#the second imaginary symphony

[deathsmallcaps]

My 45th Win a Commission story was The 2nd Imaginary Symphony! If you’d like to see the pictures in context with the story, please

Augustus: This is August Plumb; you are listening to the Perpetual Broadcasting Corporation. Of course, it is holiday time, and across Paris, we begin celebrating the month-long lead up to our Platypus Eve, a distinctly Parisian holiday now celebrated across the globe, observing the hatching of the Great Recitating Platypus of the North, the platypus, of course, believed by generations of French schoolchildren, to visit them when illness strikes, recite poetry while they sleep, thereby restoring them to health by the time they wake.

And as we do every year, at the Perpetual Broadcasting Corporation we begin at the start of this notable month with our great Parisian Platypus Time tradition, the broadcast of the 2nd Imaginary Symphony.

As you all know, the 2nd Imaginary Symphony, a program now synonymous with the platypus holiday, was discovered forty years ago by a trash collector in a refuse bin, the trash collector taking home the cassette marked “2nd Imaginary Symphony”, expecting music, playing the strange story it contained instead at his own family’s Platypus Eve gathering. Loving the story, several family members requesting copies of the tape, so began the copying and passing-on of the symphony from family to family, from street to street, until its listening became as much a part of the Platypus Eve tradition as sending your children to school dressed as a platypus or constructing a gigantic platypus out of household items in front of one’s home.

Bringing us to the present day, where the broadcast of the 2nd Imaginary Symphony is now considered the official beginning of the holiday season in Paris. The symphony will be broadcast in four parts, each one ushering in a new stage in our month-long celebration of the platypus.

And now… officially beginning our platypus holiday, this is Augustus Plumb, and I give you the 2nd Imaginary Symphony. [More music plays]

Narrator: This is Nigh’s neighborhood. Just over that hill, factories, soon to be full of busy grown-ups hard at work. And this is Nigh’s street, Telegraph Road. There’s the milkman. [Bottles clinking]

Every morning, he delivers a full day’s supply of dairy products to all the houses on Nigh’s street. And this big white house – this is Nigh’s house. And this is Nigh. [Footsteps and rhythmic creaking]

He is running down the stairs, though his grandmother has told him not to. Ordinarily, it would now be time for Nigh to go to school, but since it’s vacation time, Nigh is free to stay at home with his grandmother and play.

Nigh’s grandmother is blind and sometimes needs his help with household chores, such as sweeping… [Sweeping over the creaking + footsteps] Doing wash… [Washing machine turns on over the noises] Taking out the garbage… [Rustling] And making trips to the supermarket. [Beeping of registers, people chattering]

Walking home from the supermarket, Nigh hears the distant song of the fire siren. The fire siren sits perched high atop its red brick engine house, luring firemen away from their families and homes. [Fire siren] It is now the dinner hour. Time for the turning sound of latched keys to echo throughout the land, as grown-ups arrive home from work. [Keys being turned in doors, unlocking sounds and jingling] Some arrive by automobile. [Doors creaking] Some arrive by bicycle. [Bicycle wheels turning] And others on foot. [Footsteps]

This is Mr. Ackerman, Nigh’s neighbor and friend. Mr. Ackerman works at the big factory just over the hill. Nigh always looks forward to seeing Mr. Ackerman. You see, sometime ago, Mr. Ackerman confided in Nigh a matter of great importance. Nigh had begun to wonder just what it was that the big factory over the hill was making. [Bubbling sounds and mechanical creaking]

Having whiled away many a twilight admiring the great factory, Nigh had come to know each of its towering smokestacks and flashing lights. But as for what it was the great factory made, of this even his grandmother was not quite sure.

When asked at first, Mr. Ackerman did not answer. He regarded Nigh silently, and after a long pause, said only, “Nothing of interest, Nigh. Nothing of interest,” and continued on his way.

This, however, served only to pique the 9-year-old’s curiosity, and upon arriving home, Mr. Ackerman found the little boy still following close behind him.

“I promise you, Nigh, what goes on inside the walls of that factory is of no interest to little boys, or anyone else, for that matter. Now, please, Nigh, I’ve had a long day and I’m tired.” And with that, Mr. Ackerman waved goodbye and disappeared into his house, closing the door firmly behind him.

There was nothing for Nigh to do but to stare for a moment at the closed door before him and walk silently away. Mr. Ackerman had never spoken so coldly to him before, and Nigh was unsure of how to react. He did, however, know one thing for sure – Mr. Ackerman was not in the least bit interested in discussing what he did all day at that factory. “Why?” he wondered. Nigh thought about the sorts of things grown-ups do not like to talk about. Usually, Nigh had found that they fell into two categories – first: [Sudden noise, chiming of bells] Things that embarrassed or made the grown-up uncomfortable. Second: [More noise + chiming] And this was the good one – things unfit for the ears of a little boy. [Saw sings] He decided that he would have to be patient, and show Mr. Ackerman that, though not entirely fond of most grown-ups, he himself was grown up enough to be trusted, even with things unfit for the ears of a little boy. [More music]

He would have to play it cool and wait until the time was right before asking again. However, it was upon arriving home from work the very next day that Mr. Ackerman found the little boy following close behind him once again.

“Hello, Nigh,” Mr. Ackerman said, and with a sigh, opened the door and beckoned for Nigh to come in.

Once inside, Mr. Ackerman remained silent for a time. He sat Nigh down at the kitchen table, clearing off from it several tools and a strange two-pronged object that he appeared to have been working on, and put some water up on the kettle to boil.

Pacing back and forth across the kitchen floor, Mr. Ackerman appeared to be lost in thought, until at last, the small kettle came to a boil, and Mr. Ackerman began to speak.

“Do you know where clouds come from, Nigh?” asked Mr. Ackerman. [Music starts up]

“Sir?” said Nigh.

“Clouds, Nigh. Clouds,” said Mr. Ackerman.

Nigh shook his head. Try as he might, Nigh could not remember learning much of anything about clouds in school.

“So no one has ever told you. Hmph, well, of course not. It is a secret.”

Mr. Ackerman cleared his throat in the manner of someone about to give a long speech. “It’s been said, Nigh, that clouds are made up of fine droplets of water or tiny ice crystals, which are continually evaporating while new droplets or crystals appear through the condensation of water vapor.”

“Wow!” said Nigh.

“This,” said Mr. Ackerman, “is not true.” Falling again to silence, Mr. Ackerman looked to Nigh as though he were about to say something very important. “I’m going to confide in you, Nigh,” began Mr. Ackerman, “a great secret. And the men who bear great secrets such as this, Nigh, must never, never breathe a word of it to another, not even to their grandmothers. Men have given their lives,” he said, and seeing that Nigh was visibly impressed, fell into a dramatic silence that Nigh was sure betrayed his enormous respect for the dead.

With an air of great dignity, Mr. Ackerman poured himself a cup of tea, adding to it a drop of clear liquid from his silver flask, and sat himself down at the table. But then, just as it seemed he was about to speak, something strange happened. The look on Mr. Ackerman’s face changed. It was no longer one of dignity, but the look of someone who had suddenly come to his senses to find himself quite ashamed, and all at once it looked to Nigh as though Mr. Ackerman had changed his mind and was about to say nothing at all.

“Please, Mr. Ackerman, please!” pleaded Nigh, who in all his wildest dreams had never imagined that the big factory harbored a secret so important and could contain his curiosity no more. [Singing saw music] “I won’t tell anyone, I promise!”

Mr. Ackerman glanced at the little boy, and looking slightly defeated, clasped his work-worn hands. It was quite clear to him that there was little hope of shaking the boy’s interest now.

“Okay,” he said, and took in a deep, deep breath. “I am a member of the secret society of cloud-makers. My father was a cloud-maker. My father’s father was a cloud-maker, and now I, too, am a cloud-maker. Our clouds are distributed across the globe, Nigh, made right here, and sent wherever they are needed, to shade people from the angry sun. This is our secret, Nigh. Our secret, and calling – a solemn duty for which we must never, ever take credit.”

“How come?” asked Nigh.

“How come?” repeated Mr. Ackerman, searchingly. “Well, you see, Nigh,” began Mr. Ackerman, “a cloud is a powerful thing. As long as a cloud is considered a happenstance of nature, then it’s a helpful and friendly thing. But should this power to create and control clouds be in the hands of all men, well…

“Consider nations at war, Nigh. Imagine what would happen if one nation were simply to just steal all its enemy’s clouds, leaving the other’s Earth infernal, or scorched. Or worse – fill the other’s sky with thousands of cumulus clouds, perpetuating a torrential downpour that need not ever end. Why, it’d be the end of us all. That is why the cloud-makers have always been men and women without a country or a faith, with no allegiance at all, but to the clouds themselves.” With that, Mr. Ackerman looked upwards with a gleam in his eye, as though he could see right through the kitchen ceiling the clouds in the sky above. “Our secrets are passed down from generation to generation, Nigh. We pose always as ordinary citizens, our factories disguised to look no different than any of the others in their midst. Why, as far as the outside world is concerned, our factory exists solely for the production of the three-pronged one slot widget.” At this, Mr. Ackerman chuckled. “Trucks full of the things travel to and from our factory all day. They arrive full, and so they leave. Of course, we do keep a good deal of these widgets on hand, in case of a visit from the outside world. But who wants to visit the widget factory? Men and women toiling for hours on end with molten ore and soldering irons, riveting rivets until they can no longer even feel their fingertips. No one. And if they did, they’d never be allowed past the front gate, not without an appointment.”

“Are all widget factories really cloud factories?” asked Nigh.

Mr. Ackerman shook his head. “No, Nigh, no. I suppose most any factory could be a cloud factory. You never know, and that’s the point – no one does. That is, except for the cloud-makers. And I’ve even heard tell of people who worked at cloud factories who, for security reasons, hadn’t even the slightest idea.”

“How?” asked Nigh.

“By the same process usually reserved only for unexpected visitors – atomic hypnosis.”

“Atomic hypnosis?”

“It’s just like ordinary hypnosis, only much, much smaller. These people go to work every day, completely unaware how entirely irreplaceable and important they are. All they see is an ordinary factory, in which they are asked to perform only the most mundane of tasks, never for a moment suspecting the incomprehensibly beautiful process in which they are taking part.”

“Do they ever find out?”

“No. I don’t believe that most of them ever do.”

“How come?”

“Well, you see, Nigh, atomic hypnosis is a very powerful thing.”

“It doesn’t seem fair!” said the little boy, quite visibly disappointed.

“Fair?” said Mr. Ackerman. “Fair? I don’t know. I am afraid, though, that it might be necessary. It’s just not easy for people to believe themselves capable of such great things, Nigh. It’s simple insecurity. And as a matter of security, insecurity is simply not to be tolerated. Secrets such as this can be put at risk for no one.”

“You told me,” said Nigh, causing the flicker of shame to return to Mr. Ackerman’s face once more.

“I… I live alone here, Nigh. I haven’t any children with whom to share my secrets.” Mr. Ackerman poured himself another cup of tea, emptying into it more of the clear liquid from the silver flask in his front pocket. “The life of a cloud-maker, Nigh – it’s a lonely thing. To the outside world, we must purposely appear as unremarkable as possible. We lead lives designed to attract very little attention. And sometimes, Nigh, sometimes we attract no attention at all.” Mr. Ackerman’s gaze turned down upon the kitchen table. “When you grow up someday, Nigh, you’ll come to understand that there are some things in life that, if you don’t share them, well, they can fade. Grown men have been known to disappear into thin air.” Though still in the room with him, Mr. Ackerman looked to Nigh to be far, far away. “You’re a good boy, Nigh,” said Mr. Ackerman, “and I believe I can trust you.”

With that, Mr. Ackerman excused himself and withdrew to the bathroom. Nigh, who had been sitting quietly and attentively, for much longer than would normally be expected from a boy his age on vacation, began to wander about the house in Mr. Ackerman’s absence.

“After all,” thought Nigh, “I have never been in the house of a cloud-maker before.”

In the living room, a little to the left of the front door, Nigh noticed a large, yellow raincoat hanging from a wooden coatrack. Whereas normally, a large, yellow raincoat hanging from a wooden coatrack would be of little interest to a boy like Nigh, this large, yellow raincoat appeared to be covered from top to bottom in no less than a full inch of undisturbed dust.

This struck Nigh to be rather odd. As Nigh reached out to touch the dusty coat with an outstretched finger, Mr. Ackerman stepped into the room, and with a booming voice that scared and startled Nigh, cried, “Don’t touch that! Now, I told you never ever, ever, ever, under any circumstance, may you ever so much as touch that raincoat! Do you understand?!”

Nigh backed away from the raincoat and nodded his head vigorously.

“This raincoat is for use only in the most severe of drought emergencies!”

Nigh had never heard of a raincoat that is only to be used in the most severe of drought emergencies before, and was quite visibly shaken by the severity of Mr. Ackerman’s tone. “You d-didn’t…” stammered Nigh.

“I didn’t what?”

“Tell me about the raincoat…”

“I didn’t… oh, my god, I didn’t.” And there the two of them stood, neither boy nor man knowing quite what to say. Mr. Ackerman sighed a sigh of such sadness that it made Nigh shiver. “I… I’m sorry, Nigh, I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that. I had no right. I was afraid you were about to…” Mr. Ackerman trailed off, and with a look of embarrassment on his face, knelt down to the height of the little boy. “I’m afraid I’m… I’m just not feeling very well right now, Nigh. You’ve been a very good boy today. You know that, don’t you?”

Nigh shook his head yes, because the way Mr. Ackerman was looking at him, he thought he ought to.

“I think old Mr. Ackerman needs a little rest now,” he said to Nigh. “You won’t forget what I told you here today, will you, Nigh?”

Nigh shook his head no.

“Okay, Nigh. You go run along and play now.”

[PBC music] Augustus: This is August Plumb and you have been listening to part one of the 2nd Imaginary Symphony. On behalf of all of us here at the Perpetual Broadcasting Corporation, we wish you a happy holiday season. We will return with part two in just a few nights, ladies and gentlemen. Until then, try not to eat too many platypus-shaped cookies. Goodnight, everyone. [Ending music]

The Orbiting Human Circus (Of The Air): The 2nd Imaginary Symphony - Part Two

Augustus: Auggie Plumb here. You are listening to part two of the PBC’s broadcast of the 2nd Imaginary Symphony. It is, of course, Platypus Night, the night in our month-long lead up to Platypus Eve, where all Paris goes dark. The city of lights is extinguished and one finds not a single lit electric light or candle. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, at the strike of 8 in two hours’ time, the Parisians will gather with friends, with loved ones, with only the moonlight to light their way, and later this evening, waiting, all of us, waiting.

And for whom do we wait? Well, for those of you listening to this international broadcast in some remote enclave such as a mountaintop, jungle, cabin, or perhaps one of the Earth’s poles, we are waiting for the Great Recitating Platypus. Yes, on this night, the platypus travels the Earth looking not for signs of stuffy noses or sickness, but for darkened houses, the dark house being a sign that the dwellers within are inviting the platypus to visit.

And we wait. Our eyes close, as if in unison. When the platypus enters your home, it shivers, entranced by a feeling of absolute peace. The platypus will move through slighting certain objects, one for each of us, and touching them to its bill. And when the platypus leaves our house, and we all open our eyes at exactly the same time, we light a candle and place it in our window and all of Paris spills out into the streets, and in the streets all of Paris wonders just which object the platypus has touched for them. And we go through our bedrooms, and we go through our living rooms, from thing to thing. We ask, ‘Is this the object the platypus blessed?’ For when you see that object, one will suddenly be seized with the same unmistakable feeling of warmth and safety one felt when the platypus had just left our house.

A memory or idea will pass into our heads and that will be the key to our well-being and happiness in the coming year. And indeed in times of struggle or adversity, if the object is touched, the path to follow will come, and all of this tonight.

But first, part two of our classic holiday broadcast. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the 2nd Imaginary Symphony. [Music playing]

Narrator: “This raincoat is for use only in the most severe of drought emergencies!”

Nigh had never heard of a raincoat that is only to be used in the most severe of drought emergencies before, and was quite visibly shaken by the severity of Mr. Ackerman’s tone.

“You d-didn’t…” stammered Nigh.

“I didn’t what?”

