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vax-merstappen · 2 months

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on vacation with the f1 boys ✈️

i love to travel so this is just me being self indulgent lol. also disclaimer i know some of the pictures are not from the country i said the vacation is in, bear with me lol. hope you enjoy and drop me any pref requests you might have!

Lando Norris

Destination: Finland

Lando always went on a ski trip with his friends during the winter break and this year he invited you to go along. You started on the easier slopes, as you both had to get the hang of skiing again, but by the end of the day you were tackling some of the more difficult ones along with your group of friends. Afterwards, the group settled down in the ski lodge with cups of hot chocolate around a crackling fire. You all spent a few hours joking around and catching up after not having all been together for a while. To finish off the day, you and Lando went alone to the sauna where you had the chance to decompress together before heading to bed. All in all, the day was well spent and you asked Lando when you would be able to come back even though you knew the answer would be next year.

Oscar Piastri

Destination: New Zealand

During the winter break, you and Oscar did not want to travel too far from his home in Australia, so you decided to go to the nearby country of New Zealand. Both of you loved staying at the beach and so you decided to spend most of your days at the scenic shores of the country. After having a relaxing time at the beach, you decided to tour the country’s mountains together and to take in the beautiful views. A personal highlight for you is a romantic dinner with Oscar in the stunning city of Queenstown. All in all, it is a relaxing trip far from the pressures of racing that brings the two of you unforgettable memories.

Max Verstappen

Destination: Italy

For Max, a vacation was any time he could spend completely away from racing with you and his friends. So, instead of traveling far away from his apartment in Monaco, he wasted no time in going on a boating trip with all his favorite people along the Italian coast. You both spent days lounging on the deck together and nights drinking with the group at the yacht’s bar. The sea made for a perfect getaway from Max’s fast paced life and you could not be happier to get some time with your boyfriend in such a scenic place. Relaxing in the waves truly made for a great time.

Charles Leclerc

Destination: Los Angeles

Your favorite place to visit together was definitely LA. You both had friends who lived there so it only made sense to take a trip there when you both were free. You spent the days on the beach with him, either surfing if the waves were nice or simply sunbathing otherwise. Charles also convinced you to go on the most extreme rides at all of the amusement parks, giving you an adrenaline rush that kept you wanting more. So many laughs were had with each of your friends, especially when Charles insisted on winning you a giant Ferrari colored banana plush at the arcade. You had no idea where you would find space for it in your apartment, but you knew you would cherish the memories it brought to mind.

Carlos Sainz

Destination: Miami

To Carlos, it would not be a good vacation without some golf. So, you both decided to head to Miami where you could find the best of what both of you loved doing, golf and relaxing on the beach. While Carlos golfed in the mornings, you relaxed on the beachfront balcony of the house you were staying in. And during the afternoons, you would both head to the beach to relax in the sand and waves. One morning you decided to spice things up and have Carlos try to teach you to golf, but after accidentally hitting the ball into someone else’s golf cart, you quickly scrapped that idea. Your favorite memory of the trip was definitely the day you spent completely together on a snorkeling trip to see a nearby coral reef.

Lewis Hamilton

Destination: Dubai

When Lewis wasn’t racing, he still loved to be doing something adventurous. Lucky for him, you shared his love of an adrenaline rush. So the perfect destination was Dubai. Every day was filled with excitement, from riding ATVs though the desert to eating at luxurious restaurants in the city. Lewis even convinced you to go skydiving with him at the end of your trip which was an experience you knew you would never forget. There was never a dull moment when you and Lewis traveled together and you knew that once this vacation ended, you would already be planning for another.

Daniel Ricciardo

Destination: Austin

Everyone knew one of Daniel’s favorite places was Austin, Texas. So when he had a week off after the race in Texas, Daniel of course convinced you to stay with him on vacation there for the next few days. He took you to his favorite bars and barbecue restaurants to savor the food. He also took you to a ranch where you got to ride horses through the American countryside. On the last day of the trip, the two of you decided to go to a country music concert and dance the night away. Both of you loved music and so this was the perfect memory to end what was a great few days of exploring the Texan landscape. And of course you had to get a souvenir cowboy hat to remember the trip by.

