractive on you, just take a look at the inside of your bottom lip - or your other lips…down there. You know. That’s where the skin can tell you most about your complexion. You’re better in a good glossy nude. Too bad I can’t actually sell you one anymore.”

She blinks, then smiles again. It’s a cold expression, and for a moment, you want to wash whatever part of your face she’s touched.

Gauzy cream-colored curtains dress the sill - match the couch.

“He’s going to start whining again,” she says, tone flat.

“Was always such a – well, I had to lock him in his room sometimes because he just couldn’t leave me alone. Jane was easier.”

You shudder. This had ceased being a cute homage to Donna Reed’s Mary Kay lady and had taken a hard right into Disturbia.

“Is…is there something you want me to say? To him, I mean?”

A dramatic sigh unleashes itself from the dark little woman’s mouth, and she looks upwards for a few seconds.

“I suggest,” she starts, “that you tell him whatever he wants to hear. He’s still going to hurt you, but maybe it won’t be as bad if you just…play along.”

You stare dumbly at this person you know isn’t actually a person anymore, and something icy in your chest begins to spread into the rest of your body. Your head hurts – Jesus, it hurts…

“And if he tells you anything about the cigarette, remind him that it was just ash. I didn’t mean to burn him.”

It’s the last thing you hear before the woman, the couch, the room, and the window are gone.

Moving your head feels like trying to do a pull-up in gym class.

You come to and register the warm weight on your abdomen.

No real point in it.

So you stare through heavy-lidded eyes at your own ceiling and concentrate on breathing. It’s dark outside now, but the small table lamp next to your bed is on. Everything might as well be hidden by the cigarette smoke still lingering in your nostrils. Lines, edges, and shapes still blur, but you try to raise and crack your neck.

It’s gone stiff again. Your joints are more like hinges these days. If it’s not the conversations in your satellite ears, it’s the near-disjuncture of bone.

“No, no – still. Just be still. You slept a long time, but you’re not going to be able to move well for an hour or two yet. Just be patient.”

You swallow hard, drumbeat of your heart vibrating at the surface. Then you’re wrapped in what might’ve been a comforting embrace in other, better circumstances. You nearly cry, and dammit, if only you’d ever been held tight in a way you could trust.

Not like this, the shittiest substitute for true love in the universe.

There’s no pan, sharp steel jaws, or the cut of an upper bow into your flesh but you’ve still stepped right onto the trigger of a nasty trap.

It takes a few moments to realize that someone is holding your right hand – rubbing your fingers and knuckles back to life, drawing circles thumb to palm - mound of Venus, plain of Mars, sun line, heart line, the list goes on and you name each part as he touches the skin.

“I only wanted to talk to her – talk to you. Even though you were so rude and said mean things, I still just wanted to talk.”

Now a mouth and nose in your hair – deep inhale and hot breath out, still metallic but now there’s the choking fumes of nicotine, too.

“Easy,” he mutters, face in your hair again.

“Just lay back and relax. Just be my good little witch baby. You’re ok. You’ll see.”

You can’t help the coughing fit, and after a few moments of trying to breath, Wolf hauls your torso upright and positions himself behind you so that you’re lying on his chest, both of his thighs and legs boxing your body in.

Nope. Don’t like that.

Whatever term of endearment, nickname or fucked up turn-of-phrase he’s decided to saddle you with is unwelcome. In all the old stories, people only rename someone they have power over.

It isn’t fair. This is your home– you and Tess’. He doesn’t get to claim anything.

Begone, before someone drops a house on you!

You arch again, rise up.

He holds tighter, so no dice.

“You saw her. Spoke with her,” he says, a little dreamily.

“Did she tell you that she died when I was nine? Did she tell you that my sister and I came home after school and found her in the garage with the car running?”

You could feel his chest heave – heard a dam break, and felt Wolf’s head on your shoulder, lashes below salt-and-pepper curls leaving tears on the skin there. After a few minutes, you hear Wolf sniff, and clear his throat.

“I’ve only known you – known about you for, what, three days? But you already know so much about me. You really really really know me.”

Tell him what he wants to hear. He’s still going to hurt you, but maybe -

You lick your dry, rubbery lips.

He won’t believe she’s sorry. From the short encounter you’d had, you know that Janice – that Wolf’s mother hadn’t been an especially empathetic person.

You’ll try, though. Try to give him something. No lying. That’s cursed.

So you turn a key in the ignition of your voice box and wait – at first there’s only a wheezing sound that comes out, but then you’re making words and the wheezing is at least audible. Still, it’s like someone else’s voice is traveling through your throat. Maybe that’s exactly what’s happening.

“She’s - she’s sorry about the burn. She didn’t mean to burn you with the ash from her cigarette, John,” you manage.

You feel him nod.

“I know,” he mutters.

“I know. Hey, do you want to see the scar?”

No, not especially – but he’s already undone his khakis and slid them off, one leg at a time. You’re left anchored against bare thighs, bunched up pants, and a pair of white briefs. You try to regulate your breathing - ignore a pronounced bulge poking your lower back. He takes your hand – your left hand, this time – interlaces his fingers with yours, and drags the digits over a smooth divot in the skin above his knee.

The left hand symbolizes the past for most people. You wonder if he knows.

“It’s just there. Feel it?”

You try to nod, and there’s a surprised gust of quiet laughter above you.

“Oh my, your hands are so soft and warm. How do you keep them like that, Witch Baby?”

You think about all the times Tess told you to use coco butter on your skin, and how – to this day – the light, sugary smell reminds you of her. It’s not enough to bring you any real comfort in this moment, so you try to shrug.

“It’s swell to feel skin like this. I know you can’t move much, but -”

A verbal warning shot. It feels like a pang at the base of your neck that jolts you even further into consciousness. His pelvis presses forward while he hums a little to himself - you try to arch your back away.

“How long has it been, hmm? Since someone has touched any part of you, and it wasn’t at the bar – wasn’t just another day’s work.”

John’s hand is holding yours fast at your side now, and the other – the one at your right in what is already the future – still sits limp, a separate, traitorous thing disconnected from the whole.

“How long has it been since someone’s really touched you? My skin isn’t anything like yours, but- I can. I can touch you, Witch Baby.”

“Please,” you whisper, still forcing the sound.

“P-please don’t hurt me.”

“Hurt you? No, that’s not the way this story goes.”

There’s a sigh and you feel the singular rise and fall of his chest. You imagine that he’s put out by your pleas. How many has he heard over the decades, anyway? They must all be like old songs now. He’s listened to them on repeat, the vinyl wearing down into the player bit by bit. There’s nothing particularly new about your song – just the woman singing it.

“Here’s the thing,”

You squint your eyes, recognizing the familiar turn of phrase from the other night.

“Little Red Riding Hood wasn’t really in danger. Might’ve been if there’d been more time, but some woman came along and got smart with the Wolf.”

John shifts again, and it’s like falling deeper below a waterline. Your heartbeat is the only rapid thing you have right now. Everything else is fuzzy, swimming.

“…But he forgave her because now he’ll never lose his mother again.”

Ah. There it is.

“It doesn’t work like that,” you start, but he hushes you, placing one finger over your lips, finally bending the first knuckle joint to trace the seam.

“The Woodcutter Witch Baby is good at saving everyone except herself. She knows things other people don’t – can’t. But I’m a seer, too. I’m the Wolf that can see in the dark. So she’s mine now and I’m hers. My mother would’ve told me so – showed up for a reason, don’t you think?”

He kisses your hair, smooths one side of it even as you jolt.

“I take care of what’s mine.”

And you knew this was probably coming, but you didn’t think it was going to happen quickly.

There had been at least…a dozen?

No, fourteen or more women and you can only catch impressions and flashes. It’s all on the river again, scraps floating with a current. You don’t try to fish for particulars - you don’t want to see or hear or understand more than you already do.

The most recent woman was from Missouri – was stuck on the side of the road. Less than a year ago. Her car had broken down, and she’d been thankful that someone in a suit with a nice, shiny, expensive red Dodge had found her.

Money, manners – seemed like a gentleman if not awkward, but that was forgivable.

Any port in a storm was better than walking along the side of the highway towards town.

Her name was Miranda.

She’d had long, dark hair.

Dark eyes.

“I don’t want to go to the gas station anymore…”

Catching your breath and listening to your heart in your ears makes everything echo and split, then you feel something dripping down your face – tears? Sweat? It’s hard to know. There’s a low tutting, and the callused skin of one long hand wiping moisture away from the slant of your cheekbone.

“Don’t cry,” John says as he unbuttons your overall straps.

“This is our first time. Don’t ruin it by crying, ok?”

He peels your tank off next, and you curse your decision to forego a bra today. Next, he shucks your overalls onto the floor, leaving you shivering. Cotton panties – pragmatic and clean – are the only thing that cover you

Gently – so gently that it hurts, he works his way out from where he’s sitting, taking care to lower your head and torso against your pillow covered with your favorite set of sheets.

You’ll have to burn them now.

He likes taking what’s important, and he’s probably glad that the drugs haven’t worn off.

Yeah, consent doesn’t really seem like his thing. He gets off on the force – the bending of one will to another.

Wait.

Wait, wait, wait.

Stupid, but plausible. A last scatter-shot card trick to play.

Maybe it’s because you’re used to understanding what people want to hear, and therefore understand the inverse. Maybe it’s because your livelihood depends on the performance of grandiose suggestion. One more chance, then…

“John,” you manage, trying to make your eyes large and your voice pleading.

“This is exactly how I saw it – this is as it should be. We’ll be together forever and ever, won’t we?”

Everything stops down to the second, and you hold your breath to see if you’ve managed the most important performance of your fucking life. “You like me! You really like me,” cries Sally Field in your head. And anyway, why should he enjoy himself if you don’t?

Maybe this is as good as a kick to the groin. There’s a stopper in the bottle and a limp dick on the horizon, you know it in your gut. Ah, it’s fun to outsmart silly over-important monster-men, even now. Even like this.

…And that’s why you don’t expect the slap across the left side of your face.

“Don’t lie to me,” he growls.

Cursed.

“You’re clever, but so am I. And you’re not a whore.”

“C’mon, Kid! What’s so bad about sex work? Oldest profession in the world…John.”