“Tell me about the raincoat…”

“I didn’t… oh, my god, I didn’t.” And there the two of them stood, neither boy nor man knowing quite what to say. Mr. Ackerman sighed a sigh of such sadness that it made Nigh shiver. “I… I’m sorry, Nigh, I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that. I had no right. I was afraid you were about to…” Mr. Ackerman trailed off, and with a look of embarrassment on his face, knelt down to the height of the little boy. “I’m afraid I’m… I’m just not feeling very well right now, Nigh. You’ve been a very good boy today. You know that, don’t you?”

Nigh shook his head yes, because the way Mr. Ackerman was looking at him, he thought he ought to.

“I think old Mr. Ackerman needs a little rest now,” he said to Nigh. “You won’t forget what I told you here today, will you, Nigh?”

Nigh shook his head no.

“Okay, Nigh. You go run along and play now.”

And so it was that Nigh became the guardian of a great and profound secret. In the weeks and months that passed, Nigh never looked at the big factory or the clouds above in exactly the same way again. The world seemed a new and exotic place to Nigh, where new mysteries waited to be discovered around every corner. He would spend hours on the hill overlooking the big factory, watching the newborn clouds drift this way and that.

In the evenings, he would sit out on his front stoop, anxiously awaiting Mr. Ackerman’s return home from work. It was the complicit look that he and Mr. Ackerman would share that he looked forward to most of all.

Nigh felt very lucky indeed to be the bearer of such a great and important secret, and dreamed some day of becoming a cloud-maker himself. Cloud-making seemed so much more interesting than the other jobs he had learned about at career day in school.

When asked, Mr. Ackerman just shrugged and said, “Not anybody can be a cloud-maker, Nigh. Sure, most anyone is capable. But the title of ‘cloud-maker’ is something that must be earned. Right now, you’re just a passenger, along for the ride.”

“A passenger?” asked Nigh.

“This world, Nigh, this world of men and women,” said Mr. Ackerman, his cheeks and nose a good deal redder than Nigh had ever seen them before, “little boys like you… you’re nothing but passengers.”

Mr. Ackerman was quiet for a moment, seemingly struggling to find the right words. “It’s like… like a crazy carnival ride, gone out of control,” he said, his eyes widening. “It’s all our fault.”

“Your fault?” asked Nigh.

Mr. Ackerman laughed a sad laugh. “You know who built this crazy machine, who’s operating it?” he asked.

Nigh shook his head.

“Grown-ups,” Mr. Ackerman said, bowing deeply. “We build the damn thing every day. Problem is, most of us don’t even know it. Even though we’re driving, each and every last one of us, we think we’re just passengers like you, or worse – victims. We’re terrible drivers, the whole lot of us. But sometimes, Nigh, sometimes a little boy like you grows up and finds that despite everything, he can still see clearly. He finds that he can look straight ahead and steer the whole blessed thing. And when a boy can do that, he can be…”

“A cloud-maker?” asked Nigh.

“Any damn thing he pleases,” finished Mr. Ackerman.

Nigh thought about how before meeting Mr. Ackerman, he had been afraid of growing up. He enjoyed how he spent his days and was yet to find a grown-up who did. Watching the grown-ups travel to and from work every day, he had witnessed looks only of boredom and stress upon their faces. Nigh was always amazed by how well Mr. Ackerman was able to mimic this look of discontentment, how well he was able to mask his heroic purpose and disappear daily into the ceaseless flow of adults who had made the whole idea of growing up look so unappealing to Nigh in the first place.

Mr. Ackerman was indeed so good at appearing tired and unhappy that sometimes, for fleeing moments, even Nigh himself was fooled. And then, early one vacation morning, Nigh awoke to find something horribly wrong. Mr. Ackerman’s hat and briefcase were strewn upon his front lawn, and the door to his house left hanging open. Through the open door, Nigh could see that Mr. Ackerman’s wooden coatrack had also been capsized and was laying on its side.

Nigh cautiously approached the house and called out to Mr. Ackerman.

“Mr. Ackerman!” called Nigh. There was no answer. “Mr. Ackerman!” he called yet again, poking his head through the front door. And still there was no answer. The house was completely silent. Nigh, becoming more and more concerned, decided to ask his grandmother if she had heard Mr. Ackerman leaving for work that morning. Unfortunately, she had been busy splicing tape and hadn’t noticed anything at all. Nigh thought for a moment of asking his grandmother’s help, but was afraid of compromising Mr. Ackerman’s important need for secrecy. He would have to try and find Mr. Ackerman by himself for now.

Nigh returned to Mr. Ackerman’s front yard and, gathering the hat and briefcase, cautiously entered the house. Closing the door behind him, Nigh placed the hat and briefcase upon Mr. Ackerman’s kitchen table and began searching about for any clues as towards Mr. Ackerman’s whereabouts. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, with the exception of the capsized coatrack and raincoat, he returned once again to the briefcase.

Hesitating for a moment, Nigh decided that there was no other choice. The briefcase must be opened. After all, he thought, Mr. Ackerman might be in trouble! Nigh gently released the latches [latches clicking] and was quite surprised by what he found.

Inside the case, a second slightly smaller case was housed, this one ice cold and made out of some sort of aluminum or other light metal. Upon this metal was etched the phrase “FOR AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY”. Underneath this statement was etched a good deal more information. The etching was so small, however, that Nigh had to press his face up against the ice-cold case and strain his eyes in order to read it.

“WARNING”, it said, “FOR THE GROUND TRANSPORTATION AND CONTAINMENT OF NIMBUS, STRATUS, CIRRUS, AND CUMULUS CLOUDS ONLY. NOT TO BE OPENED IN AN UNREFRIGERATED INDOOR ENVIRONMENT”. As Nigh was straining to read the last part of this statement, his nose accidentally made contact with the small red button that he had not previously noticed. [Shaking, gears turning]

Suddenly, Nigh’s ears were filled with the sound of gears turning, and a mechanical whirring filled the air. [Bubbly noises] The case sprung open and out of it sprung a tiny and perfectly formed nimbus cloud. It was the most amazing thing Nigh had ever seen!

The little cloud drifted upwards, drifting higher and higher, until at last, it came to a rest against the cool tiles of the kitchen ceiling. Nigh pulled out his chair and climbed upon the kitchen table in order to take a better look. From his new vantage point, however, it seemed as though the little cloud had not come to a rest at all, but was trying to pass through the tile ceiling in order to reach the sky above. Nigh noticed also that the cloud seemed just a little bit smaller than it had been only moments ago. It was almost as if the cloud’s inability to reach its proper altitude was causing it to somehow shrink.

Then the words etched on the aluminum cloud case suddenly came back to him. “NOT TO BE OPENED IN AN UNREFRIGERATED INDOOR ENVIRONMENT”.

“What will Mr. Ackerman think when he finds out I destroyed his cloud?”

Nigh was reminded of the time a bird had found its way into his grandmother’s house and the horrible panic he had felt as the bird flapped about, crashing into closed windows. [Banging noises]

He had to do something, and quickly!

But the cloud was much too high and well beyond reach. How would he ever get the cloud back down and into its cloud case?

Then Nigh thought of Mr. Ackerman’s old-fashioned refrigerator. Perhaps this could provide the sort of refrigerated environment the cloud needed.

Filling his lungs with as much air as he could muster, [sound of someone blowing air, bubbles popping] Nigh began to blow the cloud in the direction of Mr. Ackerman’s ice box. It’s working, thought Nigh, it’s working! Nigh blew and blew until the cloud was floating just a few feet above the refrigerator door. Nigh was hoping that the cloud would be drawn into the coolness of the ice box, as it would the coolness of high altitudes.

However, upon opening Mr. Ackerman’s refrigerator door, he found no room whatsoever for the little cloud. It seems the refrigerator was already full, not with a single grocery, mind you, but from top to bottom with clouds, clouds of every imaginable shape and size. Stratus clouds, and cirrus clouds, so many clouds, in fact, that Nigh had to immediately slam the refrigerator door shut in order to keep them from pouring out.

Just then, Nigh felt the most amazing, cool sensation on the top of his head. The chilly little cloud had begun to lose altitude and was now hovering only centimeters away from his face. Nigh grabbed the cloud case off the kitchen table and held it open beneath the sinking cloud. He closed the aluminum case around it and placed it directly back inside of Mr. Ackerman’s briefcase, closing all the latches. [Latches closing]

This is getting me nowhere, thought Nigh, who with a great sigh of relief, decided to resume his search for Mr. Ackerman outside. [PBC music]

Augustus: You were listening to part two of the 2nd Imaginary Symphony. The Perpetual Broadcasting Corporation will be going off the air in observance of the Platypus Night. This is August Plumb, and the Perpetual Broadcasting Corporation. Goodnight. [Ending music]

The Orbiting Human Circus (Of The Air): The 2nd Imaginary Symphony - Part Three

Augustus: August here, this is the Perpetual Broadcasting Corporation. Welcome to our broadcast of part three of the 2nd Imaginary Symphony, and of course, to week three of our lead-up to Platypus Eve, tonight being the night, of course, when all Paris spills into platypus-shaped sea craft, in many cases passed down from parents or grandparents, and float upon the Seine, sharing delicious nighttime picnics.

But of course, you don’t need me to tell you. You’re probably pulling your boat out of your basement or boathouse right now. And while you shore up your craft and patch up the holes, like all the rest of us, you’ll be listening to part three of the 2nd Imaginary Symphony broadcast right here on the Perpetual Broadcasting Corporation.

And last week, our cloud-maker disappeared. We return you now to the story moments before we last left. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the 2nd Imaginary Symphony. [Music playing]

Narrator: “This is getting me nowhere,” thought Nigh, who with a great sigh of relief, decided to resume his search for Mr. Ackerman outside.

On his way to the door, however, Nigh found himself suddenly tumbling forward, [sound of someone falling], falling face-first to the floor, and there, beneath his feet, lay the culprit – the infamous large yellow raincoat, with its inch of undisturbed dust.

Retrieving the raincoat, [thunder] and straightening the coatrack from which it had fallen, Nigh heard the unmistakable sound of distant thunder. “Oh, no!” he thought, “Rain would be of no help at all.”

Nigh poked his head outside to find that, indeed, it had begun raining [rain and thunder] and soon it became quite apparent that this was no ordinary rainstorm. With each passing moment, [rain getting louder] the rain fell harder and the wind blew stronger, until what had begun as a pleasant sprinkle had become no less than a torrential downpour.

In his mission, however, Nigh would not be discouraged. Mr. Ackerman might be in trouble, and if this was the case, it would be with the bravery and strength of the most grown-up of grown-ups anywhere that Nigh would strive to find him. And so out into the storm Nigh went, protected only by an ill-fitting large yellow raincoat that he now wore.

All around Nigh, the skies grew darker and darker until not the tiniest trace of sunlight remained. Huge tornadoes began to gather upon the horizons, their deafening winds so loud that Nigh was unable to hear the sound of his grandmother calling for him to come home.

Spiraling raindrops filled the air, turning the Earth to mud and flooding the streets all about him. And then suddenly, a tremendous gust of wind came along, blowing Nigh off his feet and blowing the open raincoat right off of him. [Rain and thunder stops, squeaking of birds]

Nigh looked up from his seat in a puddle and was astonished by what he saw. The moment the raincoat had blown off of him, the rain had stopped and the sun came out. There were chirping birds, and all shone with the warm glow of a clear sky as the powerful cumulus cloud that had been pounding the Earth with its torrential downpour just a moment ago had all but withdrawn.

Nigh looked at the raincoat, which was now strewn on the ground a few feet in front of him, and looked back up at the sky. He got up, went to retrieve the raincoat, but as soon as he touched it, [thunder, birds stop] he found the sky darkening, and the distant sound of thunder again returning.

He took his hand off the raincoat [birds chirping] and found that the sun had once again come out. He repeated this several times, [thunder] and found that every time his hand made contact [birds] with the coat [thunder] the cumulus clouds [birds] were once again drawn to fill the sky [thunder] and the moment he released [birds] the coat, the clouds withdrew.

This was another of Mr. Ackerman’s possessions, Nigh decided, that should only be touched by trained and authorized personnel. He reached for a small branch that, in the storm, had been blown off of a nearby tree, and with it, lifted the raincoat carefully, and returned it to Mr. Ackerman’s wooden coatrack. [Music changes]

Then, a thought occurred to Nigh. What if early that morning, there had been some sort of emergency at the cloud factory, one that required Mr. Ackerman’s immediate attention? An emergency of such great importance that he was unable to pause for a moment, not even to close the front door or retrieve the fallen hat and briefcase that he had dropped in his haste?

If such had been the case, then Mr. Ackerman would certainly appreciate having his hat and briefcase brought to him. Certainly, he would, thought Nigh. And so, Nigh climbed to the top of the big hill, Mr. Ackerman’s hat and briefcase in hand, and looked down at the great factory has he had done so many times before.

He knew he’d never get past the guards at the front gate. At best, they would simply take the hat and the briefcase from him and send him on his way. Nigh wanted to see that Mr. Ackerman was alright with his own two eyes, and to see inside the cloud factory more than almost anything in the whole wide world.

He had discovered some time ago that around the back of the factory, there was a small hole at the base of the barbed wire fence, just the right size for a skinny nine-year-old boy to fit through. Nigh made his way carefully down the hill so as not to slip on the wet grass and climbed quietly through the hole, pulling the hat and briefcase behind him.

The factory consisted of two tall silver buildings, one rectangle and one square, connected at the center by another giant bubble-shaped building, roughly double the size of the others. The whole of the structure was covered from top to bottom in long lines of blinking lights and lighted windows. It looked to Nigh like a giant version of the old recording equipment that his grandmother kept in their basement.

Looking up at the smokestacks, Nigh wondered if he had ever seen anything quite so tall. Standing right up next to them for the first time, he had certainly never felt smaller. Just then, [voices, footsteps] Nigh heard the sound of voices and footsteps coming from somewhere nearby. He looked around for someplace to hide, but could see none. Moving along the back of the great structure, he came to a single unmarked door and gave its knob a try. The door was unlocked, and Nigh, hearing the voices and footsteps draw nearer, slowly and quietly cracked the door open and stepped inside. [Singing]

What Nigh saw then was at once the most amazing and beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life – rows of singing, white-haired women, sitting on a vast and spiraling assembly line, in front of each, a small and perfectly formed cloud, floating only inches above a frost-covered silver tray; men cranking cranks and pulling levers upon huge machines made of silver and bronze; hundreds of workers suspended in midair by string, pulleys, and wire, peddling upon small contraptions whose pedals and gears were linked to bigger gears, and those to bigger gears, and those to bigger gears yet, above them, giant fans blowing the larger completed clouds towards smokestacks high along the factory’s vast lightened ceiling, creating huge cloud-shaped shadows that drifted over the men and women working a hundred feet below.

He saw several raised platforms, upon which sat workers surrounded by huge control panels of blinking and flashing lights; buttons and knobs of every imaginable size and color; frost-covered golden tubs, housing hundreds of tiny floating clouds waiting for inspection; suspended from the ceiling, a giant clock, the sort that he had never seen before, flanked on all sides by a towering bank of gauges and levers; and rising above it all, on the tallest platform yet, he saw the elder cloud-maker, who from his perch high above, directed the flow of the entire factory with graceful waves of his left hand while calling out through the megaphone in his right.

“Nimbus, two hundred of three thousand! Stratus, forty-four of fifty-three! Cumulus, twenty-seven of four thirteen!” And on, and on.

Nigh realized that he had begun to shiver and noticed also that he could see his breath. Looking around at the singing silver-haired women seated all about him, Nigh noticed that their breath could be seen as well. In fact, upon closer inspection, it almost looked as if the women were singing the clouds before them.

Putting on Mr. Ackerman’s large hat and crossing his arms against the chill, Nigh proceeded to look about the building for any sign of Mr. Ackerman. He noticed that every single chair in the building seemed to be filled, with the exception of one, and that this one empty chair seemed to be the focus of many an anxious glance by the workers in its midst. Even the elder cloud-maker, directing the whole factory from his platform high above, was seen to glance worriedly at this empty chair from time to time. Indeed, this chair located high atop the only empty examination platform seemed to be a matter of great concern to all the cloud-makers.

Crawling his way along the factory’s back wall so as not to be noticed, Nigh made his way slowly but surely to the platform in question. He waited silently until he was sure no one was looking and climbed slowly up to the platform’s top.

Peeking over the edge, Nigh could clearly see a silver plaque bolted to the back of the empty chair, and etched upon this silver plaque, he could clearly see was the name “R. A. Ackerman”.