Yuki Tsunoda

Destination: Mexico

As you and Yuki are both foodies, you decided to go to a place with one of your favorite cuisines, Mexico. You arranged to travel throughout the country to try different foods from various regions. Between meals, you would spend time seeing some of Mexico’s most scenic beaches and visiting some of the tourist destinations like Chichen Itza. The best part, however, was getting to spend so much uninterrupted time with your boyfriend who was always away from home. Though you knew Yuki lived the fast life, all you wanted to do with him was relax. And what better place to do it than in such a warm and beautiful country. As for your favorite food you tried? There were too many good dishes to choose!

Alex Albon

Destination: Phuket

Alex was thrilled when you agreed to go to the country he raced for. When you got there, he excitedly showed you around all of the sights and took you to eat his favorite local food. After a few days of frantically touring Alex’s favorite places, you both decided that it wasn’t truly a vacation unless you relaxed a little bit. So, you spent the rest of the week at the beach in each other’s arms, just savoring the other’s company. There were a few splash fights in the pool and the time where you jokingly pushed Alex off of the boat, but otherwise you spent your time relaxing on the sand. Thai sunsets were truly like no other and you knew you would savor your memories for years to come.

Logan Sargeant

Destination: USA

When you realized that Logan hadn’t traveled much around his own country outside of Florida, you immediately decided that you were going on a road trip to fix that. The plan was that you would go up the east coast, stopping in all of the major cities to see the sights. From Carolina beaches to the nation’s capital, there were surely a lot of things to do. And when you had a boyfriend who drove cars for a living, of course you got to the be the passenger princess. Every time a road sign showed something that sounded cool, you insisted that you stop. Your personal favorite destination was New York, where you got to show Logan a lot of the famous landmarks that everybody would recognize. Once you hit Boston, you decided to head back south to his home state and warmer weather. You would cherish these memories forever.

#f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 fanfic #f1 preference #f1 fandom #lando norris x reader #oscar piastri x reader #max verstappen x reader #charles leclerc x reader #carlos sainz x reader #lewis hamilton x reader #daniel ricciardo x reader #yuki tsunoda x reader #alex albon x reader #logan sargeant x reader

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thehollowwriter · 7 months

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How To Make The NRC Boys That Cook Cry:

The victims: Trey, Jamil, Azul, Jade and Floyd

Step one: Trap them in a room

Step two: Tie them onto chairs

Step 3: Force them to watch horrible Tiktok recipe videos

Step 4: Watch them start bawling

The results:

Trey breaks first, sobbing at the horrific acts committed against his beloved desserts

Jamil is next, the tears sliding down his cheeks at the utter cruelty of the treatment if his curry and various other foods.

Azul comes after, absolutely terrified as he watches various pasta dishes be utterly desecrated, the Italian genes I SWEAR he has crying out in agony.

Floyd and Jade are next next, forced to watch various Coral Sea dishes be completely ruined.

Floyd has a feeling of utter agony take root in him as he's forced to look upon these sins. Yes, he makes unusual combinations that usual taste bad but who breaks down pasts to make it into pasta? Jade's heart is hurting as wretched things are done to his mushrooms.

Suddenly all of them slump over, congrats they're dead now.

#shitpost #azul ashengrotto #azul ashengrotto x reader #jade leech #jade leech x reader #floyd leech #floyd leech x reader #trey clover #trey clover x reader #jamil viper #jamil viper x reader #octavinelle #octavinelle x reader #heartslabyul #heartslaybul x reader #scarabia #scarabia x reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader

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hometoursandotherstuff · 3 months

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This is crazy- a magnificent 1874 Italianate Victorian in Newcomerstown, Ohio for only $445,900 (It's already under contract). It has 4bds & 2.5ba. You have to see this.

Previously, the home was in bad need of renovation and restoration.

But, look at the entrance, now. Is this not glorious?

I mean, this elegant historic home for less than $500K? I love the arch going up the stairs.