Another smack this time on the right side - then an index and middle digit straight into the back of your throat. His face is close, directly over yours so that both noses touch. John’s eyes are saucer-wide again, and he drips concern instead of fury. You consider how that’s somehow worse, then try to breathe through an obstructed airway.

“It can get worse, see?”

He huffs a little, watching your reaction.

“I know - it’s going to take some time for you to get used to how things will be from now on, but you need discipline. Manners. I mean, just look how you’re coughing and drooling all over my hand.”

You vaguely register how he’s parted your thighs with his legs, one knee pressing against the gusset of thin fabric there as he finally removes his fingers from your mouth so that he can pull off his briefs.

He tugs – rips away - the barrier between his spit-covered fingers and your center, then works them into the scalding channel of your cunt.

No preamble, just control and the spread of warmth from some part of yourself that’s out of practice – the hindbrain whines, begs you to go pliant and stupid. The pace he sets all but orders your body to react to the twisting heat of his long fingers, now second-knuckle deep inside you – or, at the very least, have the grace to cut your losses and submit.

You refuse to make a sound and it’s hard with the force that he’s applying while pumping his digits in and out of you, but then you remember to lie back and think of England or the city park in springtime or the way you’re going to take a long, hot bath after this – plot and plan till you know just what to do.

He can have what he likes for now, but it’s not you. Not really.

Your body, horrible weak system of dumb nerves and flesh that it is - begins reacting to John’s ministrations – wet sounds and his low moans reach you in your daze. He cups the connecting space between your ass and inner thigh, then slaps it summarily - knows what spot to hit, damn him – then presses his fingers up and forward while watching himself work.

“You’re a messy girl, Witch Baby. Just – so, so wet. What am I going to do with all this? Does it taste as good as it smells?”

You’re fine – you really are – until he runs the flat of his tongue from where your opening to the top, then nips at your clit, worrying the nub with the edge of his teeth until you shout and all that’s left is the contrast between where he is, and where the air hits.

“She…she said,”

You can’t help it – there’s still some part of you that thinks the right information will make this stop. You keep feeding coins into the machine, hoping for a lucky pull of the lever.

“She told me that ‘if you want to know what lip color men will find most attractive on you, just take a look at the inside of your bottom lip or your lips down there.’”

And it’s just a satellite transmission like everything else you hear, but there’s a pause – there’s consideration. John hums from his position between your legs.

“Mmmm. Sounds right. It’s pink and brown. Mauve, maybe. Better than the shade you were in the other night.”

“Mah-auuu-ve? That’s not how you say it!”

The feeling is starting to come back to your limbs – you can tell because they twitch every time he hits someplace unused to touch. He’s laid your legs out nicely, all tidy like a good suit. Finally, he turns you on your left side facing away from him, then molds his body around you – part of the moon being swallowed, making shadows darker than pitch in the sky.

“Shush,” he says, then slaps the outside of your thigh again hard enough to sting.

Your breathing stutters – it can’t be helped – frightened and unsteady in skin that does not feel like your own, and he’s much too close. His hardness and considerable heft angles between the crease where both your thighs touch, now sticky-slick against the skin there.

“So how does someone teach a Witch Baby manners?”

A moan or cry or both from your throat, and then John’s hips jut upwards. You feel the blunt touch of something solid at your entrance, pushing bit by bit until your body gives.

You’re pried open, fruit crushed and parted by someone who knows how to breach a rind – knows what such force can do to a woman. You think of little red, inside the wolf’s stomach, just like in the fairy tale. And you think of how greedy someone hungry can be. You aren’t used to this – to any man – but not this kind of length or hot girth, struggling to make room against your walls.

“It’s a lot, I know,” he purrs into your ear, kissing the side of your face. His arm is around your waist, pulling you flush – making sure there’s no squirming away, and you choke on a whine that leaks from your throat.

“It’s ok, though. You’re doing so, so good for me. And you’re going to lay here. And you’re not going to move. You’re going to mind your manners and be my pretty cock warmer. When you’ve earned it, I’ll let you cum. But you have to earn it.”

Not so bad, you think. You can do this. You can-

“Don’t clench, Witch Baby. I can feel you tighten. That’s cheating. Just lay here. Still – still. Let me feel you take me.”

Not enough salt in the wound yet, you think. He’s going to make you come undone. He’s going to make you hungry, just like him. You hiccup, trying to stay lax while your blood thrums and you feel something dripping from in between your legs.

“Soft and warm all over,” he muses, and absentmindedly cups one of your breasts, worrying the nipple with the rough pad of his thumb. Every so often, he readjusts – pushes a little deeper. You feel wetness seeping through the edges of your opening, then move, tightening ever so slightly - so he scolds.

“How long this lasts is up to you. Can you keep that mouth sweet for me? Can you be sweet for me, Witch Baby?”

Panic sets in – there’s a thrumming, hot pulse inside your cunt. There’s an itch that claws into the low part of your stomach. You want teeth on your clit again, God help you. You need friction.

And he’s not as clever as he thinks he is, either.

“Let me…t-tell you how this story actually goes,” you manage.

“You’re going to stop being a stupid brute and give me the orgasm of my life, or I’m never going to be the little go-between for you and her again.”

There’s a catch of the breath, and you know he’s heard you –hadn’t considered this outcome.

“Stars and fireworks, Kid,” you continue.

“I better not be able to remember my own goddamn name. You worked hard to find a way to fuck me….so fuck me.”

You’re a little surprised when John laughs – like he can’t believe your cheek, his luck, or both.

He buries his face into the side of your neck.

“I don’t want to break you. Not yet.”

“I promise not to be disappointed when you can’t.”

He doesn’t need more goading.

Wolf snarls, then rolls the both of you over till you’re on your stomach, positioning you ass-up, violently slotting himself inside.

He pushes – battering-ram rough, and the air leaves your body; a snap of his hips back, and then another push on repeat. Fast – hard as he can make it. You (finally) bite your tongue; you can’t form words and now you know the taste of copper isn’t pennies but blood.

The wetness that built up inside you eases the friction – the hurt; he’s pressed so far in that you’re almost sure your cervix is going to break and bruise, but he hits just right and, oh, you hadn’t wanted this, but women who exist on high-up ledges and have conversations with the stars and maybe get burnt on pyres for their troubles – you all and must make the best of things.

He grabs part of your hair by the roots – tugs up. Your eyes roll back, then go level - consider the headboard, the light from the lamp and distantly, you track each slap of wet skin and hear him getting breathy while a tightness in you builds. There’s no time to enjoy the climb – his fingers are circling your clit – lazily brushing around the nub then rubbing in mad circles. He’s unpracticed – doesn’t usually have to make an effort. He’s memorized the manual, but the muscle memory isn’t there.

It never mattered before. Making someone orgasm when they don’t want to – that’s the main thing.

But you…

His thrusts – they’re too hard and you can’t yet you can’t but there’s something just past what is pain and you lunge for it. Snap, crackle, pop; you tighten and release like a spring while spots cloud your peripheral vision.

Then your body sags, letting satisfaction settle in. Wolf eats the rest of his meal as you listen and watch from somewhere outside yourself. When the hot spurt of release coats your channel – when the sweating, heaving torso collapses onto your back, you know John’s finished.

The weight pushes straight down, so you place one cheek flat against the cotton sheet underneath while he catches his breath, takes his fingers and traces the length of your spine as if trying to read between the indented dip and the bones underneath.

RCA TK-1test card pattern for monoscope viewing.

We are experiencing technical difficulties.

The satellite glitches - everything goes darker than pitch in the sky.

And John, the silly monster-man, mutters something that’s softer and kinder than it has any right to be – but then everything goes quiet.

Oh, Stars, palm lines, and space junk – just what in the hell are you supposed to do now?

#John Tyler x reader #john tyler tell me your secrets #john tyler my beloathed #it's like i read that excerpt from the cheats #then told linklater hold my beer

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mintaka14 · 3 years

Link

For the Lady’s Favour

A Miraculous Ladybug Fanfiction

By Mintaka14

Chapter One

Alya made soothing noises while Marinette moaned softly.

“It was just a setback,” Alya reassured her.

“It was a disaster was what it was,” Marinette mumbled into her desk, and wrapped her arms over her head. “Why does it always have to be so hard? Maybe the universe just doesn’t want me to be with Adrien.”

“I am not letting the universe dictate to us!” Alya insisted, and anyone watching would have felt for the universe in the face of Alya’s expression. As it was, Marinette didn’t look up.

“I’m just so tired,” Marinette muttered. “I’m tired of trying so hard to just speak to him without turning into a babbling mess. I’m tired of trying to get him to notice me.”

Alya patted her on her back.

“Why can’t someone chase me for a change? Where’s a knight in shining armour when you need one? Every anime heroine has one, why can’t I?”

Alya’s hand slowed. “You might be onto something there,” she said thoughtfully, but Marinette didn’t hear her.

“Someone willing to do brave deeds to win me,” Marinette said wistfully. “Go on quests, and do stuff to prove that I’m more than a good friend.”

Alya was sitting out of her line of sight. It sounded like she was writing something, but when Marinette turned to look Alya waved her away.

“You were saying about brave deeds?”

“I’d settle for a cup of coffee and someone who actually wants to spend time with me.”

“Got it,” Alya said, and Marinette swivelled around at the sound of tearing paper, but Alya had folded whatever it was out of sight. She reached across Marinette and snagged an envelope from the stationery drawer. As an afterthought, Alya snatched up a tiny sticker of a ladybug and added it to the envelope.

“Listen, I’ve got to meet Nino in a minute,” Alya told her a little guiltily. “You gonna be okay? I can come back later…”

Marinette waved her away with one hand. “I’m fine.” She sighed. “It’s not like I’m not used to crushing humiliation.”

She was engulfed in a hug, and then Alya whirled away to the staircase, the envelope in her hand.

“You will be fine,” her friend insisted. “Trust me.”

The door clicked shut, and Marinette frowned.