Nigh suddenly became quite aware that every sound in the factory had ceased, and it had been replaced with a shocked and deathly silence. Looking up, he saw that all work in the factory had come to a stop and that every last eye in the vast building was upon him. “A little boy?!” boomed the elder cloud-maker, who in his shock, did not realize that he was still speaking through the megaphone.

Several of the cloud-makers began slowly to rise to their feet, and Nigh, now aware that he might be in terrible trouble, collected the briefcase and ran as fast as he could towards the door through which he had entered. [Fast footsteps]

Finding the door still unlocked, Nigh made a hasty exit, not looking back even once outside. Hearing the growing commotion behind him, he made his way to the gate and squeezed himself back through the small hole. Once through, he ran as fast as he could up the hill and to the road just beyond it.

At just that moment, a fire engine with its lights flashing slowly turned a corner and began sounding its alarm, having just pulled out of the engine house. The firemen on board were under the luring influence of the fire siren, and did not notice the small boy as he climbed on board. Nigh hid himself underneath one of the fire engine’s big benches, and exhausted by the day’s adventures, drifted off to sleep.

He awoke a good time later to find a wet group of firemen looking down at him. “Don’t you know that fire engines are dangerous places for little boys?” asked a firemen with a kind face. “You could have been hurt! What’s your name?”

“Nigh,” said Nigh.

“You mustn’t ever go near a fire engine when it’s in use, Nigh. Now, if you were to come by the engine house some afternoon, that’d be a different story. Why, me and the boys, we’d even give you a tour. But when we’re fighting a fire, that’s business only for a trained firefighter, and even trained firefighters die fighting fires. Do you understand, Nigh?”

Nigh nodded yes, and the fireman smiled.

“Someday, Nigh, you might even grow up to be a real fireman, just like us!”

Though he tried not to show it, Nigh shuddered inwardly at the thought of being forever subject to the whims of the fire siren.

“Where do you live, Nigh?” the fireman asked. Nigh looked up to see where he was, and saw in the afternoon light that the truck had traveled rather far from Telegraph Road. However, not wanting to answer too many more questions about his day’s activities, Nigh pointed to a spot vaguely down the block. “Well, you head on home, now, Nigh.” Relieved, Nigh stepped down from the firetruck. “Oh, and Nigh, where did you get the hat and briefcase from?”

“They’re… they’re my father’s,” said Nigh.

The fireman smiled, and with that, the engine was off, leaving Nigh standing alone on a street corner. Realizing that he had a very long walk ahead of him, Nigh started for home. As he walked, he reflected upon the day’s events and became more and more concerned that something horrible really had become of Mr. Ackerman.

Soon, the day began to turn slowly into night, and Nigh noticed that though he had been walking for quite some time in the direction of home, things were looking less and less familiar until soon they were no longer familiar at all. Nigh realized that he was lost, and in a part of town that he had never been to before. The buildings loomed larger, and somehow grayer, with dark alleys that spread like vast spider webs between them. There were more and more grown-ups everywhere, all rushing to and from with haste and impatience.

Nigh was becoming worried that he might never find his way home. He had walked a long, long way and his legs were aching as it was. He knew one thing for sure – he was tired and did not much like this new part of town in which he had found himself. Nigh sat down on a curb to rest his legs for a moment, and was almost tripped over by a large businessman who had been rushing past. “Watch where you’re sitting, little boy!” scolded the cross businessman, who dusted himself off and continued on his way.

Not wanting to be tripped over again, Nigh gathered himself up and entered one of the nearby alleys. At least here there would be less traffic and he could rest. The alley was dark, and Nigh, moving carefully so as not to bump into anything, settled against the wall of the building, finding a nice, soft spot on which to rest his head.

It was now almost completely dark, and as night settled on this strange part of the city, [chattering] Nigh found the sounds coming from outside of the alley to be more violent and foreboding - drunken sounds, bottles smashing, and men fighting; wild laughter that offered not a hint of happiness. Nigh wished more than anything to be safe and at home with grandma. He realized that he was hungry, and that grandma had probably had his dinner ready long ago. He knew also that once the dinnertime had come and passed, she would have begun to worry.

Nigh promised himself that he would take only a short rest and then immediately continue on his journey home, and it was with this conviction that Nigh’s already heavy eyelids became altogether too heavy to lift at all, and Nigh fell once again into the deepest and most pleasant of sleeps. What Nigh did not know as he drifted off to the land of dreams was that the soft object he had come to rest against was not a bundle of rags, nor a wastepaper bag; in fact, it was not an object at all. It was a man, a very tired and sleeping man by the name of Rudolph Abacus Ackerman.

In a matter of moments now, Nigh and his friend, Mr. Ackerman, will awaken and discover each other in the morning light, but let us first take a moment to discover for ourselves the difference between the sound of a sunrise on Telegraph Road, as we experienced at the beginning of our adventure, and the sound of a sunrise on the streets of a sleepless city, as the first rays of morning light glitter peacefully upon the empty silver flask in Mr. Ackerman’s outstretched hand. [Birds chirping] [PBC music]

Augustus: You’ve been listening to the PBC’s broadcast of the 2nd Imaginary Symphony. Do be careful not to tip your boats, and we’ll see you tonight on the Seine. [Ending music]

The Orbiting Human Circus (Of The Air): The 2nd Imaginary Symphony - Part Four

[Music] Augustus: You are listening to the Perpetual Broadcasting Corporation! It’s Platypus Eve. I cannot begin to describe our Platypus Eve festivities. I can only tell you that it is one of the most lovely evenings of the year, and that it begins with all of Paris listening to the final broadcast of the 2nd Imaginary Symphony.

And ladies and gentlemen, the moment has come. This is Auggie Plumb. [Singing saw music]

Narrator: But let us first take a moment to discover for ourselves the difference between the sound of a sunrise on Telegraph Road, as we experienced at the beginning of our adventure, and the sound of a sunrise on the streets of a sleepless city as the first rays of morning light glitter peacefully upon the empty silver flask in Mr. Ackerman’s outstretched hand. [Birds chirping, wind blowing] “Nigh!” said Mr. Ackerman.

“Mr. Ackerman!” said Nigh, who rubbed his eyes, for a moment not quite sure at all of where he was. “Mr. Ackerman, you’re all right! You’re all right!” he cried.

Cringing at the volume of the excited boy’s voice, Mr. Ackerman squinted at Nigh. “I’m fine, Nigh, fine. What… what are you doing here?”

“I was looking for you!” said Nigh.

“Looking… for me?” repeated Mr. Ackerman. “Does your grandmother know you’re here?” Nigh shook his head. “Oh, Nigh,” said Mr. Ackerman, “she must be so worried.”

Watching Mr. Ackerman squint, it occurred to Nigh that the early morning sun was hurting the cloud-maker’s eyes. He carefully retrieved Mr. Ackerman’s hat and handed it to him. Mr. Ackerman thanked Nigh, but did not put it on, instead returning it to the ground where it had been. “How in the world did you find me, Nigh?” he asked.

Excitedly, Nigh began to recount the previous day’s events. [Whirring and buzzing]

As Nigh spoke, the look of sadness that had taken hold of Mr. Ackerman’s face began to deepen, and from time to time, he simply shook his head. Finally seeming as though he could listen to no more, Mr. Ackerman righted himself and silenced Nigh with a wave of his swollen right hand.

“Please, Nigh, please,” he said, seemingly quite lost in thought. There passed a moment of silence between the two. The excitement Nigh had felt in recounting his story quickly faded and was replaced instead with a creeping feeling of dread.

Mr. Ackerman was right. His grandmother was surely sick with worry, and with his previous day’s adventures, Mr. Ackerman seemed none too pleased. In fact, looking at Mr. Ackerman just then, it seemed that he too might be sick, though maybe not with worry. Nigh felt the question he had been dying to ask since he awoke bubbling up.

“What happened to you, Mr. Ackerman?”

Mr. Ackerman looked at Nigh, and for a moment, appeared to be at a loss for an answer. Nigh watched as Mr. Ackerman’s gaze first fell upon his shoes, and then to the ground beneath them. “Nothing happened to me, Nigh,” Mr. Ackerman said finally, “nothing happens to me.” The boy looked up at him expectantly, waiting. “I just left.” Mr. Ackerman looked at Nigh. “I got fed up and left. You’ll understand when you grow up.”

“But the cloud-makers, they need you!”

Mr. Ackerman looked down at the little boy before him and shook his head. “We’ve got to get you home now,” was all Mr. Ackerman said, but Nigh did not follow. He stood in place and looked up at Mr. Ackerman, clearly not understanding. Seeing this, Mr. Ackerman looked suddenly quite ashamed and stopped. He turned back towards Nigh and, feeling for the flask in his jacket pocket, quietly spoke. “I…” Mr. Ackerman said, “am not… a cloud-maker.”

At this, Nigh found his head swimming and a great sob escaped from somewhere deep within him. After all the strange and scary things he had experienced in the past 24 hours, it seemed he had found himself at last beginning to cry. Nigh could not understand why after all he had done, Mr. Ackerman would no longer trust him with his secret, and it was the thought that he had somehow lost this trust that he could not bear.

His face red with shame, Mr. Ackerman took the crying boy into his arms, and had Nigh’s face not been buried in the lining of his jacket, Nigh would have noticed that at that moment, Mr. Ackerman looked very, very old. Mr. Ackerman felt very much as if he should say something, but was at a bit of a loss as to what that something should be. “There are cloud-makers,” he offered, and the boy looked up. “I believe with all my heart that there are cloud-makers. Why, just look up at the sky!” he said, pointing upwards. “What more proof could you need?”

As Nigh’s tears began to abate, Mr. Ackerman put a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder and knelt down so as to look him directly in the eye. “It’s just that I…” he said, “Rudolph Abacus Ackerman, am not one of them. I’m… a widget-maker. That factory, Nigh, it’s a widget factory. That’s all it’s ever been. We make widgets there, three-pronged one-slot widgets. I didn’t want to tell you, Nigh. I didn’t want to tell you because I’m not proud of it. I don’t even like widgets.”

Looking down at Nigh, Mr. Ackerman suddenly realized that the boy did not believe him.

“Look at my hands, Nigh. They’re worn. They swell up. It’s from years of curing widgets, riveting rivets into slots, and molding metal prongs. There’s no place in a cloud factory for men like me.”

“But Mr. Ackerman, I saw the cloud factory!” pleaded Nigh.

“There are no clouds in that factory!” boomed Mr. Ackerman, who, surprised by the volume of his own voice, cringed and continued at a much quieter and apologetic tone. “I wish there were, Nigh. I wish to the heavens above that it were one of those factories. But in that factory, Nigh, there’s nothing at all but widgets, and that is why I must stay here and seek to once again to fill my silver flask. And you, Nigh, must be sent home to your grandmother this instant.”

“But Mr. Ackerman!” sobbed Nigh, and then suddenly, Nigh had an idea. He crawled over to Mr. Ackerman’s briefcase and opened both it and the cold, silver case within. What Mr. Ackerman saw then, he would remember for the rest of his life – a small, perfectly formed nimbus cloud drifting slowly skyward out of the open recess of his briefcase. Mr. Ackerman stood up and with his mouth hanging open, and a look of shock upon his face, moved towards the small cloud in order to examine it more closely.

The cloud, however, continued to drift upwards and away from him. Not for a moment taking his eyes away from the rising cloud, Mr. Ackerman continued in its pursuit, and Nigh, taking Mr. Ackerman’s hand, gently placed Mr. Ackerman’s hat back on his head, where it belonged.

The two followed their cloud out of the narrow alleyway and down to the busy city street, where the busy city-dwellers were far too busy to notice the spectacle of a nine-year-old boy and a disheveled man marching hand in hand behind a small nimbus cloud.

The further along they went in pursuit of the cloud, the higher also it drifted. Mr. Ackerman never for a moment took his gaze away from the cloud, like a man hypnotized, and when Nigh finally did, he found that things were once again beginning to look familiar. The cloud, it seemed, was leading them home. [Bubbling]

The boy and the man, hand in hand, followed the cloud from street to street, over grassy fields, steep hills, and deepened valleys, until the cloud had reached such an elevation that it was no longer distinguishable from the other clouds that filled the sky around it. It was at this point that Mr. Ackerman looked downwards from the sky and found himself at the gate of the great factory.

The guard at the gate smiled warmly and beckoned for both Nigh and Mr. Ackerman to come in, but Mr. Ackerman hesitated. He was no longer sure of what awaited him and the little boy inside, and was suddenly quite afraid. “I’m just an ordinary man,” he said, backing away.

The guard put a reassuring hand on Mr. Ackerman’s shoulder, and let him through the open factory gate.

Now flanked on either side by the guard and the little boy who was still holding his hand, Mr. Ackerman began to walk tentatively forward and the awkward threesome soon made their way to the huge double doors that marked the factory’s entrance. Sweating profusely, Mr. Ackerman took a deep breath, and before he could protest, watched as the guard unlatched the giant latch and pushed the huge factory doors wide open.

What Mr. Rudolph Abacus Ackerman saw then was at once the most amazing and beautiful thing that he had ever seen - rows of singing, white-haired women sitting on a vast and spiraling assembly line, in front of each a small and perfectly formed cloud floating only inches above a frost-covered silver tray; men cranking cranks and pulling levers upon huge machines made of silver and bronze; hundreds of workers suspended in midair by string, pulleys, and wire, pedaling upon small contraptions, whose pedals and gears were linked to bigger gears, and those to bigger gears, and those to bigger gears yet; above them, giant fans blowing the larger, completed clouds towards smokestacks high along the factory’s vast lightened ceiling, creating huge cloud-shaped shadows that drifted over the men and women working a hundred feet below.

He saw several raised platforms on which sat workers surrounded by huge control panels of blinking and flashing lights; buttons and knobs of every imaginable size and color; frost-covered golden tubs housing hundreds of tiny floating clouds waiting for inspection; suspended from the ceiling a giant clock, the sort that he had never seen before, flanked on all sides by a towering bank of gauges and meters; and rising out of it all, on the tallest platform yet, he saw the elder cloud-maker, who from his perch high above, directed the flow of the entire factory with graceful waves of his left hand while calling out through the megaphone in his right.

“Nimbus, two hundred of three thousand! Stratus, forty-four of fifty-three! Cumulus, twenty-seven of four thirteen!” And on, and on.

Nigh tugging at his sleeve, Mr. Ackerman entered the cloud factory, and the whole of the cloud-makers in their hundreds turned to face him. On his platform high above, the elder cloud-maker stopped conducting for a moment and smiled.

They took Mr. Ackerman’s jacket and hat and led him up the very steps of the platform that Nigh had visited the day before and so delivered him into the chair upon which his name was engraved.

As the look of astonishment on Mr. Ackerman’s face began slowly to turn to a smile, Nigh realized that he had never truly seen Mr. Ackerman smile before. And now, as his misty eyes gratefully surveyed the hundreds of cloud-makers in his midst, Nigh saw a single drop of moisture fall upon Mr. Ackerman’s cheek. Now, whether this was a drop of precipitation from one of the great clouds above or a single tear of his own, he could hardly guess, as Rudolph Abacus Ackerman smiled the biggest smile that Nigh had ever seen and began silently to work. [Ending music]

Art Explanation

So, did you listen? Or did you read? Just curious. I first listened to this story years and years ago, near the beginning of this coloring book project, and I knew I wanted to include it. It had that sweet air of earnest unusualness that a lot of older children’s books had in spades, but not without a dash of reality to spice it up. What reality, you might ask? It’s a story about a little boy reminding his neighbor that he is the head of a cloud factory. Well, while not saying it outright, the story shows us that Mr. Ackerman has lost hope for his future. Even with the little bright light of Nigh visiting, very little seemed to lift him out of the doldrums, and that things from the past were still troubling him.

But hey, a little (or in this story, a lot of) kindness can go a long way! I don’t suggest you go to quite the lengths Nigh did, but it's still so wonderful, what one little thing you can do can improve someone’s whole day. Will everyone appreciate it, or treat you better because of it? No. There will be people who are certifiable buttheads, and can even take advantage of your kindness. You don’t owe the world an open heart, but if your heart can afford opening even just once in a while, that’s beautiful and I’m glad you have the strength for it.