The main sitting room has been meticulously restored. Look at that ceiling and the original fireplace.

What an elegant dining room- beautiful wood paneled walls and an amazing ceiling.

The kitchen was completely renovated. Love the brick.

The cabinets are perfectly Victorian. The kitchen is very large and full of storage.

Lovely everyday dining area.

Whoever picked out the colors for sitting room #2 was spot-on. It's a more casual, whimsical space. Love the fireplace.

Even the connecting center hall is stunning.

Vintage/modern bath looks like a room in a gothic church. They've got carpets protecting that amazing original floor, and the stained glass window is so beautiful.

The landing at the top of the stairs is large enough to be a sitting room with a fireplace.

This light-filled bedroom has a sun room.

Isn't this sweet?

And, check out this bath. Those columned railings.

This bedroom is stunning. Love the gold ceiling and the sitting area before the original fireplace.

This unused bedroom has a wonderful floor.

The 3rd level is special. Isn't this great?

Step up to enter this spacious belvedere. What a wonderful place to retreat.

There is a barn on the property.

Plus, a coral for keeping horses.

The property is 4.9 acres- note that the strip in the back comes with it. An amazing property for the price.

#italianate victorian homes #victorian homes #houses #old house dreams #house tours #home tour

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aradiyatoys · 1 year

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🚨[FREE BABY SEASHELL PATTERN!]🚨 Once upon a time, in the deep blue ocean, there was a tiny Baby Seashell. She lived among the mermaids 🧜🏻‍♀️ crabs 🦀 and octopuses 🐙 in a beautiful underwater world 🌊 The Baby Seashell loved to play hide-and-seek with her octopus friends and listen to the beautiful songs 🎶 of the mermaids. She would also often explore the nearby coral reefs 🪸 marveling at the vibrant colors and the exotic sea creatures that called it home. Despite being small, the Baby Seashell had a big heart ❤️ and always looked out for her friends, whether it was helping a crab mend a broken shell or sharing a tasty seaweed snack with the mermaids. Life was full of adventure and wonder in the deep ocean, and the Baby Seashell couldn't wait to see what each new day would bring! 🥰 Baby Seashell is a FREE addition to my Kawaii Ocean Minis crochet pattern that includes Mermaid, Triton, Octopus, Hermit Crab and Seahorse and is available here -> https://etsy.me/41Oz4GU 😊 FREE Crochet pattern for amigurumi Baby Seashell is available in English, Spanish, French, Italian, Dutch, Portuguese and Danish, browse through the gallery to see all of these languages! 🤗 Happy crocheting and have a wonderful weekend, dear friends! 💛💙

#AradiyaToys #olka novytska #amigurumi #crochet #handmade #crochet pattern #free crochet pattern #free crochet tutorial #free #free amigurumi pattern #kawaii #seashell #ocean world #kawaii ocean minis #DIY #cute #adorable

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wildbeautifuldamned · 3 months

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Vintage De Carlini Blown Figural Glass Christmas Tree Ornament Festive MCM 🎄 ebay SWAG Antiques

#ornament #christmas ornament #italian #coral #candle

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learnyouabiology · 1 year

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Fun Fact: Starfish get around using a hydraulic system!

I want to start off by saying: you may have heard that starfish have sea water instead of blood! This is not true!

Before I explain, let me point out this little dot that every starfish has (and I SWEAR that this is relevant)

(It’s like they all have lil’ buttons on! 1, 2, 3)

This little spot is known as a madreporite, from Italian madre (”mother”) + Latin poro (”pore”).

What is it? Well, to over-simplify:

The madreporite is basically a pressure valve for the insides of the starfish. It lets water in and out of its water vascular system as needed. In order to prevent debris and sea life and other non-desirables from getting inside the starfish, the madreporite filters the water that it takes in.

this is what the madreporite looks like up close:

(Name origin: apparently someone saw that and thought “huh, that kind of looks like madrepore coral, but tiny! They... weren’t wrong.)

Now, you may look at the name “water vascular system” and think “hey, I know ‘vascular’! That's related to blood!” This is a reasonable misunderstanding.