“Why did that sound so ominous?” she asked the suddenly silent bedroom.

~~~~~

Once the afternoon rush in Café des Fleurs started to settle, Luka paused to flick his blue-dyed hair out of his eyes and glanced around the tables. Everything seemed under control for the moment, no one needing refills, no empty tables that needed to be cleared. Most of the faces that afternoon were new to him, but one of the tables near the counter was occupied by three teenagers laughing over something.

The blond boy looked familiar, and Luka frowned, trying to remember where he knew him from. He wasn’t a regular customer. The kid with the headphones around his neck and the amiable expression was, though, and Luka remembered Nino because he had good taste in music and sometimes stopped to chat whenever the counter wasn’t too busy. Nino’s girlfriend, the sharp-eyed girl with the glasses, was pointing at the noticeboard beside the counter, and Luka turned to look.

The envelope pinned to the board that she was gesturing at hadn’t been there at the start of his shift, he was sure of that. He’d put up a flyer for his band’s gig on Friday, and there definitely hadn’t been an envelope of any sort there then. In fact, he could have sworn it wasn’t there before Nino and his girlfriend arrived in the middle of the afternoon rush.

He narrowed his eyes, leaning on the counter, as the girl unpinned it with overdone surprise and handed it to the blond boy.

“I wonder what this is, Adrien?” she asked disingenuously.

Radiant. Carefree. Dreamy. Adrien the Fragrance.

Luka’s eyebrow rose as he made the connection. Huh. That explained why the blond boy was so familiar. He’d been plastered on every billboard in Paris, and played out on every media site for what felt like months. Pretty enough, Luka supposed, but a little too synthetic for his taste.

“Are you brave enough?” the girl was reading from the envelope. “Well, are you going to open it, Adrien?”

“What if it’s for someone else?” the blond boy responded, turning it in his hands.

“There’s no name on it. Go on, you should open it.”

Egged on by his friends, Adrien opened the envelope, and Luka watched the the boy’s eyes go wide as he read the letter inside. He was looking for all the world as though every Christmas had come at once. And Nino’s girlfriend was trying to suppress a satisfied, and rather smug, smirk.

Luka bit back an amused smile, and turned away to deal with another customer, too busy to pay them any more mind for a while until he looked up from the coffee he was pouring to find the blond boy standing in front of the counter.

Radiant. Carefree… Damn. He was going to have that stuck in his head all day now. Hadn’t his sister said something about going to school with Adrien Agreste, the model?

The boy tapped the envelope on the edge of the counter, and then slid it towards Luka.

“I don’t suppose you saw who left this on the noticeboard, did you?” he asked hopefully. Luka sent a quick glance towards the table where Nino and his girlfriend wer sitting.

Pretty sure that was your friend’s girlfriend. He didn’t voice the thought, and, after all, he didn’t know for sure. Were they playing some kind of prank on the blond model?

“Sorry, mate,” he told Adrien. “But it can’t have been that long ago. It wasn’t there before the rush started.”

Adrien spun around to eye off the busy tables, but there were mostly middle-aged office workers and a couple of families with very young children, and he slumped noticeably.

“She’s not here,” he muttered. He turned back to Luka with a smile that looked a little too practised to be genuine. “Thanks, though.”

The girl leaned in as Adrien slid back into the chair beside her, and she seemed to be insisting on something. In the glimpses he had of the table between customers, Luka could see her talking hard at Adrien while the model scribbled something on a piece of paper in front of him with a look of deep concentration. Nino seemed to be staying out of it.

Luka was sliding a tray of coffee and pain au chocolat across the counter for the waitress to collect when Adrien approached the counter again, looking nervous now.

“Excuse me?”

Luka gave him an easy smile, and a raised eyebrow.

“Can I… put something on the noticeboard?”

“Feel free,” Luka said, and then his attention was claimed by a woman ordering café crème to go. When he finally had a moment to glance up, Adrien seemed to be getting ready leave, and there was a folded piece of paper pinned to the spot where the envelope had been. Luka leaned on the counter, waiting for the next move.

Sure enough, as soon as the model was out the door and into the expensive-looking black car that had pulled up outside the café, Nino’s girlfriend was taking down the note Adrien had left on the board. Nino didn’t look happy about it, Luka noticed.

“Alya,” the boy said, “are you sure this is a good idea?”

She gave him a dismissive wave of her hand. “It’s fine, Nino. It’s genius. You’ll see.”

They gathered their bags and headed for the door, neither of them seeing the sceptical lift of Luka’s eyebrow as he collected up their empty cups and gave the table a wipe. The customers got stranger every day.

~~~~~

Marinette hadn’t been expecting to see Alya again that afternoon, and when her bedroom trapdoor crashed open, the pencil swerved across the design she’d been sketching. Marinette muttered under her breath, and reached for the eraser.

“Tadah!” Alya announced, producing a folded page with a flourish and a smug grin. She held it out to Marinette. “You can thank me later.”

“What?” Marinette turned it in her hands, frowning at the little paw print drawn in one corner. “Alya, what is this?”

“This is your very own secret knight. Go on, read it!”

“Alya, what are you talking about?”

“Remember you were talking about wanting someone to do heroic deeds for you? So you don’t have to trip over yourself trying to get them to notice you?”

“Alya –“

“Just read it!” her friend said impatiently, and Marinette unfolded the page, reading the message inside.

‘My lady, Your bravery in issuing the challenge shall not go unmarked. I would be honoured to try for your favour with heroic deeds …’

“Alya, what the hell is this?!”

Alya’s grin grew wider and sharper. “Remember what you were talking about? Well, I just wrote it down and put it up on the public notice board at that coffee shop near the park. And someone took it!”

“Alya!”

Marinette stared at her friend in growing horror.

“How could you do this?! Someone wants to try for my favour? What kind of weirdo would do that?? What kind of friend would do that? I don’t even know who this is from! What if this is some creepy perv? What if –“

“Mari, calm down,” Alya cut off her rising panic. “Look, you’ve got nothing to lose here. They don’t know who you are, you don’t know who they are, you never have to even talk to them in person if you don’t want – it’s perfect.”

“Who – wha –“

“And of course I’m going to check them out for you, and make sure they’re not some skeev,” Alya added soothingly. She put her hands on Marinette’s shoulders, leaning down to meet her eyes. “I’ve got you covered. And, hey, what if it’s some really cute teenage boy who’ll love you forever? All you have to do is send a note back and get them to do something to show they’re serious.”

Marinette’s head was still spinning. “Like – what?”

Alya shrugged. “Coffee’s always a good start. Coffee’s a good first date, and you can find out a lot about a person by their taste in drinks. Ask them to send a coffee to wherever you want, and I’ll even deliver your request to the noticeboard myself. You don’t have to do a thing except wait for it to turn up. I’ve got you.”

“Coffee?” Marinette found herself repeating stupidly, and Alya gave her a grin.

“Or something like that.”

“I can do coffee. One drink can’t hurt, can it?”

#For the Lady's Favour #lukanette #pro lukamari #lukanette endgame #Dash&Lily AU #shenanigans #Alya no!

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justforbooks · 4 years

Photo

The Italian publisher, editor and collector Franco Maria Ricci has died at the age of 82.

In sumptuously produced art books, and as editor of the bi-monthly art magazine FMR, Ricci published writing by Jorge Luis Borges, Italo Calvino, Umberto Eco, Roland Barthes and many others over the course of his long and distinguished career. In 2019, Susan Moore visited his estate at Fontanellato, near Parma, where in recent years Ricci had constructed the largest labyrinth in the world out of bamboo; they discussed Ricci’s notable collection of largely 18th- and 19th-century sculpture and paintings, as well as his library of books published by the great typographer Giambattista Bodoni, whose works Ricci had reprinted in his first foray into publishing. The interview is published in full below.

Collecting may be read as a form of autobiography written with works of art rather than words. In the case of Franco Maria Ricci, his is a life composed of both words and pictures. He has not only published the most lavishly produced art magazine – FMR – and art books in the world, but also spent the last 50 years amassing a peerless collection of volumes produced by the great Italian typographer, compositor and publisher Giambattista Bodoni (1740–1813) and a rich, eclectic collection of some 500 largely neoclassical and baroque paintings and sculptures. Both collections are at the heart of his most recent and extraordinary venture, the creation of the immense, star-shaped Labirinto della Masone, near Parma, the largest labyrinth in the world – and surely one of the few planted with bamboo.

There is something surreal, and slightly disturbing, about turning off the autostrada and suddenly encountering this majestic bamboo structure rising 10m or more above the plains of the Po valley. For all its elegant calligraphic stems and angular leaves, this is not the sparse specimen bamboo of Chinese ink-painting, but a forest. Here, more than 200,000 of these fast-growing bamboos arch upward in their quest for light. Once I turn into the drive of what was originally Ricci’s grandfather’s estate at Fontanellato, the brilliant azure June sky all but disappears. By the end of my two-day visit, it seems that the contrasts of light and dark are an apt metaphor for the book and art collections – and for the entire complex of maze, museum, archive and chapel, the latter built in the form of a pyramid. Ricci has always been part rationalist, part visionary.

Ricci’s story begins with the book. ‘I grew up surrounded by my father’s books. Reading Shakespeare, Homer, Joyce and Dante saved me from bad taste,’ he once said. ‘It made beauty simple, familiar and immediate in my eyes.’ It was a book, too, that transformed his life and launched a long and successful career: Bodoni’s Manuale tipografico, first published in 1818. Before his discovery of Bodoni’s works in the Biblioteca Palatina in Parma in the 1960s, a career in publishing seemed unlikely. The stylish Ricci, a racing driver and a dandy with dark cherubic curls, was best known for patterning the snow in the piazza around Parma Cathedral with the wheels of his E-type Jaguar. Even Bernardo Bertolucci remembered that car.

As a young man, Ricci had wanted to study archaeology, but an uncle in the oil world persuaded him to sign up for geology instead. After three months in Turkey spent looking for oil that was not there, he realised the oil business was not for him. Yet his education proved critical in unlikely ways. He spent weekends exploring the mysterious, labyrinthine underground tunnels and caves that are a feature of the Romagna region of Italy. He also designed posters for Parma University’s theatre festival that caught the attention of an American curator preparing a show of Italian design in New York. He became, inadvertently, a graphic artist, and went on to create striking graphics for everything from Poste Italiane to Alitalia.

Ricci has long insisted that ‘Bodoni was not only a typographer. He achieved modernity and elegance through graphic art. He was, like Canova, a champion of neoclassicism but in two dimensions. I immediately fell in love with the proportions, the concept of beauty.’ Bodoni’s genius was not simply the freshness, rigour and precision of the typefaces, with their dramatic contrasts between thick and thin line, but also his sense of how to lay out a page. Texts are set with extravagantly wide margins and with little or no decoration.