Now, I’d like to take a look at the story in two ways. Just like Birdman, there’s two ways to look at the story. So below, covered in flaps, are my two analyses, in bullet point form, following along chronologically. I’d like you to look at the one agreeing with your interpretation first, then the other, as they each will likely have details that are still relevant to the other. And if you want, tell me if they affected your view on the story!

Realist view

Magic view

By the way, I didn’t type this all up. Here’s a link to the official transcript location from the showmakers.

Alrighty, with all that said, onto the art!

While the main show and the setting are in Paris, I never imagined this story taking place outside of the USA. The voice actors were American, and sometimes I’m a little unimaginative. However, I did put a little thought into the city. Since it houses a cloud factory, it needed to not be very sunny. It has at least one big hill. The city has to be at least somewhat walkable, as there weren’t a ton of mentions of cars. And it has to be an industrial city, because the cloud factory isn’t notable. Add in the fact I got West Coast vibes from this story, I decided it was set in San Francisco! Thus, Nigh looks like a typical San Franciscan - he even has a 49ers shirt! It can often be quite chilly there, even in the summer, so Nigh has layers on.

Mr. Ackerman had a more specific inspiration. There’s a beautiful song called (Sittin’ On) the Dock of the Bay by Otis Redding Jr. It’s about a melancholic drifter who ended up in San Francisco. While Mr. Ackerman is clearly established in the city, that kind of blues music would definitely speak to him. As such, I wanted to draw him like Otis Redding Jr. Unfortunately, he died at age 26 in a plane crash, and Mr. Ackerman is clearly older than that, so I had to base him off of Otis Redding III in his fifties. The hat was inspired by ORIII’s usual look, but the outfit was kind of supposed to be working man chic, with the flair of a trench coat to make it clear that the man was expecting bad things to happen (like cold, wet weather).

Now, the title was pretty basic, but It informed you of the name, which was the point lol.

The platypus was largely because I wanted to attempt making a platypus out of household items. It was actually harder than you’d think, especially since I didn’t physically test it out. Most of the books, aside from the Atlas, are all from podcasts from the same company.

The third picture was a bit of a break for me. I drew it after the factory, so it’s simple.

The fourth picture I drew last. I finally got a handle on Nigh’s face - I have trouble drawing children, but I finally did well. Like I said in the analysis above, it’s more likely Mr. Ackerman really did leave his job himself, but it was easier to portray him being fired. But all in all, this is probably my first or second favorite out of this story.

The fifth picture, where Nigh only partially has the coat on, was again an inaccuracy that made portrayal easier. On one side where he isn’t wearing the rain coat, the weather is calm. On the other side, where he has the sleeve completely on, it’s storming like crazy. I’m not too proud of Nigh’s body proportions or face in this one - a friend who also likes the show influenced my artistic choices but I definitely needed more practice.

Picture 6 is where I did my best to draw the factory. Obviously, I didn’t want to get too complicated with it, but I think I managed to convey some complexity :). Mr. Ackerman and Nigh are warped a little because I was trying to get the picture at a different angle. Just like ith NIMH, I drew a background and then stuck characters on it, although this time I drew the two straight on and then used a big Mr. Ackerman facing the audience, and a little bit of photo editing, to cover up those old lines.

Last picture, you get a good look at Mr. Ackerman. He’s incredulously happy, but somehow, he really is a cloudmaker. And I think that's lovely, and this one turned out well.

Hope you enjoyed! I got a bit carried away with the analysis again lol.

[morawcrumb]

“And so out into the storm Nigh went, protected only by an ill-fitting large yellow raincoat that he now wore." 

This is experimental art, hope you like :D

[nyx-umbrakinesis]

Female Reader!

Impromptu smut killing my friends led to this so enjoy me ignoring my WIP list and asks... I am not editing this... It's pure rough draft smut again 😂 I'm being tortured rn to post it lmao...

Alastor x FReader.

CW: P in V sex, lots of talking from Alastor, radio broadcasting. No editing; no beta; we're going in raw, WE DIE LIKE ADAM!

(See male reader version here)

Here's...

Scream For Me.

(Fem Reader!)

Alastor's eyes gleam with excitement as he obliges your request, to act like you're in a broadcast as he fucks you on the control panel.

His voice taking on the smooth, seductive cadence of his radio persona, the radio overlay seamless as he continues to fuck you relentlessly.

"Welcome back to the airwaves, my dear listeners. We have a very special guest in the studio tonight - an exquisite Sinner! Who's been brought to her knees by the Radio Demon himself. She's got a mouthwatering pair of tits, a luscious ass, and a swollen little clit that's just begging to be played with."

He reaches up, tweaking your nipples as he continues to describe your body to his imaginary audience, his voice dripping with sarcasm and lust.

"But the real treat here, folks, is her tight little cunt."

Alastor grunts as he buries himself inside you, his fingers digging into your hips as he picks up the pace, his voice growing more urgent with each passing second.

"She's soaked, practically drowning in her own juices. And the sounds she makes, oh the sounds... They're like music to my ears, a symphony of lust and desire that has me on the edge of sanity."

He leans in, his teeth grazing your earlobe as he whispers in a low, husky voice.

"You're mine. My personal plaything. And I'm going to make you cum harder than you ever have before, right here on the airwaves for everyone to hear."

You moan, body trembling cunt spasming, as you cling to him desperately while he takes you without mercy.

"I'm going to keep fucking you until you can't take it anymore."

As Alastor continues to narrate your intimate encounter, his words become more explicit and crude, pushing the boundaries of decency and fueling your mutual desire.

"Look at you! You're a mess. Your makeup's smeared, your hair's a tangled mess, and you're covered in sweat and cum. But you're still so fucking beautiful, so incredibly sexy. I can't get enough of you."

His thrusts become more erratic, his movements more aggressive as he approaches his peak, his voice rising in volume and intensity.

"I'm going to fill you up, Princess. I'm going to flood your cunt with my seed, marking you as mine for all eternity."

Alastor's words send a surge of pleasure through you, and you moan loudly, your body writhing under his relentless assault. The thought of being 'broadcasted' to an unknown number of listeners adds a thrill to your encounter, pushing you further into the realm of ecstasy.

"Oh god... yes... I'm yours... I'll do anything for you..." You pant, your voice filled with desire and submission.

Alastor's grip on your hips tightens, his thrusts becoming more forceful as he brings you closer and closer to the edge of orgasm. The sensations build within you, a tidal wave of pleasure that threatens to consume you whole.

"I'm going to cum... Alastor..."

"And those tits... So perfect for playing with while I'm balls deep inside you... Scream for me."

Alastor's words push you over the edge, and you cry out in pleasure as your body convulses in an intense, shattering orgasm. He doesn't stop, though, continuing to pound into you relentlessly as wave after wave of euphoria crashes over you, cunt clenching hard, vision going white with pleasure.

His grip on your hips becomes almost painful, his movements rough and uncontrolled as he chases his own release, driven by the sight and sound of you, the feel of you clenching around him making him make his own delicious sounds.

Finally, with a roar of triumph, he releases his seed deep inside you, filling you up, flooding you.

"And there it is, folks! The sweet sound of this sweet sinners surrender. Her body convulsing, her voice screaming out in ecstasy as I claim her yet again. And now, I'm now painting her insides with my seed, branding her as mine for all eternity."

As Alastor continues to speak into the microphone, his words grow more ragged, more primal, reflecting the intensity of his own climax.

"Feel me, Darling. Feel my cum filling you up, making you mine."

His thrusts become slower, more measured as he savors the sensation of release, his body still convulsing with aftershocks of pleasure.

"That's it, my dear. Take it all. Let every last drop of my seed fill you up, marking you as mine."

As Alastor finally stills, his body spent and satisfied, he leans in to press a tender kiss to your lips, his voice softening as he addresses you directly once more.

"You were amazing, Sweetheart. Truly breathtaking. And remember, no matter where this journey takes us, you will always be mine."

He withdraws from you slowly, his semen trickling from your sated cunt as he moves aside to allow you to rest and recover from your intense encounter. As he does so, he reaches out to gently caress your cheek, his eyes filled with a mixture of lust, affection, and pride.

"Thank you, Alastor," you manage to whisper, your voice hoarse from moaning and your body trembling with exhaustion and satisfaction. "It was... incredible."

You lean into his touch, closing your eyes as you bask in the warmth and love radiating from him. For the first time in your life, you truly feel seen, understood, and accepted for who you are, flaws and all.

"I love you," you murmur, the words slipping past your lips without hesitation or fear.

Alastor's smile widens, his eyes sparkling with joy as he leans in to press another kiss to your lips.

"And I love you, Dearest Heart," he whispers against your mouth. "Now and forever."

(unbeknownst to you, he had actually been broadcasting the whole time, not just pretending.)

[pennyellee]

CHAPTER I - absquatulate

LACRIMOSA | MYG MAFIA YANDERE AU

pairings: mafia leader!yoongi x f!reader genre: mafia!au, yandere au, historical au

summary: Their interlocking gaze served as a butterfly effect on his heart, stirring it to the core. She, in turn, only dreams to find a way to escape. But perchance, over time she might forcefully learn to love the man who has taken so much from her.

Thus unfolds a twisted tale of love and loss, of hope and despair, of life and death. The music reverberated through the dimly-lit streets. Tears of sorrow, weeping symphony - reflects the hurt, the scars that linger deep within and the wounds that never healed. Lacrimosa.

chapter warnings: minors dni 18+ | mafia au, dark!yoongi, mafia!yoongi, yandere, kidnapping, mentions of God, graphic violence, manipulation, possessive/obsessive behaviour, angst, betrayal, mentions of death

word count: 2,11K

disclaimer: this story is purely fictional, it does not depict real-life events or involve any actual members of BTS. This story will contain depictions of violence, blood shed, death, mentions of abuse, smoking, alcohol drinking, illegal activities, old social norms and traditions, which we do not condone.

m.list CHAPTER II

absquatulate (v.) to leave without saying goodbye

October 1938

Her feet ached, the shoes she wore were mercilessly biting into her skin, and the clothes clung uncomfortably to her body. She couldn’t slow down though. Y/N was determined to push herself a little further to cross the borders of Luen’s territory in north side of Korea. She didn't exactly know what would happen next, nor did she care at this point. The vision of freedom kept her sane. Little did she know, fate had a different plan in store for her.

Tears of happiness streamed down her cheeks as she finally found herself beyond the imaginary border. She made it to South part of Korea — the port city Incheon, next, a ferry to Jeju Island. Y/N was moving down the coastline for days, and she feels more than happy to be nearing her final destination.

The moment of joy was short-lived as the sound of barking dogs and distant screams echoed behind her. Wiping her tears quickly, she looked around the area in a rush. A small old building caught her eye, serving as a warehouse of some sort. It was her only option. Casting one last glance behind her, she made a split-second decision and hurried towards the building.

Inside the building, the air was even colder than outside. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to warm up.

Suddenly, a loud thump reverberated through the air, freezing her in place. Instead of moving away from the source of the sound and seeking safety, an inexplicable force drew her closer. Y/N took small steps closer and closer to the voices that grew louder with each passing second. So far, she had guided her steps wisely. This next step, however, would prove to be a grave mistake. With just a slight twist of events, her fate would be forever altered by one hundred and eighty degrees. If only her curiosity and naivety haven’t gotten the best of her, her path could have been entirely different. Or would it?

One movement, one glance, one flutter of butterfly wings and her fate was sealed. Time stood still as she found herself gazing fearfully into his dark eyes. Y/N hadn't even noticed the red-tinged blood staining his white shirt or the loaded gun clutched tightly in his hand. She simply stared, paralysed by fear. It felt like an eternity to her, but it had only been seconds since she hadn't been careful before tripping over the empty wooden boxes revealing to everyone in the room that there was an uninvited guest.

She could hear the man standing nearby reloading his gun. Snapping out of her daze, she turned and fled, as if she had never stopped running. The cool night air lashed against her face as she sprinted with all her might, making her way towards the harbour. There were no more voices heard behind her. Y/N cautiously looked around, finding no trace of anyone following her, allowing herself to have a flicker of hope.

A shadowy figure appeared from behind a corner, blocking her path. It was one of the soldiers, armed and dangerous. Her heart raced as she searched for a way out. ‘This cannot be,’ she thought. The soldier was quick to close the distance between them, the command was loud and clear. “Bring back alive.”

The poor soul, who had only yearned for freedom, remained oblivious to the fact that her life was not in immediate danger. In the heat of the moment, she collected her courage and pushed the soldier forcefully against the wall with all her might. It took him a moment to collect himself as he had hit his head pretty hard. Y/N did not hesitate though. Her eyes spotted a rock earlier which was now in her possession — brought it up and smashed it against his head. Only after she realised what has just happened. She knew he might be dead and for this very sin, she will have to pay. But there was no time for regrets now. She took off running again.

Had she managed to escape? That remained to be seen. Hungry, thirsty, and chilled to the bone, she stepped onto the small ferry, placing one foot on its creaking board. Y/N paid for the journey with the golden hairpin that held her dark locks together. As the wind danced in her hair and frost began to paint her face, a kind-hearted passenger offered her a blanket, which she gratefully wrapped around herself while she watched the disappearing land, full of lights. In the distance, she thought she caught a glimpse of a figure dressed in black on the pier. Paying little attention to it, she unknowingly continued down a treacherous path.

Not far away, a man leaned against a car whose engine had only recently gone cold, asking.

“Shall we follow her sajangnim?”

“There is no need for that,” the man’s words hung in the air. As if he knew exactly that fate would lead her back to him.

She reached the other shore shortly before dawn. Though hazy memories guided her, she vaguely recalled the path she was meant to take. The last time she was on this island, she was barely fourteen years old. Yet, her feet seemed to instinctively remember the way.

She stood before the gate of a grand mansion, comparable in size to the one she had grown up in. Slowly, she opened it and slipped inside. There were no soldiers to be seen guarding the mansion.‘Strange,’ she thought to herself.

Slowly she walked to the door and grasped the large metal knocker in her hands, rapped it three times. The door swung open, revealing a middle-aged woman holding a small boy in her arms.

“Y/N?” the short-haired lady addressed her.

“I know I shouldn't be here, Daiyu, but I have nowhere to go right now,” she said with tears in her eyes and a lump in her throat. Daiyu opened the door more and let her younger cousin in. Placing the little boy in a wooden chair, Daiyu prepared tea, mindful of the chilly temperatures outside.

“What happened Y/N? Does Uncle know you're here?” She asked when she finally sat down next to her. There was a pleasant warmth inside that radiated from the lit fireplace.

“No, no one knows I’m gone” she admitted.

“That's not good at all Y/N, do you want to end up with a bullet in your head?!”

“I’d rather that than take my freedom by marrying that brute”

“You know damn well you won't get it,” she told her younger cousin. She knew what she was going through, but she couldn't help her.

“Auntie told me to come here once—” her voice faded away when she realised the sorrow within her. “—Maybe if Chan-yeol...” She didn't even have time to finish before the sound of a slamming door reverberated through the room, shaking Y/N to her core.

“What in God’s name is she doing here!” The voice echoed, filled with anger and disbelief once he saw her sitting in his kitchen. Y/N turned to face the source of the voice, her cousin's husband towering over her, his eyes blazing with fury. “Chan-yeol...my mother sent her here. She needs help,” Daiyu attempted to explain and pleaded for Y/N’s safety, but Chan-yeol’s response was cold and hostile.

“Our help? Amazing, now they’re going to kill us too!” he bellowed, his face turning a bright shade of red. Treason wasn’t tolerated among the Wang clan. By running away Y/N knew very well that she cannot come back if she doesn’t want to die.

Y/N began to realize the gravity of her situation, but she knew that it was too late. “They won’t kill you, just please get me to the west. I’ll help myself from there, Chan-yeol please,” she pleaded, falling to her knees in front of him. Y/N was not ready to die.

Chan-yeol’s expression softened for a moment, but it quickly turned to one of anger and frustration. “Daiyu, come with me,” he ordered, his voice cold and hard. Daiyu looked at Y/N with a mixture of sympathy and regret before following her husband out of the room. Y/N was left alone, her heart pounding with fear and uncertainty. She knew that her fate was now in the hands of her cousin’s husband, and she could only hope that he would have mercy on her.

Her feet carried her front and back while she was listening to muffled screams and thuds from behind the closed door. Suddenly, everything went silent, and a tearful Daiyu came out of the door. “Don’t worry Y/N, everything will be as it should be,” she said, her words laced with a bittersweet comfort.