While in humans, the circulatory system is part of a vascular system (along with our lymphatic system) in the starfish’s water vascular system, seawater is NOT analogous to blood in a circulatory system. Or, well, it’s complicated, because it does do some things that are similar to a mammalian circulatory system, such as transporting certain types of immune cells, but still (source: Ferguson 1966)

Instead, these seawater-filled tubes are used for things such as the movement of starfish arms (and their little tube feet), which in turn allows them to move around their environment, find and consume food, and stick to surfaces. Mammals generally don’t use their circulatory systems in this way (if I am wrong about this, PLEASE let me know, as that would be absolutely WILD).

(diagram of a starfish’s water-vascular system, revealing the starfish’s final form: some sort of fidget toy, I think)

I admit that “starfish use seawater instead of blood” is a much more attention-grabbing headline, but it’s not true, and it’s also kind of sad, because the water-vascular system is really cool without the misinformation!

(before you ask, yes, this entire post was prompted by one (1) person saying something that was WRONG, and that person may or may not have been related to me 😤😭😭😭😭😭)

The water-vascular system is, essentially, a hydraulic system. By adding and expelling water, as well as opening and closing internal channels via muscle contractions, starfish can create positive and negative pressure within their bodies. This allows them to “flex” their tube feet in surprisingly complex ways, among other functions.

(these^ are a starfish’s “tube feet”. They are little structures with suckers on the ends. If you’ve ever held a starfish in your hands, you probably felt these feet holding onto you. They have a surprising amount of strength!)

You can imagine this sort of like how a whacky inflatable tube man uses air pressure to straighten up and fall down, except with hundreds in one connected, complex system (and also the pressure is more tightly controlled in order to prevent all that flailing, and also to allow fine control required for things like ripping open a mollusc shell).

(I always imagine this when looking at starfish tube feet. And now, maybe you will too! join me. 1, 2)

The confusion regarding starfish blood being seawater is understandable, but in the end it’s essentially a misunderstanding.

Plus, starfish have coelomic fluid, which is honestly more analogous to blood.

Coelomic fluid is, basically, the fluid that fills the starfish’s body cavity between all of its organs and such, facilitating nutrient transport, gas exchange, and overall being more blood-like than the water-vascular system in general (Andradre et al. 2021).

And ok, technically the liquid part of coelomic fluid comes from seawater, ultimately, but that would be like saying I, a human, use tap water for blood. And, ok, yes, there is water in my blood, and that water came from the tap, but no one would say that I have tap water instead of blood! Except my brother but he also says trigonometry doesn’t exist so we will be ignoring his opinion at this time.

(a more detailed diagram than the one before. The coelomic fluid is found in the coelomic cavity! Also, as a bonus, you now know where a starfish’s anus is! Enjoy this new knowledge next time you look at a starfish! source: x)

Starfish aren’t the only animals with a water vascular system and a madreporite. They can also be spotted in other echinoderms, such as sea urchins, sand dollars, and sea cucumbers (although in the sea cucumber the madreporite is inside the animal, so you probably won’t see it in the wild).

That said, starfish have my favourite madraporites, because I think they look like little badges. They all win the award of being lil friends (and also keystone species that are essential to many marine ecosystems. So.)

This has been Fun Fact Friday, telling you all about wacky lil friends who have funny little feet and DO NOT HAVE SEAWATER INSTEAD OF BLOOD!

I will do battle with my sibling later, as is tradition

Sources under Read More:

Andrade, C., Oliveira, B., Guatelli, S., Martinez, P., Simões, B., Bispo, C., ... & Coelho, A. V. (2021). Characterization of coelomic fluid cell types in the starfish Marthasterias glacialis using a flow cytometry/imaging combined approach. Frontiers in Immunology, 807.

Ferguson, J. C. (1966). Cell production in the Tiedemann bodies and haemal organs of the starfish, Asterias forbesi. Transactions of the American Microscopical Society, 200-209.