Ricci decided to reproduce the master’s Manuale tipografico, although everyone told him he was mad to do it. He bought two early offset typography machines which, he noted, were ‘as expensive as a Ferrari, which I wanted to buy but never did’, and had the highest-quality paper made exclusively for the project by Fabriano. It took a year to publish the three volumes in 900 numbered copies (1964–65). ‘So I became a publisher. It became a bestseller.’

Much to his mother’s horror, Ricci decided to continue to publish very expensive books – art books printed in Bodonian style – and later, literary editions, several series of which were edited by Jorge Luis Borges, whose presence looms large in library and labyrinth. At a time when Arte Povera dominated the Italian avant-garde, Ricci chose opulent black silk covers embossed with gold, and printed on costly pale blue Fabriano paper with handmade plates. He wanted his books to be rare – printing small editions – but also surprising. He gave Roland Barthes, Umberto Eco, Italo Calvino and Borges free rein to write accompanying texts.

His wife Laura Casalis remembers having been struck by the originality of Ricci’s 1970 book on the then little-appreciated Erté – text by Barthes – before she met the publisher himself in 1975, and soon found herself working on a book on red paper-cut portraits of Mao, accompanied by 39 of the Chairman’s own poems printed in Chinese characters. ‘Little by little I slipped into publishing with him – Franco was a workaholic and I realised that was the only way I would see him. Those Mao paper-cuts were typical of the practically unknown subjects that he would seek out all his life, and we sometimes show them between loan exhibitions in the museum. Franco has l’occhio lungo – he can see beauty in something which may take others a long time to recognise.’

It is in the library I find Ricci and, indeed, where he is to be found most mornings and afternoons. It is part of a cluster of picturesque 19th-century stone buildings surrounded by lush and increasingly exotic gardens. He had begun renovating the dilapidated stables behind his grandfather’s long-abandoned villa as a summerhouse and library in the 1970s, and its enormous hayloft still serves as an idyllic open-air dining room and entertaining space, even though the couple have now moved into the main house. Inside this romantic half-ruined folly, Ricci created the unexpected: two neoclassical library rooms lined with bookshelves and marble busts, their domed and coffered ceilings reminiscent of those in the Biblioteca Palatina.

As soon as we arrive in the inner sanctum, the Bodoni library with its more than 1,200 volumes – missing a tantalising three or four tomes but otherwise complete – Ricci is immediately up on his feet and pulling down and opening cherished volumes, eyes blazing. Despite the heat, he wears an elegant embroidered linen waistcoat but not its jacket, which hangs nearby, bearing the synthetic red flower that became in effect his iconographical device. (Tai Missoni gave him a cardigan as a present: Ricci declined the gift – he does not wear cardigans – but declared that he would always wear the red flower from its packaging thereafter, which he did. Once, when he had forgotten the flower, an officer at the Alitalia desk at Milan airport said: ‘I see you are travelling incognito today Mr Ricci.’)

Now Ricci deftly presents Bodoni’s Essai de caractères russes… of 1782, and his 1789 edition of Torquato Tasso’s pastoral play Aminta, exquisitely illuminated for the Prince of Essling. These are dear friends and the joy as he handles these pages is self-evident. This is the only significant part of the collection not to have been moved down to the museum and archive complex, a short bamboo-lined drive away. It is clear that he could never bear to live apart from these books.

The impetus to create the long-imagined labyrinth, and a museum and library to house his collections and publishing archive, was a diagnosis of Parkinson’s disease. The couple sold the publishing house in 1982, and their house in Milan, and moved to Fontanellato. There is a fierce pride in Laura Casalis’s voice as she explains: ‘Franco wanted to do it, he imagined it, and he found the right team of people to help him realise it.’ We are sitting over coffee in the Labirinto courtyard surveying the sharp-edged geometries of its rose-pink brick buildings, a place that already has the air of a lost ancient city discovered in a jungle. Laura describes the evolution of the museum collections within, and recalls the words of the late Italian publisher Valentino Bompiani, who described Ricci as a man of courage and fantasy.

‘Whenever he fell for some subject or artist, Franco would try to buy.’ Laura continues. ‘He was never concerned with what was or was not fashionable, and never bought to decorate a house. He collected pieces that he liked that were strange or unconventional.’ He began with Art Deco, first buying inexpensive little bronze and chryselephantine dancers by the likes of Demétre Chiparus (1886–1947), as well as Guiraud-Rivière’s dramatic figure of Isadora Duncan with two bears, which dominates the central space of the 20th-century gallery in the museum.

Here, too, are three paintings by the outsider artist Antonio Ligabue (1899–1965), a tormented soul who had led a tragic life, painting and wandering around the Po valley when he was not confined to a psychiatric hospital. Ricci published the first monograph on the artist in 1967, two years after his death, a work that helped catapult the artist from provincial to national and then international fame. Two years later, he bought two of the artist’s bold, visceral close-up heads of roaring tigers, painted in the 1950s, including the key work that had been selected for the book cover. A no less bright and richly impasted self-portrait in the guise of Vincent Van Gogh followed a year later.

Ricci also championed – and collected – the work of the third dominant presence in this space, Adolfo Wildt (1868–1931), often described as the last Symbolist but one whose reputation was, as Laura puts it, ‘tarnished by Fascist association’. Ricci published a monograph in 1988, the same year that he acquired the strange masterpiece that is Vir temporis acti of 1913, a virtuoso marble bust of a Greek or Roman soldier reimagined through the combined lenses of Michelangelo and the Secessionists. The expressive anguish of this head may be seen as a symbol of the nobility and redemption of sacrifice, but it is the refined and gleaming silken surface that led to Brancusi.

Ricci has a penchant not only for sculpture but also portraits, and portrait busts in particular. ‘I have hunted portraits all my life. I never get tired of looking at them,’ he confesses, ‘and in turn, I feel observed by them.’ In the 1990s, he began following the art market and collecting in earnest. Ricci had an office, bookshop and apartment in Paris and there and in Monaco he was to acquire many of his largely French 18th-century terracottas, some of the most compelling by less familiar names. A superb example is the bust of an intense, low-browed individual, signed by one A. Riffard and given the Revolutionary date of ‘9. Fructidor an 3e’, from 1794–95.

Another naturalistic tour de force is one of very few known terracottas by Francesco Orso, also known as François Orsy, a Piedmontese sculptor also active in Paris. Orso is responsible for the rarest sculptures here: the disconcerting life-size polychrome wax portrait busts of Vittorio Amadeo III of Savoy and his wife Maria Antonia Ferdinanda di Borbone, complete with painted papier-mâché clothes. The revolution destroyed the sculptor’s courtly patronage in Paris, and he diversified into the more overtly commercial world of the waxwork with a show featuring an effigy of the aristocratic revolutionary leader the Comte de Mirabeau and popular tableaux on themes such as Marat’s assassination by Charlotte Corday.

Unsurprisingly, given Ricci’s passion for Bodoni, the neoclassical looms large. At the centre of the Napoleonic gallery, lined with marble busts – Italian, English and Danish – is a model of Canova’s ideal head of Dante’s muse Beatrice, first conceived as an idealised portrait of Mme Récamier. The display offers a witty face-off between Wellington and Napoleon on opposing pedestals, but the emperor prevails with a sequence of classicising family portraits. Above hangs the second version of Francesco Hayez’s The Penitent Magdalene (1825). Here the Romantic artist has transposed the chilly perfection of Canova’s marble surfaces into pigment.

An unusual and endearing mid 18th-century Italian group portrait presents the family of Antonio Ghidini, a cloth merchant to the Bourbon court in Parma, painted by his friend, the court artist Pietro Melchiorre Ferrari (1734/5–87). In this Zoffany-style conversation piece there is no doubting Ghidini’s business, as he points to documents mentioning his association with his trading partners in Manchester and his wife sits stiffly under her salmon-pink stomacher in sprigged and striped silk finery.

Yet it would be misleading to suggest that Ricci’s ever-curious eye never ranged beyond the 18th and 19th centuries. He owns a number of 17th-century marbles, including that of the all-powerful prelate Cardinal Paluzzo Paluzzi Altieri degli Albertoni, who effectively ran the papacy under Clement X – irresistible in profile. In the 2000s Ricci also added, for example, Ludovico Carracci’s handsome three-quarter length Portrait of Lucrezia Bentivoglio Leoni (1589), executed two years before the sitter’s death. Flanking the same door is Philippe de Champaigne’s Portrait of the Duchesse d’Aiguillon (c. 1650), and viewed beyond is an unusual sensual and erotically charged work by Luca Cambiaso (1527–85), Venus Blindfolding Cupid.

Yet Ricci has also always been attracted to what he describes as the art of visionary madness, by the surreal, and by what is prosaic and popular. The museum’s cabinet of curiosities includes a narwhal horn, once thought to have belonged to the unicorn. Its walls are lined with particularly gruesome vanitas paintings and sculptures. Centre stage among the skulls is a decomposing head by Jacopo Ligozzi (1547–1627), its flesh and rotten teeth seething with maggots and flies.

Only superficially more benign are the drawings of the Codex Seraphinianus, first published in two volumes in 1981 – Ricci’s most extraordinary publication. These meticulously detailed explications of the bizarre and the fantastical illustrate an encyclopaedia of an imaginary world conceived by the artist Luigi Serafini in the 1970s and written in a language still understood only by its creator. Certainly its pages are at home in the Labirinto della Masone complex – another visionary creation, in effect a Gesamtkunstwerk, an all-embracing art work expressing the life and taste of one man.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

#JUST FOR BOOKS #Franco Maria Ricci

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sahbibabe · 4 years

Text

A Mission For One

Soulmate AU

Sephiroth/Fem! Reader

You are given the details of your mission. It wasn't your intention to be crippling the last of the previous AVALANCHE's funding, nor was it to face the risk of seeing Hojo ever again.

RENO, JUST LIKE RUFUS had said, showed up the very next day, just shy of seven in the morning. He didn't have Rude with him, which was unusual, and instead had a lowly grunt with him. He had a briefcase in one hand and his weapon in the other, shooting you a grin when you opened the door.