Overwhelmed with relief, Y/N believed she would finally be free. Daiyu poured the tea she had set the water on earlier. She smiled at her through her tears and watched her drink it. The poor girl had no idea what was yet to come. Slowly, her eyes closed, and she fell into dreamland as Daiyu sat beside her and cried.

“You knew this will happen sooner or later, Daiyu. We cannot disobey him.” Chan-yeol said as he picked Y/N up in his arms and carried her away from his wife’s sight.

“This was your mother’s wish. Honour it.”

Never in her worst dreams would Daiyu have thought she would sacrifice her blood to protect the clan she despised with the same amount as Y/N.

The crackling of wood in the blazing fireplace brought Y/N back to consciousness. Slowly, she widened her teary eyes and looked around the room, which was unfamiliar to her. Tall windows, obscured by long curtains that prevented her from looking out, darkened the entire room. The only source of light was the blazing fireplace and an oil lamp set on the bedside table. She sat her body down on the bed.

Y/N was no longer clad in her bright red qipao dress, but she was wearing a nightgown that wasn't hers. Nothing in this room belonged to her. She grasped the oil lamp in her hands and, with a small gasp, took her first steps toward the large door on the other side of the room.

Everything was sort of strange, the house looked Korean with some touches of Western furniture. For a moment she thought Chan-yeol had made it, and she was somewhere in a far-off land in a safe house.

She pushed the door open and carefully slipped out. Y/N found herself in a hall that was darker than night. The walls were littered with black and white framed photos and several doors. The petite Chinese woman walked slowly down the hallway, shining her light on the paintings. She didn't recognise most of the people, family portraits from generation to generation, until she came to the last one.

It was him, with his dark eyes and the long scar across, her own filled with fear. The lamp fell from her hands and her feet carried her unknowingly where. She rammed full force into several doors and wandered until she found the exit. Y/N looked around the area in every direction but there was no escape route anywhere. Abruptly, she turned back to face where she came from. She had an uneasy feeling inside her. As if someone was watching her. But she didn’t see anyone anywhere.

It was only the cold drops of rain falling on her shoulders which made her look up, revealing the reason for her inner unease. She saw him standing up there like a king, a God, looking directly into her eyes. His hands rested on the wooden balcony railing, smiling. The smile concealed darkness within. Her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed to the ground.

“No more fleeing away, my little butterfly,” his voice echoed in the air, and a feeling of satisfaction settled across his body.

I N T E R L O G U E

“Everything is going according to the plan, kkangpae. She came here” Said the man, holding the phone to his ear. His wife looking at him with tears.

“I understand,” said Chan-yeol, ending the call, and locking eyes with his wife. “Don’t cry Dayiu, you know this is the best for her.” He sighed.

“That is very easy for you to say, it’s not your life that is about to change.” She collected herself, ready to leave the room. “You managed,” said he.

“But you weren’t the head of syndicate Chan-yeol—” she began. “You know, I made my peace within this marriage, but I’m sure she won’t take it laying down.” Chan-yeol pursed his lips in annoyance.

“I wish I could know my mother’s reasoning for this ordeal, but it’s too late for that.” Said Daiyu, finalising her words and leaving the room at once.

to be continued

author’s note: AAAAAAA! The first chapter is here. This is just a little beginning and I promise that a lot more is going to come and be unveiled ♥ Excuse any ridiculous mistake I made, I just recently got back to writing and it's not beta read. If you want to be added to the taglist, don't be shy and lemme know. Dm's and asks are always open ♥ I'll try to adjust everything and you prolly will get second chapter soonish too.

I'm also not expert on chinese, korean and japanese culture, but I tried to research everything realistic I wanted to add to the story. Nonetheless, take it as a fiction.

Don't be a silent reader, comment, re-blog, heart, asks are more than welcome ♥

let's be friends chummers ♥

lots of love, 𝖕𝖊𝖓𝖓𝖞𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖊

taglist: @chaoticpuff17 @honsoolgloss @jingerbreadoutofstock @moocow778 @janura26 @dinosolecito @yoongislatinagff @xyahrinx @ruhmoojeonjunkook-blog @hi12345567 @nochuel @deltamoon666 @bbkissme99 @darkuni63 @nansasa @sazsazsaz @missmin @strxwbloody @royallyjjk @jaiuneamesolitaiire @shadowyjellyfishfest

©pennyellee. please do not repost

[sarucane]

OFMD Spiral Parallels 38: Mad Devil Blackbeard

Intro: What I love most about how season 2 builds on season 1 of OFMD is the spiral narrative structure. Ground is repeatedly and explicitly re-trod from season 1 to season 2, but in season 2 everything goes deeper than season 1. Meanings are shuffled, emotions are stronger and truer, and transformation is showcased above everything. The first season plucks certain notes, then the second season plucks the same ones--but louder, and then it weaves them together to create a symphony.

---

Ed's core problem (he thinks) at the beginning of season 1 is that his image is more powerful than he is. It outrages him how inaccurate images are compared to who he actually is, and he feels trapped in something fundamentally inauthentic. He's not a devil, he's a man just like everyone else.

And then in season 2, his raiding outfit is a clear copy of that original illustration. He even references the caption:

And sandwiched in between this image and Ed's self-introduction as the devil is this.

Izzy demands that Ed conform to this image of Blackbeard. It's a more realistic image, but it's an image infected by death and destruction. There's a skull in his hand--and behind him, a ship is about to crack up on the rocks because it's heading right for a lighthouse. This print references Ed's deepest anxieties: his fear that all he'll ever be is the kraken, his pain at losing the safety of the lighthouse he and Stede made themselves into.

Instead of distancing himself from it, he embraces Izzy's demand that he forget the pain, and tries try to overcome his anxieties by drowning in them. By becoming the "scariest thing I ever saw--the kraken."

But all he has is charcoal and ink, and it smears easily.

And this is all about death, really. Chasing it indirectly, then directly, because he can't just be Blackbeard anymore. When Ed's beard grows back in, it's still gray. It doesn't actually matter how he feels about "Blackbeard," whether he wants the image to be true or not: it just doesn't match, and he can't force himself to be that. It's just a picture.

But there's something else about this imaginary uber-pirate devil that doesn't matter. Because that print that Izzy demanded Ed conform to appears one more time.

That image represents despair, the binding of Ed to death and monstrousness. And Stede, bless him, looks at it and crosses out "dead" to circle "alive." It's both an implicit acceptance of the image--Stede sees this and still loves Ed, despite its direct references to the things that Ed fears make him "unloveable"--and a rejection of it, Stede creating a small act of defiance against what's happened to Ed and how he's drowning in death.

Prints on paper, ink and charcoal--those are dead things. People are alive.

[rabbitenn]

Hello could I request imagines for a Tenn x Reader and momo x Reader with a Reader who has a crush on them but tries to deny it to avoid heartbreak (and struggles to talk to them)? Thank you🫶

OFF VOCAL.

Your feelings for him remain untold in the memories of your silent symphony.

ft. Kujo Tenn, Sunohara Momose x gn! reader.

cw/genre: fluff, some angst.

Thank you for requesting, hun ! I’m sorry this is so late, but I hope you can still enjoy it, mwah <3

♡ KUJO TENN

The realization settles over you like the mesmerizing rays of an eclipse at dawn; you know you shouldn’t stare directly at the sun’s blinding daze, and yet, your eyes can’t quite avert from his light.

But this is normal, right?

Everyone was attracted to the rose gold light his imaginary wings always seemed to give off. A radiance in thaw; his otherworldly aura helplessly drawing you in, until the honey of his voice wrapped its sweet warmth around you.

Kujo Tenn.

Everyone’s angel.

Your closest friend.

And yet, obviously, you were not immune to his charms.

Every time his gaze found yours, no matter if it was in a crowded concert hall or in the privacy of one of your rooms, the world around you faded; white noise and the blurry background of a discolored picture were all that remained around you and Tenn.

Thus, you have to build a wall between you and the alluring image of the angel.

You can absolutely not reveal the emotions your heart beats in.

Tenn and you have been friends for so long… And he’s a famous idol on top of that… You can’t taint his wings in stygian ink just because of your foolish desires.

And so, you close off your own invisible wings, the freefall awaiting you, a slow, bittersweet agony.

For bites of tongue replace words you used to share with him, in the comfort of sugar scented bedrooms and the soft colors of glazed donuts.

And Tenn knows.

That something is weighing on your mind.

That the sunshine that usually filtered through the trees as he spent time with you is now dimmed; the first droplets of a downpour falling as perennial foliage decays.

You thought your silence would be the silver locket to keep your diary secret, but to him, it’s like breathlessness as a heavy feeling constricts your chest.

Thorny vines, opening your throat to ask for help.

And despite it all, you decide to stitch bloody thread over your lips, keeping them sealed, no matter how much your heart shreds.

Luckily, an angel’s halo just happens to shine upon you, healing the parts of you you’re self destroying.

“[Y/n],” Tenn calls you, as a few quiet seconds pass with no answer from you following. “Are you alright?” He asks, those beautiful maroon eyes of his regarding you with concern.

You stare at him with a confused expression. Then, you get back to your senses.

“Yeah… I guess I was just spacing out.” You utter softly, avoiding his eyes.

Fiddling with your fingers, you reach out for the plate of donuts sitting between you two.

The atmosphere feels tense enough around you, you feel you’ll suffocate if you don’t busy yourself with something soon.

In that instant, your hand is held by someone else’s.

His touch is tender, so gentle, as his fingers intertwine with yours.

“Will you tell me what’s wrong?” Tenn prompts, thumb running over the back of your hand.

You stammer, eyes widening, heart pounding wildly against your ribcage, a telltale sound of the frenzy your mind is into.

“I-I… I’m… It’s n-nothing.” You finally manage.

The angelic idol gives you a knowing look, a smirk playing on his too tempting lips.

“Since when did you become so shy around me?” He asks, one of his hands brushing some strands away from your face.

You take in a sharp breath, heat flaring up on your cheeks.

“T-that’s not…” You try to turn your face away from him.

Because you know if you keep getting lost in his pretty quartz-like eyes, your lips won’t be able to keep away from his.

And, however, it seems that’s exactly what he wants.

Taking your chin in between his fingers, Tenn guides your face towards his.

“Why, [Y/n]?” He whispers, thumb running over your lower lip.

Your breath hitches, pupils dilating as your friend, who’s definitely more than that, holds your gaze.

You know what he’s referring to.

Your silence. The avoidance and pulling away from him you’ve been isolating in.

“I can’t…” You begin, as thick words lodge in your throat, the fear of ‘I can’t be with you’ ‘I can’t have my heart broken when you inevitably say no’, the silent chains constricting your throat.

Strands of hair weaved from wishes on a shooting star tickle your cheek.

Tenn’s forehead rests against yours, as his hands thread through your hair.

He utters your name.

Millimeters separate his lips from yours.

And the hardcovers of your secret diary seem to fall apart this close to him.

“I love you.” You inevitable breath, pupils blown wide, in the space between.

Your angel’s answer comes in the form of warmth and softness upon your lips.

His hands move to your waist, bringing you closer to him in the sunlit space of the room.

Against your better judgment, your arms wrap around his shoulders, your form melting into the sweetness of his perfect embrace.

You’ve longed for this.

So many days, so many nights, in which dreams came to a close with you wide eyed, as you came down from the daze of his pretty face appearing in your oneiric illusions.

And even if you want to believe it, but fear makes you deny it, he’s yearned for this too.

Because as much as Tenn strives to move the hearts of his fans and put bright smiles on their faces, you are always the first one he sings for.

And now, even if it’s in an unspoken way, the melody of him next to you is finally being relied.

Alas, seconds helplessly tick by, and one cannot exist without oxygen forever, as much as you can’t be without each other.

“I love you too, for a long time now, I have.” Are the words that follow your Tenn’s soft smile the moment you part.

There is no need for locked vaults between you and him anymore.

♡ SUNOHARA MOMOSE

You know you are a fool.

Both for even beginning to fathom your feelings could ever be returned, and for acting the way you’re doing now.

You’re just making yourself miserable and you know it.

And yet, you’re hell bent on denying it.

It’s so obvious to you now how he could never like you back in the same way you like him.

He’s one of Japan’s top idols, for crying out loud.

The fact that you just happen to know him since his college days doesn’t mean anything.

Therefore, you are determined to swat away any thoughts of infatuation that come your way.

No matter if that means entirely isolating from him.

Momo.

The friend that’s been with you for over seven years now.

You can’t ruin what you have; and what’s more: you don’t know what you’d do with yourself if you heard ‘no’ coming out of his lips.

So pulling away, being quiet… That’s what must be done.

You were always good at it, anyway.

And besides, what good would it do, if you ended up accidentally making your feelings known?

This is for the better.

You turn around in your bed, the city lights casting a dimmed glow around your room; dyeing it in shades of muted cyan.

Blue.

Quite fitting for the state you find yourself in.

Lying on your side, sheets rumpled, as numbness and doubt wrap around you.

Your eyes focus on your phone for a moment, carelessly thrown around your bed.

You’ve been ignoring all the messages today.

Especially the ones sent by him.

You just… couldn’t bring yourself to open them; it hurt seeing his enthusiastic typing and all the cute kaomojis. It’s as if… You were betraying him by being like usual, when it’s clear your feelings for him have shifted to another direction.

Not that you’ll ever reveal that to him.

And if you ignore it for long enough, it is sure to fade away.

A doodle in pink pencil, undoubtedly to be erased as paper yellows beneath the ticking of the clock.

You knew that better than anyone.

You have been wiped out too many times when you tried to speak from your heart, for it to become whole again.

Deep scars still remain, and they hurt enough as is to risk reopening them once more.

It’s better to wound the remaining untouched flesh of your choking heart, if you want to avoid shattering it completely.

Fuzzy thoughts turn into exhaustion, which leads you into restless dreams, under the light of a dimmed moon.

You awake to the strident sound of a ringtone blaring right by your ears.

Judging by the light around, it’s still early, and no sun is filtering through the curtains today.

Groggily, you pick up, if only to stop the annoying ringing.

“Yeah?” You yawn half asleep.

A second later, you pull the speaker away from you, the voice on the other side, on the edge of yelling.

“[Y/n]-chan! I finally got in touch! You haven’t been replying to my texts, ah I was so worried!”

“I…” You begin. “I’m fine, Momo, please don’t worry.” You reply, trying to keep your tone even.

On one hand, it really does warm your heart he’s been thinking about you.

On the other, you really do feel guilty for having worried him…

And besides, you’ve totally failed to avoid him.

“Are you sure, [Y/n]?” Melancholy is palpable in his usually perky tone. It makes you feel a pang of hurt on your chest.

“I… Yeah, I guess…” You trail off.

A few seconds of silence on the other end of the line.

Then:

“You know, if you’re not feeling well or there’s something worrying you, you can count on me.”

Why was Momo always so kind? It makes it so hard to keep denying what’s clearly love for him.

“I’ll figure it out.” You mumble, perhaps more to yourself than for him to hear.

“I know you will, [Y/n], but, you know, if you want some company… Just say the word.”

A nostalgic smile settles on your lips.

The truth is you would certainly like it, his company.

You let out a sigh.

“I’d love that.” You utter, truthfully.

One of Momo’s bright giggles can be heard on the other end.

A few fleeting ticks later, your doorbell rings.

“Open the door then, [Y/n]-chan.”

You can’t help the wide smile spreading on your face.

“What? Really? You’re here?”

You can practically see the nervous laugh he lets out.

“I… uh got worried when you didn’t reply and I thought maybe you were sick, so I… kinda bought many of your favorite snacks… yeah…”

He’s too cute.

With that same dopey grin on your face, you open the door.

Even if you can’t make your feelings known for now, you suppose it’s alright to indulge in the tight hug he gives you.

You certainly needed one from him right now.

[ohc-and-the-music-tapes-archive]

Press note about the invitation to Music Tapes’ Lullabies Tour. Tiny Mix Tapes, 8th July 2010

"But let’s break this down for a second — you write to LullaybyeDeliveries@gmail.com to request a visit and a time slot, should you be so lucky. Some strange people who you’ve never met come to your house and sit in your bedroom as you lie in bed, presumably already in pajamas and with your teeth brushed. You’ve never met these people before, but appreciate a hopeful snuggle with sort-of celebrities. Actually, do you even know what Julian Koster looks like? Do you know for sure he’s not someone who will break in your house and steal your LP collection, turntable, and important electronics? (Note: I’m assuming he’s not.)"