Mao, S., Dong, E., Zhang, S., Xu, M., & Yang, J. (2013, July). A new soft bionic starfish robot with multi-gaits. In 2013 IEEE/ASME International Conference on Advanced Intelligent Mechatronics (pp. 1312-1317). IEEE.

#biology #science #stem #fun fact friday #science side of tumblr #animals #starfish #marine biology #there are many benefits to being a marine biologist #such as knowing the location of a starfish's butthole

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merakiui · 11 days

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Correct if i'm wrong, but isn't Italian Azul Canon?! Cuz i remember reading a post where Azul mentioned that his Mom runs a famous ITALIAN restaurant in the coral reef. I don't know if they did that on purpose so that Azul could fit the Mob boss aesthetic, but still!

Basically, Azul talking dirty to you in Italian isn't far off! 👀

It's definitely implied! One of his Luxe Couture voice lines mentions that his mother grew what was once a "small trattoria" into the popular, well-known restaurant it is today. At the very least, we can assume Mama Ashengrotto's restaurant is Italian-style based on Azul's line about it.

I think it's so fun to consider with the mafia/mob boss vibes the Octavinelle trio has. >:D mermafia my beloveds!!!! Aaaa but then it's also implied that the tweels' "family business" may be some sort of mob/mafia/crime family........ but in my heart, Italian Azul is very much real and true. (´▽`ʃƪ)♡ I want him to say sweet things to me in Italian. <3 oh, to be called all manner of pretty nicknames by him.......

#twisted chit chat

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onepiecebrained · 4 months

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fanchildren ideas of some pairings I enjoy

long-ish talk about their name choices under cut

Coral: Koby's named after his hair colour being kobi pink, so Coral is too and I find it cute because it also references the ocean/sea which is what her fathers' jobs revolve around as marines :)

Nevaeh: Her name should have dreamy with cloud imagery vibes but she's pretty rebellious like her father so it's heaven spelt backwards

Scitto: Kaku's name apparently means writing and Lucci's is Italian so I translated written using a translator and it sounded like it could be a name in the one piece universe

Oliver: Inspired by Robin's mother Olvia

Miki: Her name should end with the "ee" sound like her mothers, and it also sounds closely like Mikan which are tangerines

Auk: One piece girls are often named after birds and I think Zoro might think back to Kuina (named after the water rail), and Auks are also birds that live around water (also both species seem like they have trouble flying but they're both able to for the most part)

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ascent-descent-bracket · 1 year

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ask game but for poll runners :D

send me a colour and i’ll answer the question tied to the colour

Lilac -> funniest submissions?

Iridium -> how many submissions did you get?

Lime -> participant(s) you’re rooting for the most?

Yellow -> most annoying part of running your tourney

Coral -> participant(s) you did not expect to make it this far

Azure -> what/who inspired you to run this competition?

Sage -> showdown you’re most excited for?

Sandstone -> any question you’d like, doesn’t have to be related to the polls :]

tagging some other competitions who might want to do this (no pressure tho :): @epicdivorcemantournament @aroaceswagcompetition @monstershowdowns @italian-tournament @ultimate-rat-bracket

#thumbs up #polls #tumblr polls #idk #send me some?#ask game

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princerealgems · 2 years

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decaying-words · 20 days

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The Innocent

All chapters Jonathan Crane x Reader • 18+ Explicit • 4.1k words TW & tags: NonCon, fear kink, masturbation, awful everything AO3 • All my stories

"She whimpers audibly, her scent turning acrid and pungent now; fear, she reeks of fear. I pant, a hundred meters behind her, putting enough distance to remain a formless creature while still appearing very much real in the dim light. The soft tremor turns into heavy shaking when she turns her head behind her shoulder, as if to convince herself that this is just a dream, just like the others she’s had. Then she screams, oh! she screams…"

The Innocent

Foreign music notes of a perhaps forgotten song vibrate in my dry throat in low hums, barely covering the insistent scratch of the fountain pen darkening the cream coloured papers splayed on my antique desk. The watch which delicately sublimes my bony wrist with its dark brown Italian leather and finely carved metal hands indicate three hours and fifty-six minutes in the afternoon; I still have four whole minutes, I realize with a palpable excitement that is most unwelcome in my line of work. My patient is, without a single doubt, already waiting in the other room; I will not greet her before the time has come, for it is absolutely crucial to not reveal any ounce of delight or impatience. In fact, I must remain perfectly professional, detached and clinical, or else I am taking the risk of exposing my ulterior motives and intimate desires.