"Ready to get started?" He asked, pushing past you to set up on one of the tables. He opened the briefcase with a flourish. "Might wanna sit down because I have a lot of stuff to tell you and not a whole lot of time."

You locked the shop door and sat down across from him, eyeing the grunt who positioned his back to it with a rifle in hand. "Was it necessary to bring the gun inside?"

"Him? Nah." Reno pulled out a file as thick as your fingers put together and set it aside. "Right, first thing I have to tell you is to hold out your arm."

You did so obediently. "What for?"

"This." Reno gave you no warning other than a smirk, and plunged what looked like a five gauge needle into your wrist. He injected a clear substance into you and, before you had time to jerk away, was done. "There. Your Shinra access chip. After the fiasco with keycards and AVALANCHE last year, we decided on these bad boys to secure the system. As long as you're alive, calm, and healthy, you can get anywhere you want to. I think the boss gave you B-Level clearance until you pass your physicals, then will up it to A-Level after that."

You felt dread settle in the pit of your gut. You had never owned anything as much as D-Level access in your entire life, and that was just to attend a small court session to set up your tea shop and legally sell tea from Shinra suppliers. B-Level was a high jump, and giving you A-Level access after? Those were the same permissions that only Rufus's seconds in command got, only less to Rufus himself.

"Reno," you asked slowly,"what the hell am I going to be doing that requires A-Level access?"

"A lot of things," he whistled, thumbing through a plastic card case and pulling out an ID card with your face plastered on it. "Assassination, murder, espionage, sabotage, take your pick. The things we Turks can't do and get away with easily."

The bad feeling in your stomach told you it was a bit more than that. You let it slide when he handed you the ID, noting the fluorescent finish on it and the expensive plastic it was made of, as well as the giant Shinra logo printed beside your head with a script reading 'VIP: DO NOT ENGAGE' along with your VIP permissions underneath, which extended to free hotel stays, you noticed.

"What's this?" You asked, watching it shine in the light. "I already have an ID."

"Yeah, but not one that's special like that." Reno then pulled out a manilla file almost as thick as the one he had brought out before, except this one had giant red confidential stamps all over it and was sealed with Rufus's personal seal. "It can get you anywhere and everywhere, just like the Turks, and more. Flash that thing and anyone will think twice about stopping you. Murder is easy with a card like that."

"I'd imagine," you said, a little choked. You had, quite literally, just gotten federal permission to commit murder. Freely. In an effort to distract yourself from the fact that you'd just been given a 'free for all' card, you tapped the first file he'd pulled out. "And these?"

"Paperwork for the doctor who does the exam." Reno shrugged when you gawked at the sheer size of it. "I know. It's a lot. But it only takes an hour. Drug tests and blood tests and all that. Even STD tests."

You placed it aside in favor of the packet he now held. "I'm guessing those are my mission details?"

"More like your trial targets," Reno supplied vaguely. "You won't officially start them until next week. You'll have a month to finish all of them. You can read up on them and memorize them until then."

In Reno's hands laid the lives of the people you were about to take forever. Permanently. And it wasn't even what you were being recruited for; they were tests. That was it.

He handed it to you and you broke the seal, pulling out one of the targets. A photo had been blown up to visible proportions, blurry and grainy, but you could make out the face well enough, recognized it even: one of AVALANCHE's older benefactors, a man by the name of Michael Dallien.

He had donated a total of three million gil to the cause shortly after the mako reactor went down, you read, and had been funneling smaller sums to them ever since under the guise of fundraisers. At the bottom, stamped in blue, was the price of his bounty: four million gil, plus a bonus for delivering visceral proof.

Which meant Rufus wanted his head. Literally.

"As you can see, you'll get paid more than the three million gil for whoever you kill," Reno explained, pointing to a section near the bottom. "There will be others competing with you, though, but they aren't doing it with the accesses that you have. They work for other corporations wanting to overthrow Shinra. If you get to them first, the other corporations won't be able to nab their resources and bam, you get paid and you move on to the next one."

The more people you found in the packet, the higher the bounties became, until you came upon a bounty on Rufus Shinra himself, priced right around one million gil.

"What the hell?" You breathed, showing Reno the picture. "What does this mean?"

"That leads me to your official assignment." The redhead plucked the paper from your hands and pointed to the list of mercs slated for the job; you weren't on it. "Our little Public Relations guy, Heidegger, put this up a few weeks ago. I doubt he knew we bugged his personal computer, but he's enlisted several attempts on the boss's life in the next couple of months. Now, the Turks aren't invincible, some are bound to slip through the cracks. That's where you will come in."

"You want me to protect Rufus Shinra," you deadpanned,"because the Turks can't."

"Hey, it isn't for lack of trying. He has so many enemies it's hard to keep track of. We keep eyes on the outside, you keep eyes on the internals. Simple."

"You mean people like Heidegger and Scarlet," you supplied, realization dawning on you. "It's not because you can't, it's because you can't do it without everyone knowing who did it."

Reno winked and pointed a finger at you. "Bingo. I knew you'd put it together. Rude owes me fifty gil."

"That explains the ID," you sighed, waving the card around flimsily. You tucked everything into a neat pile in front of you. "Anything else?"

"Yep. I took the liberty of pulling some strings and getting you a female doctor to perform your physical." Reno leaned back and crossed his arms, the grunt shifting nervously behind you. "Figured you wouldn't want Hojo snooping around in your insides again."

The sudden horror you felt had you speechless. Hojo was supposed to do your physical? Hojo had none of the specifications for that, last you had heard, and that was when he was injecting your eyeballs with some dark fluid. To have him examining you from head to toe, even for the gynecology exam because it had to be on there too, made you want to throw up at the idea.

"Other than that, though, all you have to do is get your Shinra tech fitted and your uniform. It's all unbranded so no one will be able to trace us if you get caught, and made with synthetic material that also can't be traced. You'll have to check with the boss about your weapons. Can't go to Scarlet." Reno seemed to be checking off some list and nodded to himself. "That's it, I think. Rude will drop by later and give you your rental keys."

You were still caught up on Hojo doing your physical exam, even after Reno dismissed himself and headed out of the shop. It disgusted you on so many levels that as soon as you tucked your files away into your floorboards and put your ID in your wallet, you went to the bathroom to hurl up your breakfast.

None of what Hojo did to you was memorable after the initial injection, but you recalled him speaking of something like,"Let Her see through your eyes," but it was muffled behind the wall of pain you felt. You remembered the pinch of an IV, trying to open your eyes and only feeling your eyelids as swollen as golf balls, and feeling nurses walk in and out to switch your dressing gown.

Hojo would check, occasionally, prying your swollen lids apart and testing the tears and occasional pus that would stream out, ignoring your crying and screaming indignantly. He pressed the swelling, irritated them, scraped samples from your waterline, and then fed tubes into them to drain the pus out. It never ended well, because it would soon grow clogged with that black material he had put in, like a coagulated gummy pile of rot. You never bled, but the sheer amount of tears you produced left you dehydrated and desperate for water.

You were one hundred percent certain he had also done something to your reproductive system, because after that, your cycles just became nightmares, even more so towards you leaving after he deemed you a failure. You never checked, though, too scared and poor to afford an exam, even when you now had the money and means to do so.

But now you had to because of the stupid physical exam. Hojo had ruined you in more ways than you could say, and it was no wonder you lied to everyone in your life. You were petrified of trust because you, once upon a time, had trusted him to help you. That had been a mistake.

Never again.

#final fantasy #final fantasy 7 remake #sephiroth x reader #soulmate au #soulmate

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mnthpprt · 4 years

Text

Chapter 12: Research And Discovery

I gather the plates and take them to the kitchen as a little favor for Sebastian. He is not there, so I give them a quick wash and lay them to dry near the sink. Afterwards, I decide to visit the library, and stop by my room to pick up my thesis notes. Since I am going to be stuck here for an entire month, I might as well do something productive.

“Hi, Leonardo,” I say when I see him sitting at a desk, with his back towards me and his head on his hand. The only response is his soft breathing, quiet and rhythmic. Is he asleep?

Walking closer confirms my suspicion. I nudge him gently, with no result. His box of cigarillos sits open on the wooden surface, along with some matches and a bottle of blanc, and I take one before curling up on an armchair by the open window to read my notes as I smoke. I breath out a small puff that floats out into the midday air. ‘The Conservation of Synthetic Polymers in Contemporary Art’. I stare at the printed title on the paper. My topic of research has not been invented yet, and it won’t be for another 13 years. Resigned, I read through it, trying to come up with an idea on how to make this work.

I’m almost 30 pages in when inspiration strikes. By now, I have already finished my stolen cigarillo, which I leave on the little ashtray on the window sill. Vulcanized rubber is the answer to my problem. It has been around for a few decades in this time, and thankfully, it has very similar properties to the plastics I had been working with. Le Comte said there are books on every topic here, and I decide to put that to the test. I shoot up from my chair and make my way around the large room, scanning the shelves for what I’m looking for.

Jackpot. I spot a section on recent scientific discovery. The chemistry books are very high up, so I pull the ladder from the corner and start climbing, until...

The bottom trim of my dress gets caught as I try to reach for a book. I uselessly attempt to wiggle out the lace from whatever it caught onto, and the movement throws off my balance. My eyes widen as I see the top of the ladder separate from the shelf, and I tilt backwards, falling. I gasp and prepare myself for impact, only to be caught by a pair of strong arms and become enveloped by the scent of tobacco.

“Be careful, cara mia.” Leonardo sets me down and takes the ladder to put it back in its place.

“Thank you,” I breath out, and pull up the hem of my skirt to examine the damage. “This damn dress... It’s pretty, but it just gets in the way. I think I’d rather dress like a man.”

He lets out a low chuckle and returns to the table. After a moment of silence, I look up from the ripped lace trim to see him reading my paper, intrigue visible on his face as he tilts his head.

“This is new,” he mumbles thoughtfully. “Yours?”

“Yeah. I’m still working on it, but time travel complicates things a bit when it comes to research,” I explain. “The materials I’ve been experimenting with don’t exist yet.”

He flips through the pages, reading the various formulas and charts I made, before setting it down and looking at me. His eyes are like aged gold as they pierce through me, and I suddenly feel too seen. I look down, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. The great Leonardo da Vinci keeps staring at me.

