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rainbowfic2024-03-08 12:44 am
resurrectfeeling) wrote in rainbowfic2024-03-08 12:44 am
Fluorite 1
Name: just a young heart confusing my mind
Author: Icemachine
Story: The Reposing Force of the Great Lakes (RFOGL)
He wears three different contrasting patterns when he visits you in your office — a daisy-printed undershirt and a polka dotted jacket with plaid pants, all various shades of purple, like some sort of cartoon character — and sheds them all as you close the curtains and lock the doors. He sinks down onto your lap, dangles himself over you with playful passion, dangles himself in front of you to lure and tempt, and in his embrace you make your decision. Kelly’s been your assistant for fifteen years, but she isn’t Soren. Kelly has children to feed, teenagers about to enter college, but she doesn’t touch like Soren does and she doesn’t laugh like Soren does and she doesn’t dress like Soren does and therefore she is disposable.
If you hire him, you can keep him close to you. Soren can get you your coffee and answer your phone calls and infect every thread of your life, turning you into a mess of stuttering, bubbling gray, writhing beneath him. You find yourself sickened by it, how he enchants. Soren’s place in life is here, underneath your fingertips. Here, embedded into the spaces between your grasp. Here, like a sacrifice, helplessly draped over the altar of you.
“Heard it’s your birthday,” he whispers into your ear. “You can’t hide anything from me.”
Hm. No, you cannot, it seems. Soren is very good at sensing you, at sniffing out the blood of your neuroses and stripping them of flesh. He knows you too well; you should punish him for it. You weren’t going to tell anyone—he is twenty years your junior, and he won’t obey you quite right, he just won’t heel. What good is a possession that doesn’t enjoy being kept? He has to want it. You’ll double, triple his pay. It doesn’t matter what he wants—you’re prepared to give anything. Fuck the Force budget. Fuck your own finances, your own personal sanity. As long as he stays at your submission, you have something to anchor you. You keep working late and working late and eventually your wife stops calling to ask when you’re coming home.
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
“How old are you, exactly?”
Panting hot breath into his mouth, you whisper back the terrible truth: Fifty five. How amusing he is—so young, so unburdened.
“Ah,” whispers Soren, his hands snaking through to unbutton your collar. You know that it’s true: your agony has made you feel ancient, but he sees you, inexplicably, as tangible—the gap doesn’t matter in his eyes. You’re closer than we think, he says. “Happy birthday, Graham.”
You still his movement. “Soren, I’ve been thinking…”
“That’s never good.”
“Kelly… has quit due to unforeseen circumstances.”
“Oh,” Soren shrugs, “that sucks?”
“...So now there is a job opening. I was hoping—”
“I’ll do it,” Soren interjects, petting your hair. “My dream is to make coffee for you every day, of course.”
“I’ll double your pay. I want someone I know and trust, Soren.”
“I thought you didn’t trust anyone.”
The scenery freezes, your body starving itself of oxygen and hope. You don’t.
“Just think about it.”
He kisses you again—this time, somehow, it is forged in a tinge of anger, the kind that only someone as jaded as you can detect. “Sure.”
Author: Icemachine
Story: The Reposing Force of the Great Lakes (RFOGL)
Colors: Fluorite #1 (Mature/Untested)
Supplies and Styles: Silhouette
Word Count: 544
Rating: M
Warnings: Unhealthy/possessive relationship, adultery
Notes: Hi, this is my first post here! :waves: Also, I've been reading "Crush" again, which inspired me to experiment with second person. How does this fictional organization he works for actually function? We just don't know.
Summary: It's Graham's birthday, and he wants something.Notes: Hi, this is my first post here! :waves: Also, I've been reading "Crush" again, which inspired me to experiment with second person. How does this fictional organization he works for actually function? We just don't know.
He wears three different contrasting patterns when he visits you in your office — a daisy-printed undershirt and a polka dotted jacket with plaid pants, all various shades of purple, like some sort of cartoon character — and sheds them all as you close the curtains and lock the doors. He sinks down onto your lap, dangles himself over you with playful passion, dangles himself in front of you to lure and tempt, and in his embrace you make your decision. Kelly’s been your assistant for fifteen years, but she isn’t Soren. Kelly has children to feed, teenagers about to enter college, but she doesn’t touch like Soren does and she doesn’t laugh like Soren does and she doesn’t dress like Soren does and therefore she is disposable.
If you hire him, you can keep him close to you. Soren can get you your coffee and answer your phone calls and infect every thread of your life, turning you into a mess of stuttering, bubbling gray, writhing beneath him. You find yourself sickened by it, how he enchants. Soren’s place in life is here, underneath your fingertips. Here, embedded into the spaces between your grasp. Here, like a sacrifice, helplessly draped over the altar of you.
“Heard it’s your birthday,” he whispers into your ear. “You can’t hide anything from me.”
Hm. No, you cannot, it seems. Soren is very good at sensing you, at sniffing out the blood of your neuroses and stripping them of flesh. He knows you too well; you should punish him for it. You weren’t going to tell anyone—he is twenty years your junior, and he won’t obey you quite right, he just won’t heel. What good is a possession that doesn’t enjoy being kept? He has to want it. You’ll double, triple his pay. It doesn’t matter what he wants—you’re prepared to give anything. Fuck the Force budget. Fuck your own finances, your own personal sanity. As long as he stays at your submission, you have something to anchor you. You keep working late and working late and eventually your wife stops calling to ask when you’re coming home.
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
“How old are you, exactly?”
Panting hot breath into his mouth, you whisper back the terrible truth: Fifty five. How amusing he is—so young, so unburdened.
“Ah,” whispers Soren, his hands snaking through to unbutton your collar. You know that it’s true: your agony has made you feel ancient, but he sees you, inexplicably, as tangible—the gap doesn’t matter in his eyes. You’re closer than we think, he says. “Happy birthday, Graham.”
You still his movement. “Soren, I’ve been thinking…”
“That’s never good.”
“Kelly… has quit due to unforeseen circumstances.”
“Oh,” Soren shrugs, “that sucks?”
“...So now there is a job opening. I was hoping—”
“I’ll do it,” Soren interjects, petting your hair. “My dream is to make coffee for you every day, of course.”
“I’ll double your pay. I want someone I know and trust, Soren.”
“I thought you didn’t trust anyone.”
The scenery freezes, your body starving itself of oxygen and hope. You don’t.
“Just think about it.”
He kisses you again—this time, somehow, it is forged in a tinge of anger, the kind that only someone as jaded as you can detect. “Sure.”
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