Four minutes is exactly the amount of time needed to adjust my tie (dark brown as well; a color not too contrasting to my marble pallor and which makes me look distinguished and inspires confidence, a key component in my profession), inspect my impeccable tweed vest made of Irish virgin wool dyed an exquisite amber color, and delicately clean the lenses of my round glasses with a microfiber cloth. Three hours fifty-nine; the last notes fade on my chapped lips when I leave my cognac leather armchair and direct my wiry frame to the door, spidery fingers holding the brass handle which feels pleasantly cold against my tight skin.

Within my aging ribcage are percussions worthy of Ravel’s Bolero; intense in nature and laced with the fruitful musicality of controlled nerves. The entrance is methodical, natural and restrained, with a smile, polite enough to be welcoming but faint enough to remain professional, and soft crow’s feets rolling in a pleasantness that seems genuine. There are no emotions in my eyes; yet, dissimulated behind my glasses it might be hard to tell. My voice is warm and comforting, despite the crystal-like brokenness of its undertones which has been forged through the years.

Her smile, painted in a shiny coral red, is wide and transpires a heavy relief. She has been looking forward to our session all week long, I am sure; she reminds me of a teapot in the way she lets her worries fester until they turn ugly and make her completely dysfunctional. Her fingers cross and uncross nervously on her lap, as if incapable of knowing what to do with her own body, before she stands up, flattening her perfectly ironed marine blue pencil skirt, and retrieves her matching blazer jacket. I hold the door open and she penetrates my office with a footstep so light it could have belonged to a ghost; I notice the floral notes of her perfume, horrifyingly sweet and childish.

Through the nine sessions we had together, it is worth mentioning that her outfits are always delicately picked, colors matching and completed with a set of earrings (one on each lobe), a gourmette bracelet with her name engraved (a baptism gift, I reckon), and a now very familiar pearl necklace which I abhor passionately. Her hair is always impeccably styled down and her face painted just enough to be womanly without looking like a whore; something important, I suppose, for it matters greatly to her father. She reminds me of a ventriloquist’s doll, carrying a fabricated superficiality that betrays the profound emptiness of her soul. I am not certain she likes her appearance very much, the short heeled suede shoes, the old-fashioned manicure or the vulgar pearl necklace; but rather that she likes the simulacre of control on her life this shows on the outside, especially to her father, a figure we never cease to talk about.

My patient does not sit down until I instruct her to, the anxiety to pick the wrong choice and disappointment still viciously anchored in her childhood; an emotionally absent and academically demanding father tends to create such complex insecurities in the younger hearts. I would know. As always, we will be talking about it; and as always, she will unravel the same pointless secrets in an uninteresting logorrhoea that could very well bore me to death if it weren’t for the topic of her recurrent nightmares, cautiously sprinkled in her stories and immensely more fascinating —from a clinical point of view, of course.

I am taking place in the armchair in front of hers, crossing one leg on top of the other, not dissimilar to two long and pale sticks enveloped in soft and tasteful fabric. My elevated ankle reveals the smallest ounce of marble skin, adorned with arched tendons which roll and disappear beneath the dark Egyptian cotton of my socks. I sense her heavy gaze following the slender silhouette of my legs to the tip of the deep brown leather of my derby shoes; a rosy tint blooms on her cheeks and my lips twitch in amused curiosity while she plays nervously with the pearls of this dreadful necklace which she is, in my humble opinion, either too old or too young to wear. She feels desire for me, despite being a couple of decades older than her; an expression, I believe, of her yearning for a paternal love, approval and affection.