This is a weird bit of promo work. The Music Tapes, a.k.a. Julian Koster, recently announced that in August, he will serenade sleepy fans at their personal bedsides in Boston, New York, and Philadelphia. These are purportedly much better than the cutesy ditties you wish your mom sang to you as a kid before she turned off the light; The Music Tapes will perform bedtime-appropriate songs from Music Tapes for Clouds and Tornadoes (TMT Review), The 1st Imaginary Symphony for Nomad, and a few new songs.

But let’s break this down for a second — you write to LullaybyeDeliveries@gmail.com to request a visit and a time slot, should you be so lucky. Some strange people who you’ve never met come to your house and sit in your bedroom as you lie in bed, presumably already in pajamas and with your teeth brushed. You’ve never met these people before, but appreciate a hopeful snuggle with sort-of celebrities. Actually, do you even know what Julian Koster looks like? Do you know for sure he’s not someone who will break in your house and steal your LP collection, turntable, and important electronics? (Note: I’m assuming he’s not.)

And though Julian Koster did this sort of thing once before (for the last two Christmases, he offered his services as a caroler house-to-house in the Midwest and the Eastern seaboard — TMT News), does he really want to risk entering a stranger’s house, letting himself be encircled by said stranger and his/her friends and family, and simply trust that his warm milk will be unadulterated and that the door will remain unlocked from the outside?

Okay, so Julian Koster isn’t exactly G.G. Allin and his fans probably don’t tend towards violence, but somebody’s got to think of these things. Can’t you just request to sip Sleepytime tea in a well-lit coffee shop, surrounded by people, right after rush hour but before dark?

Anyway, the same people who emailed LullabyeDeliveries@gmail.com will receive information about a secret location and time to play “St. Nikolai the Wonder Worker’s Wishing Game of Candles” (sort of like freeze-tag, with foot-tall candles) the night after The Music Tapes’ nocturnal visitations. So go ahead and shoot ‘em an email; you can’t lose any sleep over it.

Lullabye Delivery Tour:

08.04.10 - Boston/Cambridge area, MA - bedside lullabies 08.05.10 - Cambridge, MA - St. Nikolai the Wonder Worker’s Wishing Game of Candles 08.07.10 - New York City area, NY - bedside lullabies 08.08.10 - New York City, NY - St. Nikolai the Wonder Worker’s Wishing Game of Candles 08.09.10 - Philadelphia, PA area - bedside lullabies 08.10.10 - Philadelphia, PA - St. Nikolai the Wonder Worker’s Wishing Game of Candles

• The Music Tapes: http://www.orbitinghumancircus.com • Merge: http://www.mergerecords.com

[thatsohkai]

note 1: where visiting the past can be creative liberty or mental destruction…alternatively, malachi visits hope world for the first time.

he could remember the first time he entered into…hope world. the first time his brain found itself wandering aimlessly, distracting a young malachi from the woes of his worlds. it was always filtered in by music that instantly calmed the raging in his veins, and even as he sat in front of his production equipment he could faintly hear it charming its way into his subconscious.

2007

“alright man, i’ll see you.” hakeem said as he began to jog off back towards their apartment complex. his old jordans thudded against the ground in a natural rhythm, fading away into the distance until malachi was left with himself and the asphalt of their decaying court. he was two blocks from home roughly, far enough to not hear the screaming and breaking of things that was being tossed between jaime and her new current ‘boy toy’. he could add this guy to the list, steadfast on being his ‘dad’ while simultaneously treating his mom as if she hadn’t birthed him. his bushy mustache and trash southern accent was foul to his northerner ears. he found it especially gross hearing it curl around his and his mother’s name. staying out for a few more hours so they could get high and pass out on the couch was an easier feat than drowning them out in his room. 

the ball kissed the ground in a light pattern as kai toyed around with it. his own worn shoes of the same brand scuffed and squeaked as she shuffled around, faking out moves with invisible players and dabbing up lebron in his own little world. but the screams of his imaginary crowd was snuffed out by the uneven sounds of more sneakers entering the court. this would go one of two ways but malachi would pretend like he wasn’t tense and on guard as the other boys began to crowd his space. “fuck.” he murmured, language much too vulgar for a kid his age, but truthfully all of them were talking just the same. 

“we don’t even gotta tell you how this is about to go, do we?” said what seemed to be the ringleader of the group that joined him. he was light skinned, freckles auburn the same color as his eyes and brows. things moved much too fast for him to understand after that, punches being thrown in each direction, malachi being dragged off a kid who was now holding his teeth in his hand, blood pouring from every orifice it could fight its way out of. and that made them mad. all at once they came at him, the fourth grader finding his back to the concrete, and then his skull, the world’s  noise suddenly muddled into one piercing sound. it felt like he’d been dunked underwater, the sound of some passersby’s screams for them to stop and malachi simply laid out on the asphalt, floating in the waves that just tried to drown him. “we didn’t do nothing, we lost the game and it got heated, we cool. right anime boy?” 

for a moment he hadn’t registered where he was, forgotten the blood that was shed, only followed the colors that danced in his vision and indulged into the music that had wafted seemingly from no where. it was a small moment of bliss, one where all the rage simply melted off of his skin. the red he saw had melted into the hues of yellows, greens and blues. accented by oranges and violets and merged together by indigos. it was quick, only a few seconds he was sure but he’d felt it. he felt the way he drifted away…just for a moment there was bliss, quiet, but tantalizing music. maybe they’d knocked him out and he’d just come to, but slowly he realized the world didn’t fade, but simply lowered it volume to the symphony that was beginning to swell in his mind. it began to warp its way into his new reality and before he knew it he was back as if he’d never left. 

“what?” he said finally, eyes finally registering that he’d been staring at  not only his aggressors but a kindly, dark-skinned woman with purple box-braids. she couldn’t have been any more than thirty and the look on her face showed that she didn’t believe anything the other guy had said.  “i said we just got into a heated thing about the game…we cool right anime boy?”

“i’m not japanese,” kai answered, as if that was the issue at hand here. “what happened?” the woman finally asked malachi, the one on the ground, but probably better off than the two that were currently being led home faces in hand. “um, fuck i went up for a lay up, came down on dude in the yellow shorts. it was an accident, but we were losing and it just…blew up from there.” she seemed to not believe malachi either, but the look of anxiety on the other boys face faded into some form of acceptance and malachi hated how that made him feel. it was only a moment later where she’d taken her leave, leaving kai and the other three remaining boys to their own devices.

the ring leader surprisingly helped him to his feet, rough hands dusting off malachi’s hole-y band tee. he assumed he’d be left alone, a reward for ‘not snitching’, but he simply took a step back and smiled that dazzling white grin, “aight now homie, go ahead and run me them shoes, you can bare foot it to the crib i’m sure.”

[ohctranscripts]

Is the second imaginary symphony a separate story/necessary to listen to? I’m on season 2 and haven’t listened to those episodes yet!

it’s not necessary for the main story, but i would highly recommend it - i love that story too ☺️

[dayfalwastaken]

All the stories are true - Chapter 18 Update

Excerpt:

It took some time but eventually the purple car their dad drove stopped before them, and the siblings got in, with Michael in the middle while his sister sat to his left. The three exchanged greetings followed by Lizzie telling their father all about her day during which the older brother leaned into the headrest, his eyes looking forward onto the road. He felt like he could fall asleep there. The ambient music on the radio only served to further relax him, washing away all the nervousness that had accumulated. He envisioned that it was raining, and so he started counting the imaginary water drops that were running down the car’s windows. Outside he saw them passing a waterfall, and Michael couldn’t help but get lost in the vibrant green. The hood of the car disintegrated to reveal the gorgeous scenery that surrounded him, leaving the teen to watch silently marvel at the beauty of it as he was floating through the air. A vast difference from the orange and grey desert he was used to.

For a few minutes, there was nothing but Michael and nature. A refreshing breeze caressed his skin, the sun shined warmly, making the plants glow, and the sky felt like a comforting sea of pure blue. There were no sounds present besides the waterfall and the symphony sung by the birds that were hanging up on the trees. He was drooling, but he felt too good to wipe it off. His eyes lowered as he prepared to drift into what would arguably be a terrific nap only for the harsh voice of his father to shake him to reality.

“Michael.”

“U- Uh, yes, sorry father. What did you say?” the man looked into the rear-view mirror at Mike, his eyes narrowed.

“I asked you how your day was.” the light tone that had talked with his sister was not there anymore, replaced by a monotonous one that did not have the affection from a few moments prior.

“Oh, well, it was alright. I um… I got a B on the English test.”

“Why only a B?” the man raised a brow, his eyes shifting between his boy and the road

“I think I may have made a mistake with some nouns that I was supposed to turn into adjectives, I’m not really sure. You know how our teacher is when she reviews what we do. She didn’t write what I did wrong.” he adjusted himself to appear more alert.

“You could’ve asked for clarification to know what you should work on to improve, Michael. Why didn’t you?” he saw the man’s fingers grip the wheel harder. Michael dared not look at his sister so he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of admitting defeat.

“Because she would’ve dropped my grade more if I did, she would’ve said that I shouldn’t speak back to her and that I’m not the teacher. And she actually did that to Chris. He told her that he didn’t know what he did wrong and she downed his grade from C+ to a D, and then she just complained about us questioning her in the subject that she’s teaching for the rest of the class. I didn’t want to risk it.” his father hummed before nodding. Then he took in a deep breath as if to sigh, except it was too fast to be considered one. It was more like a sniff, and when Mike realized it, his whole body tensed.

The atmosphere in the car changed where even his sister froze in her seat, watching carefully as the speedometer’s pointer went up when they entered the highway. Something creaked, and both kids could see the skin on their parent’s face growing redder by the second, with veins appearing on his neck. Michael felt his sister’s fingers search for his hand, and without considering it, he took them in his own, tracing his thumb over the back of the girl’s palm. It was then that he looked at her and saw the cheerful expression from when she had begun her rant on what she did at school to be missing. He felt Lizzie quiver beside him so he decided to pull her a tad closer, their animosity from earlier not mattering.

The pointer passed the 150 mark, and their car overshot the exit their father would have to take to reach their house. He was thankful that smoking prevented him from getting sick. The last thing he needed was to have to puke his guts from how fast they were going. Elizabeth did not suffer from motion sickness like he and the little man did, so on that front she was okay, but the way in which her eyes scanned their dad made Michael uncomfortable. He started begging internally for it to be alright, because he didn’t know what he’d do if the man had figured it out.

Mike had known he should have refused his friend, but he thought that it wouldn’t hurt to try. All of his peers did- or the ones that others looked up to anyway- and they were the most appreciated and respected among their respective groups. Turning Terrence down would’ve been the best excuse for them to drop him in favour of someone bolder than he was, and he could not stand by and let it happen, but now he was thinking that maybe cutting ties with them would’ve been the better idea as opposed to going through what his dad had so justly planned for him.

Stupid. How stupid could he be to think that the smell would fade and he’d be the same afterward? How much of an idiot had Michael been to believe that no one would notice…

All the bad that his father said about him was correct. He’d known it since his brother’s birth, but the constant reassurance of that fact decided this was the perfect time for the horror of it to come crashing down on Michael. The fear and daze provided the boy with the clarity to see it. He saw it now, unobstructed by the delusions he had been fed, or the fantasies of acceptance he had dreamt for himself. No…

His worth was crystal clear, and the guilt weighed on his soul so much that his eyes were watering, but he could not reach up to rub them since it would draw attention, so he attempted to blink the tears away instead, only to push them out. He kept in the whimper that wanted to leave his throat, but the face he was making got Lizzie to look up at him, scaring her when she saw the state he was in.

Pretty soon they passed Toquerville and his father still did not look like he was going to turn around. Neither sibling even thought about speaking up, because whatever was to come would only be worse if they made him even madder. Although “mad” was not the proper word to use for their dad’s features. The man’s frown had vanished, his teeth were now gritted to the point of breaking, the palpable fury had been transformed into a chilling aura that send shivers as deep as the marrow of his bones and any semblance of life had been incinerated from the man’s visage.

All of the silent hatred that resided behind the silver of his father’s irises was directed at the boy when the man caught glimpse of Mike watching him cautiously beneath the tears. His parent did not react to the crying, but kept the gaze, not watching the road, making his son unable to look away despite how suffocating it was to face him. A monster wearing Michael’s face stared at him from the mirror, its ice gaze stabbing deep into the boy’s soul, making him gasp.

The light of the outside world darkened until only the inside of the car was visible to the boy, and he became aware of everything that was going on around him. Every dust particle, every tremor, every twitch of movement, the texture of the leather seat, the engine’s rumble, the distorted music on the radio, the laughter.

A white, segmented clown mask hung on Elizabeth’s face, her dead eyes watching him distantly through the empty sockets. Her right hand had fused with a spiked claw, bone and muscle merged with metal, ripping Michael’s fingers to shreds in an iron grip. A hole had been torn into her abdomen, out of which bloodied teeth and intestines were sticking out. His sister’s dress was stained by the red that was dripping from the hole, and Mike spotted a couple of maggots making their way in to feed on her remains. Cockroaches started to crawl out of the clown mask’s mouth, and when Michael looked away out of sheer disgust his eyes widened.

His father was gone, and in his place now stood a corpse within a furred shell, not meeting Michael’s stare. Countless holes in the moulded material revealed mutilated flesh that was barely hanging onto a rusted metal frame. Strings of decayed muscle and husks of what had been organs were wrapped around mechanical components, with tiny hooks impaling the areas that still contained tissue, all sporting a ghastly brownish-red colour. Ribs and shattered pieces of a spine were lodged into motors and pistons while fragments of bone were poking out of the thinner parts of the frame, creating a mangled mess of organic tissue and inanimate metal. Plates made out of cracked plastic could be seen where the fur was not present to cover the interior. Wires were taped to the robotic devices underneath. The dirty material had lost its golden shine, being soaked in dried blood for so long that it had taken on a dark green colouring, inspiring a feeling of putrid disease in the boy’s heart, made stronger by the horrid stench that was emanated from it, comparable to that of an open coffin.

Bile rose in Michael’s throat, making him taste acidic. He wished to jump out of the vehicle so he wouldn’t have to have that repulsive creature in his sight but then he got a look at his own body, or what remained of it, and felt like clawing at himself to take it off to prove that this was not how he looked like. His skin was a foul purple, with faint shades of black here and there, and appeared to belong on the body of someone that was malnourished, with how it struggled to stay attached to his skeleton. Dehydrated tears in it allowed for cables to emerge out of him in random spots, making the tunnels that were present under his skin which were not supposed to be there even more apparent.

Thoughts like needles for the carnage made him literally feel his brain getting perforated tens of times with each silent plea for it to stop. His lunch filled his mouth, and the boy reached to open the door, only for his hand to get burned by the fire that started the moment he touched it. Michael pulled back, watching in terror as the fire spread throughout the car. It did not hurt his numb, feeble excuse for a body, but he still whipped his head around frantically for a solution, ignoring the hooded figure that was in the front seat next to the rabbit.

Elizabeth’s cadaver detached her claw from his hand to pinch his shoulder, keeping him in place for the decomposing carcass to move its head around at an almost opposite angle. The groan of old metal acted like a preview for the face of death that looked at him, its yellow eyes giving off the impression of something being not quite right. Too alive and too dead to be possible, yet very real. The permanent grin that made up half of its mask was opened slightly as if to taste the fright radiating off of Mike. The rabbit let one hand go of the steering wheel to grab its upper jaw, lifting it above its head to show the boy his own reflection.

Underneath was his father’s face, sewn onto a mummified skull. It was amused.

You are not my son.

[hollyoongs]

𝐇𝐄𝐄-𝐏𝐎𝐎𝐋'𝐒 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐈𝐓 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍! || (𝗲𝗻- 𝗰𝘂 𝘀𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀)

"Tell me where your fucking boss is or you're going to die! In five minutes!"

SYNOPSIS: 7 guys that have the power to change the world for good in a unique way, sure they can mess the whole city they are battling or end in another universe, but one thing is sure, they will always comeback home for some love.