“So, uh... What do you think?” I know he is the quintessential renaissance man, and as such, is knowledgeable in many topics, including chemistry. Back then, it was only known as alchemy, but I’m sure he has caught up with the modern science of the 19th century. My shy question makes him smile.

“It’s fascinating. Though I am not familiar with any of these things you wrote about. Are plastics a new invention from the future?” He leans on the table and I shake my head.

“They don’t exist right now, but they are not exactly new in my time, either. In the future we use them for pretty much everything, but they degrade awfully fast compared to other things. Hence, well, all of that,” I gesture towards the stack of papers, held together by a large clip, and pull out a chair next to him. “By the way, your paintings are also kind of a nightmare to people in my industry.”

“Oh? And what would that be?” He raises an eyebrow and reaches for his box of cigarillos, after which he pulls two out and offers one to me. I take it.

“Conservation. Preserving objects from the past.” Leonardo lights his own cigarillo, but I decline the flame. I want to save mine for later. “You know, one of my mentors refused to work on your Virgin of the Rocks once. He said the sfumato had so many layers it was impossible not to mess up during cleaning, and it’s so valuable the stakes were too high for him to even try. And well, there’s also a lot of debate about whether it was actually you who painted a lot of works. We’re usually the ones who have to analyze them to determine authenticity, but I consider that to be the fun part of the job.”

I catch myself rambling, but Leonardo listens with keen interest. He then laughs, letting out a cloud of smoke. A strand of hair falls over his eyes when he shakes his head in amusement.

“Are you planning to interrogate me like Sebastian, cara mia?” His husky voice is almost melodic as he teases me.

“Oh my god, he really does that?” I laugh in disbelief. “No, your work isn’t really my problem. Besides, I wouldn’t have any evidence for anything you tell me when I go back to my time, so it’s not like they’d believe me anyway.”

“Such a shame that you must return,” he sighs, still smiling. “I’m really starting to like you.”

My face turns pink upon hearing his words, but I don’t want him to see it. Almost on impulse, I snatch the cigarillo from his hand and use it to light my own. Why am I blushing like a schoolgirl? I feel like an idiot, but hopefully he won’t notice if I play along.

“I’m starting to like it here, too. You vampires are not that scary.”

“Don’t get too comfortable, cara mia.” His warning sounds playful, but I see a hint of seriousness in his eyes. As if to further prove his point, he opens the bottle of blanc and downs it almost entirely. I silently watch as he leaves the glass container on the table, and I spot single drop falling down the side. I catch it on my finger and lick it off, which immediately causes my face to scrunch up in disgust. The flavor is something akin to eating a lemon and getting soap in one’s mouth at the same time.

“What the hell is this made of? It’s awful.”

“I can’t believe you just tried it like that,” Leonardo laughs. I join in with a shrug.

“What can I say? I’m a woman of science.” He just rolls his eyes in response, but indulges me anyway.

“It’s made from a very rare flower. Vampire society has advanced enough for someone to figure out a blood substitute, even if it’s not very good. It only staves off hunger for a while, but it’s better than nothing.”

“No wonder half of you guys hate this stuff. Now I get why Arthur was so eager to bite me.”

“He did what?” His eyes suddenly become dark. I should not have said that.

“Don’t worry, he didn’t actually do it! He just tried really hard to convince me,” I rush to explain. “Might have been my fault, too. We were in the thermae together, so he probably got the wrong idea.”

“Oh, cara mia.” Leonardo takes a deep breath and runs his hands along his face. “I can’t fathom why you took a bath with him in the fist place, but did le Comte not tell you the two causes of bloodlust?”

“There are two?” I am starting to understand how clueless I am, or rather, how bad le Comte is at explaining things. Leonardo clears his throat and looks at me with a serious expression on his face.

“The first one is hunger, you know that already,” he begins. “The other cause is more... intimate in nature.” I raise an eyebrow at his wording. “When a vampire’s attraction for someone is strong, they crave the blood of the subject to their affections.”

Oh.

“So... What your saying is that seducing one of you can get me killed?” I’m not sure what answer I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. “Well, good thing I’m trying to.”

“If only you could control that, cara mia... You don’t have to try,” he mutters softly, almost too quiet for me to hear. But I do, and blood rushes to my cheeks once again. I look down at my hands, not knowing what to say. What is he doing to me?

I take a deep puff of my cigarillo to distract myself from the awkward silence that has now fallen between us. Neither of us speak again until the cloud of smoke I exhale has completely dissipated.

“I should probably get myself some of these so I can stop stealing yours,” I say, changing the topic. Leonardo returns to his usual nonchalant attitude and tosses his box of cigarillos on the table.

“You can keep those. I’ll ask Sebastian to buy more.”

“Thanks.” I take it and put it in the pocket of my dress.

“I already told you, cara mia,” he smiles. “No need to thank me.”

#ikemen vampire #ikevam #ikevamp #ikemen #ikemen fanfiction #ikevam fanfic #ikemen vampire fanfiction #ikevamp fanfiction #ikemen vampire leonardo #ikevamp leonardo

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siribear · 4 years

Text

come find me after you visit valentine.

valentine’s, she thinks, can wait until the storm passes.

alice enters diamond city, into where the baseball field used to be. now, instead, there are more constructed buildings packed together in concentric circles half-circles, following the walls of the stands. more buildings are situated up where the seats used to be, connected by scrap metal bridges and stairs.

diamond city, above all else, is loud. not even above the rain pounding against the pavement, traders call out for customers desperate enough to be shopping as it pours. the awnings over the merchant stands shelter customers from the rain.

she passes by piper talking to a little girl in a smaller red jacket and pink dress. in what looks like a garage sits a printing press and a stack of newspapers. piper pats the girl (daughter? sister?) on the head before going inside. leaving alice still in the rain.

‘hey lady, you just gonna stand there?’

alice sidesteps to place herself just under the awning of the garage. ‘sorry, just trying to catch my bearings.’

the little girl snorts. ‘ten caps for dripping near the papers, miss.’ alice rolls her eyes and obliges. ‘my sister mentioned you. new to town?’

sister, then. ‘something like that.’

‘here.’ the girl hands her a copy of the ‘newspaper.’ though it’s mostly just a sheaf of paper and not the old boston bugle. ‘newest copy of the publick occurrences.’

‘the synthetic truth. huh, thanks, kid.’

‘name’s nat. and that’ll be another ten caps.’

so alice stands, again, in the rain, the newspaper over her head. rain slides off the paper and onto her shoulders, but at least it keeps her head dry. she takes two steps toward the center of the city before someone stops her.

‘looking to get out of the rain?’

she turns and squints through the sheets of rain. it’s the same guard who escorted her to diamond city. he holds a leather jacket over his head. ‘yeah, this place is, uh.. bigger than i’m used to.’

‘you’re lookin’ for the dugout inn,’ he says, and leads her down an alley opposite piper’s house. up to her right is an old construction lift that leads up past another row of houses to a building that overlooks the city. ‘up there’s the upper stands.’ he points to the houses. ‘and then the mayor’s office.’

he stops outside the dugout inn, appropriately named. a couple of empty chairs and tables sit outside. ‘best booze in town. they serve food, too, but everyone eats at power noodles. everyone.’

‘uh-huh,’ she says, nodding. ‘thanks again, officer.’

‘i’m off the clock. name’s sam.’ he holds out a hand. one side of his jacket-umbrella falls against his face but he shakes it off.

she does the same. ‘alice. join me for a few drinks?’

‘nah, gotta get home to the wife. take care of yourself out there. and welcome to the great, green jewel.’

the dugout inn is quiet, at least compared to the rain and merchants barking outside. there’s a small sitting area fitted with couches and chairs, and a bar that doubles as reception. a few patrons mingle about, most dry, though some look like they just came in from the rain as well.

‘hello!’ the bartender calls with a wave. his accent is heavy and his smile wide. ‘come, come. buy a drink.’

‘actually, i was looking for a place to stay. and get out of these,’ alice says, pulling at her wet clothes.

‘hmm.’ his smile falls, and he grumbles with no real malice. ‘talk to my brother, yefim. he’ll sell you a room.’

‘thank you. i’ll be back down to drink in a bit,’ she says with a wink.

thankfully, she doesn’t have to look far. yefim looks exactly like his brother, though much less cheerful. when she asks him for a room, he looks her over. ‘10 caps a night.’

alice hands over the caps with a cheery smile. ‘not a problem. thanks,’ she says when he gives her a set of keys carved with the room number.

the room itself is small and sparse. better than the worst hotel she’s ever been in, but definitely not the best. at least there’s a bed. she opens the dresser in the corner to find a long sleeved flannel shirt and pair of blue jeans. she sniffs - they smell more like dresser drawer than anything else, probably long unused. she sets it on the bed.

through another door is a small bathroom, big enough for a sink and mirror, a toilet, and a shower. at that, she strips, peeling off her drenched clothes in a rush. the cold water makes her gasp, but soon it rises to lukewarm. she finds a bar of soap on a ledge and scrubs, watching the water at her feet turn a mix of red and brown.

after the shower, she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror and stops to stare. she’s thinner than she remembers being, cheekbones prominent against the bruises under her eyes. her hair’s gotten longer, light blonde spilling over her shoulders in waves. it occurs to her that the last time she really looked at herself in the mirror was just before the bombs fell, when she and nate were getting ready -

alice grips the edge of the sink and closes her eyes against the memory, the ghosting of his fingers on her skin. with a gasp, she comes back to reality, feeling sick to her stomach. can’t think about it now, she tells herself.

she hangs up her wet clothes on the towel rack and changes into the flannel shirt and jeans. at least aired out a little, it doesn’t smell as strong, and the scented soap covers the rest. she leaves her bag in the room, takes a pouch of caps, and returns to the inn lobby.

by the time she gets there, it’s packed with more people. some huddle around the jukebox, others are packed together on the couches, sharing stories and drinks. alice finds a place at the bar. this time, when she’s offered a drink, she accepts. the alcohol burns on its way down, and the bartender laughs at the face she makes.