My notebook lays graciously on my lap, angled in such a way that makes it impossible for her to see what I will be writing down, my treasured pen already in my hand. Adjusting my glasses on the long bridge of my aquiline nose, I offer her yet another muted smile, a silent invitation to begin the session; she appears flustered, blushing some more as I seem to have interrupted her train of thoughts —probably too vulgar for the image of herself she is desperately fabricating. I wonder if she is a virgin still, having spent the essential of her miserable life catering to her father’s needs and putting aside her own intimate desires; this would explain the subtle perfume of her throbbing sex floating in my office.

I find myself more than passively listening to her most uninteresting week in a way that freezes my nerves and makes me question my career choice, gently guiding her back to the heart of her confusing weaving as she wanders and rambles incoherently. None of her anecdotes are of importance to me, subtly urging her to open the can of her anxieties and core reason for her very presence on my couch; her recurring and unexplained nightmares.

A couple of months ago, this patient reached out to me in an attempt to exorcize her most intimate thoughts and find a more peaceful slumber. When asked the nature of her night terrors, she confessed, with great difficulty and restraint at first, having this peculiar dream for years now in which she finds herself wandering around the unknown alleys of a surrealist city reminiscing of a dark and sterile-looking maze. She can never tell where she is, every window and every door looking the same, every turn sensibly similar to the next, the streetlights aggressively cutting harsh shadows against the smooth walls of the buildings.

As her journey progresses, she notices a shadowy form following her every step and which does not make a noise aside from an ominous buzzing that makes the lights crackle; though it has not touched her yet, its presence alone is dreadful and suffocating enough to make her survival instincts kick in. She runs through the maze-like alleys in a vain hope to escape the figure, never successful in her doing; the shadow creeping at every corner, slipping through the cracks of the building like a liquid void, looming over her like a toxic cloud, and always watching her with empty eyes and whispering incomprehensible and otherworldly things in a gnarly voice resembling a sinister borborygmus.

She wakes up screaming, in tears and drenched in sweat before it can seize her.

There is an obvious answer behind her anxiety, one draped in the cloak of her oppressing father; and yet, despite the last few unproductive sessions and unfruitful attempts to take in my hypothesis, she rejects all and any idea of daddy dearest being the root of her misery. My poor sweet girl. Through her almost touching callowness if it weren’t laced with pungent naïveté, I find great intellectual pleasure in studying her profound fear; sometimes, when the moon hits and soaks my office in a creamy light, I dissect my numerous notes, each scribbled word reminiscing me of her giant doll-like eyes turning glassy with emotion, her painted lips aquiver with wretched anguish, her neatly cared eyebrows knitted in visible despair. She reminds me viciously of a newborn deer, frail and fragile; a sight so delicious it never fails to make my turgid sex throb in interest. I have learnt since to keep my legs crossed in front of her, of course.

Her fear is at the image of her personality; carefully crafted by her visceral fantasies which she struggles to control, as if her fabricated identity would cease and disappear if she knew how to confront it. There is something delectable in her innocent emotions, something exquisitely cruel in how laughable of a person she is, and I find myself morbidly curious to see her façade break and release her true self, dying and being born again. It is exhilarating really, the prospect of witnessing her weak mind shatter and rebuild itself, morphing into something pure and liberated, surpassing her ugly cocoon.

Fear is the most sublime emotion, a capricious mistress that transforms all beings into primal creatures; there is a beast inside all of us, I firmly believe, a döppleganger, infinitely mightier and profoundly fascinating, that only fear can free and liberate. I based my entire life on understanding the beauty of fear and how to elevate and transcend it, achieving our most glorious form; prying at people’s most intimate insecurities and feeding them the putrid fruits they truly do need to alter their mind irremediably, for their own benefit, I am certain. As such, it is past the clinical need but rightfully with a voracious desire and spiritual intention that I wish to see and unravel my Innocent’s breaking point.

The sound of her trembled sob wakes me from my contemplative state, and I realize with great indifference that I missed her last couple of sentences, which I believe gave her yet another heartache. My occulted gaze devours the sight of her pained face, glassy eyes crying perfectly round and warm tears, her bunny nose reddening; I do not care much for her grief, an emotion I find particularly repulsive and grotesque and which she seems to feel quite frequently; this might be why I find her so unpleasant to be around. Instead, I hand her the tissue box that she politely accepts, wiping her tears and runny nose.