PAIRING: Deadpool!Heeseung x Computer Science Worker!reader (the reader is fem bodied) || GENRE: smut, crack || W.C: +4.2k || TRIGGER WARNING: lots of cursing, Heeseung is a menace but he's in love, is somebody gonna match their freak fr, Hee gets fucked with his masked on, oral (f), knife play, blood play (but it's like for a second), dark humour, knife licking, dirty talk, petnames (slut), bratty reader, dom Heeseung, slapping, cowgirl, unprotect sex (there's no party without a birthday hat)

Once upon a time, there was this asian young adult called Heeseung, who saves those in need and rescued cats on tall trees...

Yeah, I'm breaking your bubble right now because we are not starting like that.

Heeseung sat on his favorite bar stool, nursing ramen and whiskey with delight. The bar was as lively as ever, filled with mercenaries and ne'er-do-wells. But tonight, Heeseung felt particularly chatty, and his friend, Jake, had to pay for it.

"Hey, Jake," Heeseung called to the bartender. "You ever wonder why ramen is so darn delicious?"

Jake, used to his friend's random musings, didn't even look up. "Nope. Just you, buddy."

Heeseung took a dramatic bite at his plate. "You sound like my girl so much, but hear me out. It's the perfect balance of sticky, cheesy, and spicy, my friend. It's like a symphony in my mouth, with a full brass section and everything."

Jake rolled his eyes. "You know, some people come here to forget their problems, not to hear about yours."

"Touché, mon frère," Heeseung said, tipping an imaginary hat. "But speaking of problems, did I ever tell you about the time I had to fight a gang of mutant chickens?"

Before Shim could respond, the bar door swung open, and a man in a suit walked in, looking around nervously. He spotted Heeseung and made a beeline for him.

"Deadpool?" the man asked, his voice trembling slightly.

Heeseung turned, his eyes lighting up behind his mask. He recognized the man by heart; it was your caring boss, the father figure you never had, and his white shirt covered with blood and his injuries made everybody in that bar turn their heads around. "Why yes, it is I, the Merc with a Mouth, the Sultan of Sarcasm, the Duke of Deadliness. How can I help you, my good man?"

The man fidgeted, clearly out of his element. "I need your help. I was working, and a gang of thugs kidnapped people from the computer science team of my company. They’re demanding a ransom I can’t afford, and the police think it's a fucking joke because of all the prank calls similar to this situations."

Heeseung's playful demeanor instantly shifted to serious. "Alright, buddy. Give me the details. You have names?"

"Yes, I do." The man was so nervous that Heeseung had to take off his hands the two small pieces of paper, both of which crumpled, one with an address and another with the names of the people they took. His eyes widen when he sees your pretty name in the bloody paper, anger boiling in his body. "Please, help me."

Heeseung nodded, his tone now deadly calm despite how he was feeling. "Don't worry. Deadpool's on the case. And hey, if we save them before bedtime, I'll throw in a free ramen cup."

The man looked confused but grateful. "Thank you, Deadpool. I don't know how to repay you."

Wade patted him on the shoulder. "Just tell everyone you meet about the amazing exploits of Deadpool. And maybe buy my action figure. It's got twelve points of articulation!"

Heeseung finished his whiskey in one swift gulp, then hopped off the barstool with a theatrical flourish. "Jake, keep my seat warm. I'll be back with a side of justice."

Jake smirked, shaking his head. "Try not to burn down the city this time."

"No promises," Heeseung quipped, grabbing his katanas from behind the bar. With a dramatic spin, he headed out the door, the man in the suit trailing nervously behind him.

The address led them to an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town, the kind of place where bad things happened in every action movie ever made. Heeseung crouched behind a rusty dumpster, peeking around the corner.

"Stay here," he whispered to the man, who nodded vigorously.

Heeseung crept closer to the building, his senses on high alert. The sound of muffled voices and the flicker of dim lights guided him to a side entrance. He slipped inside, moving like a shadow through the darkened corridors.

As he approached a large room, he could hear the thugs laughing and taunting their captives. Heeseung's grip tightened on his katanas. He peeked around the corner and saw the gang—a motley crew of heavily armed goons. And there, tied to chairs in the center of the room, were the kidnapped employees, including you.

Heeseung's heart skipped a beat when he saw you, bruised but defiant, your eyes meeting his with a mixture of relief and determination as he saw you completely tied up from head to toe. He gave you a reassuring nod before stepping into the room with a dramatic flair.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!" Heeseung announced, his voice echoing through the warehouse. "The entertainment has arrived!"

The thugs turned, confusion turning to anger as they recognized the masked intruder. "Who the hell are you?" one of them growled, raising his gun.

"Deadpool," Heeseung said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "But you can call me friendly neighborhood Deadpool. And I'm here to kick ass and eat ramen—and I'm all out of ramen."

With a blur of motion, Heeseung launched himself at the nearest thug, his katanas slicing through the air with deadly precision. Chaos erupted as the gang members scrambled to respond, but Heeseung was a whirlwind of steel and fury, taking them down one by one.

Heeseung was in front of you fighting for his life. You turned your head and shut your eyes when you saw the katana going directly to one of the thugs head and felt the blood splash on you. Heeseung turned around, and you could see his eyes moving up and down on you.

"Damn, your tits look awesome when you get tied up."

Your eyes widened at your boyfriend's unexpected (but pretty normal at this point) comment, but before you could react, he was back to fighting, his katanas flashing in the dim light. In the midst of the melee, your boss managed to free you from the ropes, taking you to a safe place with the rest of your coworkers. The remaining thugs, realizing they were outmatched, tried to flee, but Heeseung was faster. In a matter of minutes, the warehouse was silent, except for the groans of the defeated gang members.

Heeseung wiped his katanas clean on one of the thug's jackets, then sheathed them with a flourish. He turned to you, a wide grin visible even under his mask. "Well, that was fun. How's everyone holding up?"

Your boss stumbled forward, looking both terrified and amazed. "I… I can't believe you did it. Thank you, Deadpool."

"Ah, just another day at the office," Heeseung said, waving off his gratitude as all of you heard the police sirens. When the police entered, they were shocked to see every thug down and bleeding. A police officer saw Heeseung and pointed him with the gun, him still walking to the entrance.

"What the fuck have you done?!"

"Your job."

The officer's face twisted in frustration, but he lowered his gun. Heeseung, ever the showman, gave a mocking salute before heading out of the warehouse. You followed closely behind, your heart still pounding from the adrenaline, and for an interogation of them, taking two hours of it and Heeseung waiting in the darkness.

Outside of the police department, the night air felt cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the chaos inside. You found Heeseung without his suit. He turned to you, his eyes softening. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice gentler than you'd ever heard it.

You nodded, still trying to process everything. "Yeah, thanks to you."

Heeseung chuckled, his playful demeanor returning. "Well, you know me. I can't resist a damsel in distress. Or, in your case, a badass who just happened to get kidnapped."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't help the smile that tugged at your lips. "You have the worst timing with compliments, you know that? But yeah, Heepool's did it again."

Heeseung shrugged with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "It's part of my charm."

The man in the suit approached you two, looking immensely relieved and frowining at the view of the couple. "Someone saw Deadpool?"

"Ah, no." Heeseung replied. "But he told me to tell you to remember to buy his action figure. And maybe a ramen cup or two."

"You bet my future action figure that I'll. Also, take the week off, don't go to work." The man gave a shaky laugh when he saw your happy face after the news of your free week, then hurried back to check on the other employees. Heeseung turned back to you, his expression more serious now.

"Let's get you home," he said, slipping an arm around your shoulders. "I think we've both had enough excitement for one night."

Heeseung led you through the darkened streets, his arm a reassuring presence around your shoulders. The adrenaline from the night's events was starting to wear off, leaving you feeling drained and vulnerable. Heeseung seemed to sense this; his usual playful banter toned down to a comforting silence.

When you finally reached your apartment, he paused at the door, his eyes searching yours. "Are you sure you're okay?" he asked again, his concern evident.

You managed a small smile, appreciating his worry. "Yeah, I'm okay. I just need to process everything."

Heeseung nodded, then surprised you by leaning in and kissing your forehead. "If you need anything, I'm just a call away. Or a text. Or a smoke signal. You know, whatever works."

You laughed softly, the tension easing just a bit. "Thanks, Heeseung."

Heeseung went to his room, and you looked at his suit on top of the table. You took the mask to give it a look, and you put it on.

You took a moment to adjust the mask, its familiar texture pressing against your face. You felt an odd sense of comfort and security, as if channeling Heeseung's confidence through the simple act of wearing it.

Just then, Heeseung emerged from the bedroom, his eyes immediately locking on you, completly lying down on the sofa in a cocky pose. He stopped in his tracks, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Well, look at you, trying to steal my thunder," he teased, his tone playful.

You laughed, feeling a bit silly but also empowered. "Just seeing what it's like to be the hero for a change."

Heeseung stepped closer, his gaze intense as he took in the sight of you in his mask. "You wear it well," he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "But there's one more thing you need to complete the look."

"And what's that supposed to be, Heeseung?"

With a swift, fluid motion, Heeseung pulled you into his arms, his hand uncovering your lips and his lips capturing yours in a passionate kiss. The intensity of his embrace took your breath away, his hands roaming possessively over your body. You melted into him, your own hands finding their way to the back of his neck and pulling him closer.

Heeseung's touch was electrifying, his fingers deftly exploring every inch of your skin. You could feel the heat radiating from him, his desire matching your own, as the kiss deepened, growing more urgent. He finally took your mask off your pretty face as he backed you towards the bed, his movements sure and determined. You stopped for a moment when you sensed his intent on leaving the mask in the living room.

"Take it. I've always wanted to be fucked by a super."

"Fucking hell, you're so done." He again attacked your lips with his messier and more passionate hands. Heeseung's hands slipped under your shirt, the feel of his skin against yours sending shivers down your spine. He broke the kiss just long enough to pull your shirt over your head, his eyes dark with lust as he took in the sight of you. "God, you're beautiful," he murmured, his voice rough with need.

You reached for him, pulling him back to you, your lips crashing together once more. His hands were everywhere, igniting a fire within you that demanded to be quenched. You could feel his hard muscles beneath your fingers; the raw strength of his body was a stark contrast to the tenderness in his touch.

With a growl of frustration, Heeseung tore his own shirt off when he threw you into his bed, his eyes never leaving yours. The sight of his bare chest and the defined lines of his muscles only fueled your desire. You reached for him, your hands tracing the contours of his body, feeling the heat and power that radiated from him.

Heeseung's hands moved to your jeans, deftly unbuttoning and sliding them down your legs. You kicked them off, your breath coming in ragged gasps as he pressed you back onto the bed. His lips followed, trailing hot kisses down your neck, your collarbone, and your stomach.

You arched into his touch, your body aching for his. Heeseung's fingers found their way to your pants, teasing and tormenting you until you were begging for him. With a wicked grin, he finally slid them off, leaving you completely exposed beneath him.

Heeseung took a moment to drink in the sight of you, his eyes filled with a mix of awe and desire. "You're perfect," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. You saw between your legs, thinking he told that to you, but he was looking at your pussy with love eyes and directly to your cunt.

He was talking to your pussy.

"Heeseung, for fuck sake."

"Silence; she likes when I praise her for being so wet for me." He was now lying in his stomach with his feet up, the palms of his hands being a support for his chin, while he looked at your throbbing cunt.

"I swear to God, Heeseung, if you don't do something, I'm leaving."

"God, you're so fucking needy. I love it." He took the back of your throat and pushed you to him, your lips attaching to your pussy in a way that made you scream like a pornstar.

Lee Heeseung was such a character, but you've been in love with him for two years and you still can't get used to his actions, but God, you were so into it.

He was eating you out with so much enthusiasm. You gripped the sheets beneath you while biting your lower lip, trying to control your volume, but Heeseung was making wonders with you. You could feel that familiar knot creating, and your back arched in pleasure, your eyes shutting down because of the overwhelming sensation.

"Fuck, Heeseung…"

"My pretty slut is going to cum?" You moaned in response. He slapped your tights, making you jump a little as he stood up. Finally,  taking the rest of his clothes off him and taking a small knife from his drawer, he took his mask and put it on, your eyes shinning in anticipation. 

"What are you doing now?"

"You said you wanted to get fucked by a super. I'm fucking you the Deadpool way." He went back to the bed, the blade of his knife on your chin as he raised your head with it, your eyes looking right at his through the mask. He knew by heart that he wouldn't even try to cut you, and he was actually a little doubtful if you would like it.

So what you did actually made him lose his mind.

You took his wrist, the one that held the knife, as you stuck out your tongue, licking the blade and making his breath get stuck in his throat as he watched your tongue going around the knife.

"Holy mother of God," you said with a silent laugh. "You're one hell of a surprise, aren't you?" He growled, his voice low and gravelly, the knife trembling slightly in his grip. He leaned closer, the heat of his body radiating against yours as he pressed the blade gently against your skin—a deliciously dangerous sensation that sent shivers down your spine.

"Deadpool way, huh?" You teased, your voice a sultry whisper. "Let's see if you can keep up."

He chuckled darkly, his free hand trailing down your body, his fingertips grazing your skin, and leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. "Oh, I can keep up," he murmured, his voice dripping with wicked promise. "But the question is, can you handle it?"

You bit your lip, the anticipation making your heart race. "Why don't you find out?" you challenged, your eyes sparkling with a mix of defiance and desire.

He growled, a primal sound that sent shivers down your spine. He pushed you back onto the bed; the knife roamed over your body, claiming you with an urgency that made your heart race. The mask added an element of anonymity, a thrill that neither of you could deny.

"Answer me, not with another question." His voice was a dark promise, his right hand gripping your hips as he positioned himself between your legs.

"I can handle anything you throw at me," you challenged, your breath coming in short, excited gasps as you felt the cold of the blade, your kin burning with desire.

His eyes behind the mask bore into yours, filled with an intensity that made you shiver. "Then let’s see if my bratty slut is saying the truth."

Without another word, he thrust into you a raw, powerful movement that made you cry out. He moved with a rhythm that was both punishing and exhilarating, pushing you to the edge and then pulling you back, over and over again. 

"Look at you," he panted, his voice a mixture of amusement and desire. "My pretty slut, taking it so well."

You could barely respond, your mind a haze of pleasure and sensation. All you could do was hold on and ride the wave of ecstasy that he was creating.

Heeseung's grip on the knife tightened momentarily, his lips ghosting over your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

"What happened? Is it too much?" He was teasing you; you were 100% sure that he was smiling behind the mask while seeing you as such a mess below him. Your eyes are teary, your pretty lips are parted, and your eyes are rolling at the back of your head due to his movements.

That's like an ego boost for him.

In one swift motion, you pinned him beneath you, his hands roaming possessively over your body in surprise. His touch was rough and demanding, yet laced with a gentleness that made your head spin. The mask he wore only added to the intoxicating allure, his eyes piercing through the fabric with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

"I'm taking this." He growled when the knife wasn't on his hand anymore but on yours, moving to his jawline and pecs as you put his dick inside you once again. Heeseung lost his mind because, no matter how much he fucked the living shit out of you, you'll always be tight.

You started in his favorite position, cowgirl.

The room was filled with the sounds of your shared passion, the rhythm of your movements matching the beat of your racing hearts. Heeseung's hands found your hips, guiding you with a mixture of dominance and encouragement.

"You like this, don't you?" He taunted, his voice rough with desire. "My pretty slut is riding me so well."

You couldn't help but moan in response, the sensation of him filling you completely overwhelming your senses. Each thrust brought you closer to the edge, your body trembling with the intensity of your pleasure.

Heeseung's eyes never left yours. You could feel his gaze burning into you, fueling the fire that raged between you.

With a sudden, powerful thrust, he took control once more, flipping you onto your back with a predatory growl. His movements were relentless, his hands pinning you down as he drove into you with a force that left you breathless.

"You're mine," he whispered harshly, his breath hot against your ear. "Don't forget that."

"I fucking won't. I swear." You were a moaning disaster, your body arching beneath him as he pushed you to the brink. The world around you blurred; the only thing that mattered was the intense connection you shared with him in that moment.

Heeseung's pace quickened, his grip on you tightening as he brought you both closer to the peak, his hand slapping to your tits and thights. The pleasure built to an almost unbearable crescendo, your cries of ecstasy mingling with his low, primal groans.

"Fuck! Don't stop."

"I wasn't even thinking about it- Fuck. You're such a slut for me."

"Fuck! Yes, I am. I'm your cum-slut." Now you were sure the bed was about to break anytime soon. The speed was inhumane.