‘enjoying bobrov’s best?’ he says, turning his attention back to the other patrons.

someone takes the seat next to her and orders his own drink. she pays him no attention until he throws her a casual hey.

she recognizes him, the guard from earlier, with the sunglasses. she leans back and uses her arms to hold herself up against the bar. ‘hey yourself. don’t have to keep the city safe from scary reporters anymore?’

he laughs, takes a sip from his drink. ‘just the one. enjoying the city?’

she reaches behind her to take a sip from her own drink. it still burns, but she’s expecting it this time. ‘i’ve only seen this place, so far. but it’s... different, from the little town i’m used to, that’s for sure.’ different from the baseball field, too. it’s strange - the population that should be spread out across boston all crammed into fenway park.

‘town, huh? not from a vault?’ the guard spins in his seat and taps her pipboy with a knuckle.

‘oh.’ she lifts it up. ‘no. picked this up on my way here. the one wearing it... didn’t make it.’

‘poor bastard.’

they raise their glasses. she drinks claire away.

‘what about you? your accent is different.’

he grins; she raises an eyebrow. ‘you know how it is. ran away from home, traveled with some caravans, ended up here. thought i’d make something of myself.’

‘respectable, choosing to be a guard. seems just as easy to become a raider.’

his face is unreadable behind those damn sunglasses. ‘yeah. so, what do you need valentine for?’

‘hm. you’re full of questions, aren’t you?’

‘we like to know what kind of people are coming into the city,’ he says with a shrug. ‘can’t be too cautious, these days.’

‘i’m getting the feeling that’s true no matter where you go.’ she twirls a strand of hair between her fingers.

‘and valentine?’

‘you’ll have to buy me another drink for that one, officer,’ she says.

‘afraid that’s out of an officer’s pay, ma’am.’

she finishes off her drink. ‘too bad for you, then.’

a shout from the door draws the attention of the room, alice included. a man walks in, hand raised in a wave. ‘vadim! how’s it going?’

‘hawthorne!’ vadim returns, accent heavy on the h. he leans over the bar, forcing alice to shift to the side. in that short distraction, the guard sitting next to her has disappeared. ‘it has been too long, my friend.’

‘too long,’ hawthorne agrees, taking the offered cup. he doesn’t even flinch after taking a drink. ‘you would not believe the things i’ve been hearing out there, man.’

‘going to try to beat my mirelurk story?’

‘easy. try the minutemen coming back. i was going to make a few caps up north, but i guess things are turning around up there.’ alice shifts in her seat.

‘bah.’ glasses rattle when he slaps the bar. ‘rumors.’

‘well, how about - ’

‘wait, hawthorne?’ alice asks. hawthorne looks toward her. ‘i have a letter for you.’ at an eyebrow raise, she adds, ‘from lucy abernathy.’ she retrieves the letter from her room right across from the lobby.

‘lucy? good to know she’s doing well.’ he tucks the letter in the pocket of his jeans. ‘you part of a caravan?’

‘minuteman,’ she says with a wink. ‘not just rumors about us coming back, by the way. we’re set up in sanctuary and everything.’

‘told you.’

vadim groans. ‘fine. drink’s on me. for you, too, then.’

she holds up a hand. ‘i’m fine, thanks.’ scanning the shelves, she adds, ‘a nuka-cola instead?’

vadim passes her a bottle, along with the caps she paid for her earlier drink. the soda is cold, but flat, once she pops it open and drinks. she pockets the bottle cap. ‘any more rumors?’

‘have you heard about salem?’ hawthorne begins. alice picks up her nuka cola bottle and makes the short walk back to her room.

there are no dreams that night. there are memories of a familiar bar, dancing with nate, taking him back to her place, his hands on her slow and nervous. waking up to him sleeping next to her in the morning.

the memory fades. she wakes up alone.

#oc: alice ward #siri drabbles #series: we will all go together when we go #deacon wasn't even supposed to be in this part #but he refused to go away #not keen on the ending but alas

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miramodhvadia · 5 years

Text

Everyday moments

1.Introduction

In this project i am going to be exploring the everyday moments of the woman in my life. The different clothes, the different cultures and how despite all these differences between us we are all connected. My aim is to showcase a variety of different fabrics and embroidery from cultures as well as the similarities between the differences we have between the generations i have surrounding me.

2.As a British India girl i want to show people how two clashing cultures are balanced out with our lives. When we go to social events as girls we’re expected to dress in formal indian wear. These clothes have intricate embroidery and serialised thread work. I wanted this to be shown in my work so i decided to sew together something similar to what my sister is wearing and surrounded it with thread work. The clear film that you’re meant to wash away after sewing through it didn’t quite leave the fact I wanted to and instead the embroidery fell out leaving me with scraps of material. Initially the idea felt as though it may work but after trying to execute it I soon realised that was not the case. then void you work around the material was left to be very floppy and had no substance therefore just disintegrated. for this reason I could not use this embroidery work in my sketchbook

3.The same girl, just in a different setting.

Away from other people from the same culture, which means none to judge. As a British Asian girl, i get judged for everything. From who i talk to, too how i dress. Being in a different environment away from people you know means you can be yourself more. For the main part of my project I have decided to recreate a dress that I would wear in a more westernised situation like this picture dictates.

4. In the second page of my sketchbook I decided to recreate a traditional Indian dress which is called the “lengha.” in order to get the effect of having embroidery running throughout the skirt I decided to draw directly into my sketchbook a very simple yet effective design that would show us what kind of invoice you might be on some of these dresses I then sewed a sheer fabric on top of the drawing to show us what kind of material and shape the bottom half of the dress would be like I decided to completely draw on the blouse and the jewellery that would match what someone would wear with the outfit. The designer that I took a lot of inspiration from for this piece it’s called Sabyasachi. He is a famous Indian fashion designer who is known to recreate cultural outfits in a more modernised way which entices the modern day people to wear and continue to carry forward the culture and the traditional wear in their lives. keeping his designs culturally appropriate yet modernised really enables the modern day generation to enjoy wearing the outfits as well as keeping them rooted to their culture and background.

17.03.2020

To begin this project I completed some primary research of what inspires me within my surroundings, for example the people in my life and connections I come across daily. Looking back on this first bits of research I believe I found clear themes I wanted to develop further therefore I decided to look into how the women in my life dress and what textiles techniques were similar to what they would wear.

I had an induction into printing this is where I watched a tutorial and make my own screen and digital printing materials. During this workshop I had inductions on how to use metallic dyes, disperse, pigment and Procyon. I also prepared pigment and metallic dyes myself, i found that the process of creating the other dyes were similar. As well as screen printing, digital printing is also a technique. Overall, the tutorial was extremely helpful as it allowed me to explore other areas within the fashion industry and looked more closely at textiles. This tutorial was important as it gave me the basic skills of printing which can supported me in this project.

We went on to having an induction to embroidery, this gave me the skills to create samples on Bernina sewing machines. The person giving the tutorial gave a detailed account on the working of the machines. she went onto explain the functions for stitch type and size, tension, as well as the set up. The samples created allowed me to try the different stitches as well as the tensions. We learnt to complete samples in straight stitch, also learnt free embroidery.

My first session into embroidery was an experience, i learnt a lot more about sewing machines and about different stitches as well as certain functions. I understand that i made mistakes however the likelihood of them happening in the future were lessend. Moving on with embroidery I looked to explore the possibilities of combining fabrics.

The induction into weave was quite interesting as we had an induction into many different machines within the workshop, including types of looms which were used to weave cloth and tapestry. We looked at different machines for knitting as well as tufting, this information was given alongside health and safety.

I found the induction very interesting because I learnt to how the loom works as well as learning about many different types of weaving techniques.

The beginning of my research consisted of looking at different artists that fit into my theme of the fashion of women. I found a number of designers who influence my initial narrative.

During the second print workshop I dyed both natural and synthetic fabrics. To do this I learnt about how to tell the difference between natural or synthetic fibbers, this is done by completing burns tests on our fabric. In the workshop we were given a chart of different types of synthetic and natural fibres. The chart explained how they react to fire. For example, if a natural fibre such as cotton or linen is placed near a flame it would burn easily. It would then continue to burn after being removed from the flame and produce grey ash. This identification skill is important as different dyes are used on synthetic and natural fibers.

During the first session in traditional print I created two prints that matched my narrative.

The first type was mono print and it was called colograph printing. To create this print, I used multiple materials as stamps, the different textures created different patterns. on an A5 board, we were told to layer textured paper to create patterns, I used different textures across the board, The board was then varnished. It is important that the printed board is completely dry. This is vital so that the first layer of ink added to textured paper doesn’t leak and doesn't alter my design. During this process I used two coloured inks, yellow and purple. The yellow ink was added using a spreader, the ink was then pressed into the board using rag, this insures that the ink fills the imperfections of the board.

The next step is applying the second layer of ink using a roller. This ink will only be seen on the raised parts of the board for example the letters, and some textures on the first layer. The paper that we were printing onto is wetted to be then rolled out so that majority of the moisture is retained. This allows the ink to permeate the paper when pressed. We then transfer the ink onto the paper using a roller press.

During my second session is weave, I practiced creating plain weaves, I also had an introductions into twill and cross ribs. We were given a visual explanation about the process of these new skills and then we were left to experiment and create my own designs using a pattern grid.

To further develop my samples I decided to add embroidery to my printed fabrics I did this because it shows intricate detailing which is also similar to what some of the women in my family wear. This really helped develop my piece and it gave it a more detailed look. I started this off by slowly using different stitches to try and figure out which one I wanted to use and then when I found what I was looking for I went straight onto my fabric and began working on embroidering my work

To try and help develop my visual communication skills in my final outcome I decided to create collages throughout my sketchbook and involve the sketches that reflected the specific desired look I was going for. I decided to use different forms of things for example are used fine liners to draw something on as well as using thread to sew through layered paper to give it a more defined and edgy look. I decided to replicate some of the pictures that i used from my primary research and remade them using the fabrics materials and the different workshop techniques that we had learnt

Looking back at my development throughout my work I feel like I have achieved some new skills however I could really further develop these skills and ensure that I am better one way to have done this Would have been by practising more and having a clear idea of what I was trying to achieve when it came to starting my work on the different samples I also feel like I would probably have chosen a different theme and I wasn’t as passionate about this theme which meant that it was very difficult for me to come up with new ideas.