Finally, with a shuddering thrust, he sent you both over the edge, the wave of pleasure crashing over you in a blinding, all-consuming surge. You clung to each other, riding out the intense high together, your bodies trembling with the aftershocks.

As the world slowly came back into focus, Heeseung took off his mask, his appearance being hotter than it was before as he kept on shooting all his sperm over your legs, his cum being unstoppable. You saw the knife on your hand, and you kneeled in front of him, some of his cum attacking your face. 

You passed the blade of the knife over his dick, collecting his cum, and the knife was coated in white in no time. He moaned at the look of you taking all the blade in your mouth and licking it like it was his dick in a gentle manner.

"Stop. I don't want to appear in those "He died because his girl just made his sexual fantasy a reality." ,stop making me horny." He took off the knife from your hand after that sinful sight and laid you down in bed again, your legs opening as he took a look at your lovely cunt.

He now passed the blade with care all over your cum mixed with his; he copied your action a little too eager, cutting himself in the tongue and his face crunched due to the pain.

"Fuck, that hurt."

"No shit, Sherlock." You sat on the bed with him as you told him off and looked at his tongue. Blood was starting to spread, but it was a small cut, but not too small to say it was superficial.

"Who cares? I got used to the taste of blood in my mouth." You put your index finger in his wound, making him hiss. Curiosity struck again, and you insert your finger to your mouth, licking his blood. "Fuck you, actually."

"I was curious."

"It tastes better with my lips on yours; let me give you a taste." His hand went to the back of your neck, welcoming you in a hot kiss once again, his lips urgent against yours as he pulled you closer. The taste of blood mingled with the remnants of your shared pleasure, creating a heady mix that left you both breathless. Heeseung's tongue danced with yours, the slight sting adding an edge to the already electric connection between you.

His hands roamed your body, exploring every curve and dipping with renewed fervor again. Each touch sent shivers down your spine, the intensity of his desire igniting your own. You could feel his heartbeat pounding against your chest, the rhythm matching the wild thrum of your own pulse.

Breaking the kiss, Heeseung's eyes locked onto yours, dark and filled with a primal hunger. "You're perfect," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. "Every inch of you."

His words sent a flush of heat through you, and you arched into his touch, craving more, wanting another orgasm. Heeseung responded instantly, his fingers trailing down your body to explore the slick heat between your thighs. The sensation was overwhelming, and you moaned, your body trembling with anticipation.

"I want you to feel everything," he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. "Every touch, every kiss, every thrust. I want you to remember this moment forever."

With that, he began to move again, his touch gentle but insistent. The pleasure built slowly this time—a steady, relentless climb that left you gasping for breath. Heeseung's eyes never left yours, the connection between you deepening with every shared gasp and moan.

As the intensity mounted, you felt yourself slipping over the edge once more, your body surrendering completely to the waves of ecstasy that crashed over you. Heeseung followed you into the abyss, his release mingling with yours in a final, shattering moment of bliss.

When the world finally settled around you, you lay in each other's arms, the afterglow wrapping you both in a warm, comforting embrace. Heeseung's fingers traced lazy patterns on your skin; his touch was a gentle reminder of the connection you shared.

"Are you okay?" he asked softly, his eyes filled with concern.

You smiled, your heart swelling with love for him. "More than okay," you whispered. "I'm perfect."

Heeseung's smile mirrored yours as he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you protectively. "Good," he said, his voice filled with contentment. "Because I don't plan on letting you go anytime soon."

"Me neither." You both stay that way, wrapped up in each other's warmth. As you both basked in the afterglow, Heeseung suddenly chuckled, breaking the comfortable silence.

"What?" you asked, a curious smile playing on your lips.

He grinned mischievously. "I was just thinking, if this was a movie, this would be the part where the credits roll and the audience gets all teary-eyed."

"You really think they will get teary-eyed after the porn movie we just created?"

Heeseung laughed; the sound was warm and infectious. "Hey, even the steamiest movies need a good love story. And ours is the best kind."

You rolled your eyes playfully, but you couldn't help the smile that spread across your face. "I guess you're right. We should get awards for our performance."

Heeseung's eyes twinkled with amusement. "Absolutely. Best Actor and Best Actress, no doubt."

You laughed, feeling a lightness in your chest that was all thanks to him. "Then let's give them a show worth remembering."

Heeseung leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "Always," he murmured against your skin. "But first, I want three bowls of ramen."

"Heeseung. Fuck off, for real."

TAGLIST #1: @jaeyunluvr @dollyyun @skzenhalove @missoxy @imjakes-wifeofc1 @monstanctiny21 @syazzzlisa @graythecoffeebean @laurradoesloveu @lilyuwon @annestxr @superbbananananana @deobitifull @enha-stars @sooberriesx @aileeeeeeeeeeeee @horijiro @yorukoshii @chokichips @yeonzzzn @ivesti @woniefull @lilifiedeans @strxwbloody @randomanothercreature @inlove-withfrogs @sousydive @mxxnintheskyreblogs @nyxtwixx @hanversace @kirinaa08 @rayofsunshineeee @avaleyshin @nanayogurt @idkmaybeimgay @immelissaaa @in-somnias-world @lyjngwn @slut4hee @luhvlysuh @branchrkive @jakeswifewithtwokids @jisoosthumb @ramenoil

↷ 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚢'𝚜 note: And we start! Also, this is also a VERY belate birthday gift for my wife @dollyyun ilysm pookie, happy birtday 💞. And shout out to Kayla for the tips for the knife play scene 🦋

[tentoumushii]

"Savior, Winston, and the Symphony." 

I couldn’t understand why she became this sad. I can only imagine that it was probably a disease, and this was the symptom. It suddenly happened during our imaginary tour of going somewhere as far as possible.  

--- 

Nostalgia, often a symptom of depression, had been a widespread ailment among the Crusader soldiers, pining for their distant homes. Of the eight Crusades, this phenomenon manifested right from the first. Soldiers began yearning for their pasts, succumbing to an unstoppable stream of recollections, eventually eroding their ambitions. Louis VII and Konrad III, influenced by Pope Eugene III, were forced to abbreviate the second Crusade from three years to a mere year due to this predicament. 

"Fuck Google Earth" was our slogan in Junior High. We rebelled against the virtual world, threw our smartphones into a garbage bin, and embarked on a quest for an abandoned edifice. We discovered one surprisingly close, a fortress of forgotten dreams where we'd lay down, close our eyes, and inhale the fumes of Winston Tobacco. Same age, same star sign, uncannily similar features—our first encounter with tobacco even echoed the same brand. "The box design has changed a bit," she remarked. I suspect that was the moment her contamination began. 

In the initial three days of our acquaintance, we immersed ourselves in each other, sharing stories, making love, finding arousal in our conversations, made love again and traversed through our pasts within that brief timespan. Upon realizing we'd exhausted our histories and should pivot towards the future, we were dumbfounded. We were stranded—no money, no jobs, only a surplus of unpleasant memories. The future seemed an unreachable goal. But with neither of us having ever traveled, we decided to at least journey to the farthest place imaginable in our minds. Part of this decision was inspired by her father's lies. He would regularly promise, "I'll take you traveling with me someday," only to vanish. He'd return unexpectedly and spin tales of unfulfilled journeys. Initially, she'd be furious, but his persuasive narrative would eventually make her believe she had indeed accompanied him. His tall tales anchored her existence. 

--- 

"Where do you think is the farthest place from here?" I asked. 

"Egypt," she replied, "What about you?" 

"Buenos Aires," I responded. 

"That's close," she chuckled weakly, "Shall we go then?" 

Our imaginary odyssey first led us to Spain, our neighbor, then onto Argentina. We reveled in our adventure, relishing the sense of triumph akin to the Crusader Soldiers. But in the midst of our exhilarating crusade, she held her chest, her eyes welling up. 

"What's the matter?" 

"I don't know, I...I just feel so sad." 

I tried to comfort her, my kisses tracing a path from her breasts to her collarbone and neck. My body also entwined with hers but her emotional fit persisted, her moans intensifying, bearing no resemblance to our intimate moments. 

"I'm so sad, unbearably sad. I can't breathe. I don't understand why. Help me, please." 

Her despair frightened me. I feared I might lose the only person I'd ever connected with so intimately. As her agony continued, she writhed in a dance reminiscent of Pina Bausch's choreography, as beautifully painful as Henri Matisse's art. Eventually, her immense sorrow invaded me. We seemed lost in this vast ocean of sadness, without any tangible form or identifiable origin. And just when I felt faint from the weight of our collective despair, a realization dawned on me. The three days we'd spent together was now part of our past. There was no past or future—only the present. 

Regaining my senses, I gently hoisted her in my arms and stumbled out of the abandoned edifice. A busy national road stretched before us. Amid her ongoing struggle, a sorrowful melody wafted through the air. By the time we found ourselves in a bustling clothing store, the tune had become a soothing background score. The store's patrons, primarily elderly women, barely noticed us. But in that moment, we discovered the therapeutic power of music. Her body gradually relaxed, she dozed for a few seconds and woke up. "Oh my, I had a horrible dream." "Yes, yes, I know. You did." I replied. "But listen, listen to the music." "Yes, I hear it. It's like I'm hearing music for the first time." We exhaled together, held hands, and wandered through the store. The comforting symphony continued to play, unnoticed by the oblivious shoppers. 

[nyx-umbrakinesis]

Male Reader!

Impromptu smut killing my friends led to this so enjoy me ignoring my WIP list and asks... I am not editing this... It's pure rough draft smut again 😂 I'm being tortured rn to post it lmao...

Alastor x MReader

CW: P in A sex, lots of talking from Alastor, radio broadcasting. No editing; no beta; we're going in raw, WE DIE LIKE ADAM!

(see Female Reader version here)

Here's...

Scream For Me

(Masc Reader!)

Alastor's eyes gleam with excitement as he obliges your request, to act like you're in a broadcast as he fucks you on the control panel.

His voice taking on the smooth, seductive cadence of his radio persona, the radio overlay seamless as he continues to fuck you relentlessly.

"Welcome back to the airwaves, my dear listeners. We have a very special guest in the studio tonight - this exquisite Sinner! Who's been brought to his knees by the Radio Demon himself. He's got a mouthwatering pair of pecs, legs utterly divine and a swollen delectable cock that's just begging to be played with."

He reaches up, tweaking your nipples as he continues to describe your body to his imaginary audience, his voice dripping with sarcasm and lust.

"But the real treat here, folks, is his tight little arse."

Alastor grunts as he buries himself inside you, his fingers digging into your hips as he picks up the pace, his voice growing more urgent with each passing second.

"He's soaked, practically drowning in his own precum. And the sounds he makes, oh the sounds... They're like music to my ears, a symphony of lust and desire that has me on the edge of sanity."

He leans in, his teeth grazing your earlobe as he whispers in a low, husky voice.

"You're mine. My personal plaything. And I'm going to make you cum harder than you ever have before, right here on the airwaves for everyone to hear."

You moan, body trembling, needy swollen hole spasming, as you cling to him desperately while he takes you without mercy.

"I'm going to keep fucking you until you can't take it anymore."

As Alastor continues to narrate your intimate encounter, his words become more explicit and crude, pushing the boundaries of decency and fueling your mutual desire.

"Look at you, Sweet thing. You're a mess. Your hair's a mess, and you're covered in sweat and cum. But you're still so fucking gorgeous, so incredibly sexy. I can't get enough of you."

His thrusts become more erratic, his movements more aggressive as he approaches his peak, his voice rising in volume and intensity.

"I'm going to fill you up, Darling. I'm going to flood your arse with my seed, marking you as mine for all eternity."

Alastor's words send a surge of pleasure through you, and you moan loudly, your body writhing under his relentless assault. The thought of being 'broadcasted' to an unknown number of listeners adds a thrill to your encounter, pushing you further into the realm of ecstasy.

"Oh god... yes... I'm yours... I'll do anything for you..." You pant, your voice filled with desire and submission.

Alastor's grip on your hips tightens, his thrusts becoming more forceful as he brings you closer and closer to the edge of orgasm. The sensations build within you, a tidal wave of pleasure that threatens to consume you whole.

"I'm going to cum... Alastor..."

"And those nipples... So perfect for playing with while I'm balls deep inside you... Scream for me."

Alastor's words push you over the edge, and you cry out in pleasure as your body convulses in an intense, shattering orgasm. He doesn't stop, though, continuing to pound into you relentlessly as wave after wave of euphoria crashes over you, arse clenching hard, vision going white with pleasure, ropes of cum coating your chest as you spasm.

His grip on your hips becomes almost painful, his movements rough and uncontrolled as he chases his own release, driven by the sight and sound of you, the feel of you clenching around him making him make his own delicious sounds.

Finally, with a roar of triumph, he releases his seed deep inside you, filling you up, flooding you.

"And there it is, folks! The sweet sound of this sweet sinner's surrender. His body convulsing, his voice crying out in ecstasy as I claim him yet again. And now, I'm painting his insides with my seed, branding him as mine for all eternity."

As Alastor continues to speak into the microphone, his words grow more ragged, more primal, reflecting the intensity of his own climax.

"Feel me, Dearest. Feel my cum filling you up, making you mine."

His thrusts become slower, more measured as he savors the sensation of release, his body still convulsing with aftershocks of pleasure, cock and bals twitching.

"That's it, my dear. Take it all. Let every last drop of my seed fill you up, marking you as mine."

As Alastor finally stills, his body spent and satisfied, he leans in to press a tender kiss to your lips, his voice softening as he addresses you directly once more.

"You were amazing, Dear. Truly breathtaking. And remember, no matter where this journey takes us, you will always be mine."

He withdraws from you slowly, his cum trickling from your sated body as he moves aside to allow you to rest and recover from your intense encounter. As he does so, he reaches out to gently caress your cheek, his eyes filled with a mixture of lust, affection, and pride.

"Thank you, Alastor," you manage to whisper, your voice hoarse from moaning and your body trembling with exhaustion and satisfaction. "It was... incredible."

You lean into his touch, closing your eyes as you bask in the warmth and love radiating from him. For the first time in your life, you truly feel seen, understood, and accepted for who you are, flaws and all.

"I love you," you murmur, the words slipping past your lips without hesitation or fear.

Alastor's smile widens, his eyes sparkling with joy as he leans in to press another kiss to your lips.

"And I love you, Dearest Heart," he whispers against your mouth. "Now and forever."

(unbeknownst to you, he had actually been broadcasting the whole time, not just pretending.)

[rofilm1]

A Productive Delirium

The two weeks have been rather extraordinary. Even if I had to fight some quite awkward “summer illnesses” I managed to write 20 pages (A4), make 27 graphics, 22 new presets as well as shooting 21 video clips about it all.

But the perhaps most important thing to mention is a sudden inspiration which hit me while Ï was bound to stay in bed. The only view I could enjoy was the view into my garden (some call it a jungle, but I like it that way) through the balcony door. No wind was going, a hot summer day, only some few birds singing here and there.

Day after day always this same picture – and suddenly I heard music in my mind. I saw these very slow, very lazy movements of the high grass in a nearly only imaginary wind, a single leaf changing its position only a tiny little bit … hours after hours.

And slowly a relaxed tune, only a single one at first, was in my mind. So clear, so real as if I was listening to real music. Then a second voice, a third one, a fourth one.. all synchronous to these slight movements.

And piece by piece a whole symphony of ambient generative music built itself up in my mind. I didn´t do anything but just listening to what was going on in my head and watching the picture of my garden through the open balcony door.

A few days later when I was a bit better I took notes, drafted first patches. This piece is going to be a part of the book for sure.

Just follow these Wednesday reports on https://dev.rofilm-media.net and learn more about this trilogy dedicated to making generative music.

And don´t forget: You can still save big at the moment!

Enjoy your day!

Rolf

[totesmgoats01-published-author]

Every single time I hear the 2nd Imaginary Symphony, I get such amazing waves of nostalgia.

Everything about it is lovely and memorable. Just hearing "This (pause) is Nigh's street." And the little sounds the come with it makes me so happy. I don't know what it is. I've tried to figure out when Platypus day really is, but (and I know this is cliche and Julian Koster said that there isn't really a specific associate time of year) I think that whenever you're just absently scrolling though your podcast library and see it and then stop, and you click on it. THAT is when Platypus Eve is.

Platypus day is Tomrrow. Is everyone ready?

[julian--the--janitor]