I also feel that I should’ve been more precise with what I was doing rather than having a rough look as I feel as if that would’ve worked better with my theme of it being quite pretty however it turned out to look quite messy instead

My finished final outcome was a reflection of different types of outfits that were all embroidered onto one silhouette of a dress that was made out of fabric. Why did was I sewed on pictures of some of the women in my life and the different types of clothes they wore on to address that was similar to what I have in real life the idea behind this was that I wanted to show how each person in my life has had an affect on the way I dress and my fashion choices

Throughout this process I completed a number of workshops that helped make my theme presentable I have interpreted the scene in the direction of my own every day life and based on the fashion choices either. Through this project I want to busy communicate my own fashion choices as well as the fashion choices of the woman that I that inspire me.

My research that this project was quite vague which was what was my main downfall however I did conduct a lot of primary source research when it came to gathering my own materials however my secondary research was not the best. Through this project I learnt many practical skills for example weave embroidery and printing. Considering I’ve never weaved or printed before I think I learnt successfully how to do these things however I need to brush up on my skills and further my knowledge. It did take me quite a while to learn the basics which is why I don’t think I had time to complete experiment and reach my full potential I also wish I used a large variety of materials and other methods that I could’ve showcased in my work. I created simple samples however wish that I made more of a variety of things also I wished that I had more of a story when it came to my actual sketchbook rather than it just being a collection of outfits and designs. If I had more time I would like to have been more precise and detailed with my work as well as rethink the idea behind what I was trying to show I also would have made more samples and done a lot more secondary research to further my knowledge.

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genyatta-ss · 7 years

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that look in your eyes is so familiar a gleam

from @kaldurrr:

Hey @knisspel! I was so super stoked that you requested sentai au because I’ve been thinking about it p much everyday since it came out. Particularly this one scene that was always stuck in my mind where Zenyatta (a huge fan) after having met Genji (an officiated “marketing agent” for Kamen Dragon’s PR team, think a la Tiger & Bunny) is somehow forced to address the very large infatuation in the room and introduce his new, Totally Normal boyfriend to his huge collection of merch for a superhero whom he may also have a flirty rapport with for the past ten years.

Genji is, for obvious reasons, delighted by all this.

(Oh and in this they’re both in their 30s but that’s not super important, just that I like imagining Genji with greying hair and thinking of settling down with a cute guy.)

I really hope you like it!

—–

Zenyatta doesn’t actually think about what he and Genji might be walking into when they breach the door to his apartment. It’s actually sort of hard to think at all when a beautiful man has his mouth on yours and is kissing you like his life depends on it. From there they stumbled their way across his living room, ricocheting off of furniture, hands reaching to pet and paw at bruises and to feel skin they’ve both been aching for these past few months.

Zenyatta isn’t thinking when they finally crash through his bedroom door in a flurry of giggles, not when they collapse in a heap on his bed, not when they collide semi-painfully with each other and kiss to make it all better.

No, he doesn’t stop to think at all, not until Genji moves south along his body, mouthing against his clavicle, “I can’t believe this is happening,” and Zenyatta, feeling like he’s full of divine light, wraps his arms around this beautiful man’s shoulders and looks, looks up at his ceiling and sees–

“Oh god!”

Genji is off him in the instant, one arm twisting behind his back as if to reach for something, his face changing instantly from warm affection to steely fury as his eyes jump from Zenyatta below him to whatever’s above them.

“What is–” Whatever Genji is about to say falls silent. How else would a suitor respond when gazing up at 24 x 36 inch glossy-print of pissfig’s infamous Kamen Dragon “unsuited” design, illuminated sensuously by an official KD merchandise lamp.

“Oh my god.”

“Oh my god,” repeats Zenyatta as he curls up into a ball, using a Kamen Rider dakimura as a shield for what is currently happening in his bedroom.

Actually, that’s a terrible idea. He tosses the body pillow to the floor, safe side up, where Genji can’t possibly see it.

Genji is still gazing up at the poster with an odd look on his face. “Is that…m–” He stops himself, mouth opening and closing silently as he takes it all in.

“Please stop looking at it.”

“How can I not? It’s huge.” He finally does look away from it, intending to look Zenyatta in the eye for added effect but is then distracted by…. everything else in the room. “Oh my god.”

Zenyatta decides then that he will live out his days under his bed covers and wait for his brother to come fetch the embarrassing, heartbroken shell of himself when he doesn’t show up for any of their biweekly lunches.

From under the covers, he can feel Genji sliding off the bed and padding around the room. There’s a click just before the lights flicker on and Genji whistles.

Zenyatta knows what he’s seeing. On the walls left and right of the bed, heavy-duty shelves have been installed from ceiling to floor in order to store the sheer volume of a decade’s worth of Kamen Dragon paraphernalia. He likes to order the left wall as the site of all merchandise, such as action figures, while the right side has the dedicated projects of all the artists he’s met over the years with all…. sorts…. of lovely takes on everyone’s favorite masked hero. The wall directly opposite his bed was papered in commemorative t-shirts and posters, the floor decoratively littered with plushies and throw pillows with the hero’s face stamped on them.

“Zen, how old is this?”

Zenyatta peeks out from under the covers and sees Genji pointing at a fan-made decorated stand where the artist had done an art nouveau inspired take on Kamen Dragon’s earliest armor, the chrome build on synthetic skin body armor with the green LED running lights.

Zenyatta pulls the covers back over his head.

“I found it at a fan event about a week after Kamen Dragon had first introduced himself to the public.”

“…Your shit is ten years old?”

The covers are flung off as Zenyatta launches himself across the room at Genji.

“It is not shit, my collection is very important to me–”

Genji’s hands are already flying up in a gesture of surrender and placation. “Wrong word. I actually think this incredibly impressive. Kinda overwhelming? But mostly impressive.” He smiles, the same warm, delighted smile he’s always given him since they had met all those months ago, like an old friend seeing their other after so long. “I think it’s really cool how much dedication you’ve put into this.”

Zenyatta nearly collapses where he stands, his hands coming up to cover his eyes and cradle his face. “My brother would very kindly disagree with you.”

Genji gently pries away his hands, forcing him to look him in the eye before he asks, “Is that why you didn’t ever want me over?”

“It’s also because my brother only recently moved out, but yes. My brother has also told me in several different ways that if I ever wanted to be serious with you, I either had to tell you about my…. pre-occupation or throw out everything completely.”

Genji falls over with laughter.

“It’s not funny! Kamen Dragon’s marketing agent tracks me down after years of not living in Japan just for a documentary piece, whom I actually start to admire and like romantically and, and–”

“And?” Genji’s smirk is devilish as he waits for whatever comes next.

“Be honest,“ he dodges. "How would you feel if the person you wanted to date might also bring a camera crew to show the entire world how long I’ve been in love with–” Zenyatta shuts his mouth tight and Genji’s face goes slack.

“Holy shit.”

“No. No, no. Genji, I-I didn’t mean it like that.”

Genji falls to the floor in tears and laughter. “Holy shit!”

Zenyatta shoves him towards the door. “I can’t do this. Goodnight, Mr. Shimada.”

“Wait, wait.” Genji twists in his arms and pushes back against any more shoves. “Just wait! I wanna know one thing and I swear I won’t laugh.”

He, unfortunately, giggles at Zenyatta’s disbelieving look.

“I swear–I just.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath and when it’s over he looks as serious as he ever has. Or as serious as a half-dressed man standing in a room of fan merchandise can look.

Genji cups Zenyatta’s face, stroking along his cheekbone. “If Kamen Dragon appeared before you right now, confessing his love, would you leave him for me?”

“Out.”

Genji howls with laughter, hanging onto the door frame as Zenyatta tries to shove him over the threshold.

“I’m sorry, I had to!”

“No, you didn’t,” Zenyatta says, stepping on Genji’s exposed toes with his heel. “And you know what? I’d consider it.”

“Wait,” and now he sounds wounded, pulling back just far enough to get a good look at him. For a man in his thirties with hair going grey, he looks frustratingly adorable with a pout. “You’re just saying that because I’m being a dick.”

“Yes, you are and no, I mean it. Kamen Dragon was probably my first love, as strange as that may sound. You said it yourself when we first met, who wouldn’t be charmed by a masked hero who saves them on almost a weekly basis?”

“I–”

“When I was living alone in Japan, there was a time I felt Kamen Dragon was my only friend. And as infrequent as our meetings and run-ins were, he was always charming and gentlemanly. He was adventurous and bold and kind and when we talked late into the night I sometimes felt I knew how deep his heart was.”

Genji stares at him with an unreadable expression as he gestures at the risque poster above the bed. “I’ll admit it wasn’t an entirely pure feeling. Meeting a man with those shoulders and that voice at nineteen? I didn’t want to put that in your documentary.”

Zenyatta walked over to the fan merch wall and plucked a keychain from a stand, something made with acrylic and glitter. “But I was also proud of him. For rousing together an entire city against a mob that had held it hostage for centuries and for protecting it even when outside forces tried to rush into the power vacuum. He did it with such style and grace–Genji, you’ve met him. You must know what it’s like.”

Genji hardly seemed reactive but he responded eventually with, “What’s what like?”

“Just–him,” Zenyatta gestures grandly as if the whole encompassment would explain everything that Kamen Dragon is.

“If your first love, the person you’ve thought about for the past decade, came before you and said they’ve felt anything remotely similar to what you have held for them all these years, wouldn’t you stop to consider it as well?”

Genji didn’t respond to that, staring at Zenyatta as if he’d never seen him before. Which made him feel terrible because this was not how he wanted Genji to find out just how far he’s come to admire his superpowered client.

“That doesn’t mean,” Zenyatta tries to start, approaching Genji again. “That I would run off with him just like that. I would need more than rooftop chats from years ago and memories of running for my life when terrorist organizations tried to have him and anyone near him killed. I want–”

He slips his hand into Genji’s and it lights his heart when the man automatically squeezes it tightly, intertwining their fingers together.

“I want this. You. Every day or almost every day when you’re not busy. I want to text you when you’re not there or think about you when I can’t and yet be able to count on seeing you later. I want to talk about where we’re going and see your face and not wonder if–”

Zenyatta has never been kissed so gently before.

Genji takes his time with it, holding Zenyatta’s face like it’s something precious, mouth traveling from his and across his cheeks, around his eyes, and down the slope of his nose. He comes back to kiss him on the mouth, slow and deep and so, so gently before pulling away slightly.

“Tekhartha Zenyatta…”

There’s something I need to tell you.

#fanfic #submission #genyatta

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