The corner of my mouth twitches in disgust when I see her nervously touch her pearl necklace once again. This abominable pearl necklace that embodies everything about her that I hate; her child-like appearance despite being well into her thirties, her synthetic demeanor forged by an unyielding desire to be loved, her emotionally incestuous relationship with her undeserving father and her complete and total lack of self-esteem.

Today’s session comes to an end and I am afraid we did not progress much, to my great dismay. I offer her the same frigid smile in which she always seems to find comfort when I open the door and shake her hand, a stark contrast to the warmth and subtle stickiness of her skin. She thanks me profusely and I nod in return, wishing her a pleasant rest of the day; I will be seeing her next week.

My simulacre of a smile fades as soon as she exits my office, a boiling irritation tinting the tip of my ears a crimson color, akin to a single rose in a snowy garden. I take an involuntary peek at my reflection in the window as I run a wiry hand in the dark feathers of my hair, silvering at the temples, a few gray strands adorning the generally brown mass. My thick eyebrows are knitted together in profound frustration, collecting today’s notes and sitting at my desk to study them. I cannot be satisfied with the glimpse of her unfledged anxieties, our exchanges do not nurture me professionally or otherwise ; slumping heavily in the leather armchair, a deep sigh swelling my tight chest, I lose myself in the labyrinthic corners of my mind, all the while ignoring the aggressive hardness of my sex, its throbbing feeling like the greatest treason in this precise moment.

I will not bring myself to completion tonight, for I find her fear vulgar and unworthy of my seed, a womb so barren it feels utterly meaningless. I will not even touch myself, I decide, denying her the attention and importance she desperately yearns for, refusing to besmirch my pride for such an insensitive mind. She is spoiling the sap of her soul in a way that is perfectly unacceptable to me and makes her look profoundly hideous; and I refuse to harvest the rotten fruits of a putrid heart. Instead, I will spend the night lost in my thoughts, with deep indignation for sole company.

It took me a complete day to recover from my turmoil and hatch a plan I deem satisfying, and four more to establish a detailed inventory of her nightly habits; following her at a reasonable distance in a now familiar fashion, carefully noting down any information of importance, I managed to know exactly when she finishes work, which Café she frequents, where she goes grocery shopping, which metro she takes home… During the day and in between two consultations, I conscientiously study the map of her neighborhood, carving in my memory every alley, every path, every building until I have a clear representation of my hunting territory. Victorious is a word that comes to my mind after such rewarding labor.

Tonight is the night. I am wearing my real skin, flesh made of burlap and soiled rag, fur made of dry straw and rotten thread stitching my articulations together. The used rope rolls like tendons around my throat, the noose loose enough to breath but not enough for it to be comfortable; a simple pleasure that will leave bruised memories on my neck like a passionate lover would. I caress my clothed form, the sensation unpleasant and rough to the touch and yet so deliciously stimulating, a sensation that never fails to make me hum appreciatively, heartbeat inappropriately lively for a Scarecrow .

It is ten hours and forty-five minutes on a Thursday night; she has been to the library tonight, devouring romance novels with her third cup of herbal tea –something horrifyingly fruity, I assume. An activity she indulges frequently, seeking refuge and comfort in the elegant place, something I cannot blame her for, considering the depraved state of the rest of Gotham, in stark contrast to the magnificence of the old architecture. This habit will also work in my favor, draping myself in the thickness of the night, my elongated figure barely noticeable in the corner of the street; at best, two glowing orbs pierce the obscurity, reminiscent of an animal of some sort, or better yet of an unsettling monster.

I hum the broken notes of an unknown song, a simple habit that feels right, lured in the dark and waiting for her to penetrate the first alley; I recognize her ghost-like footstep, short heels clacking subtly on the pavement, naive and unaware. Oh, my sweet girl.

She does not sense me for the first two hundred meters, her oblivious demeanor both entertaining and frustrating. There is something viscerally exquisite about seeing without being seen, teasing a very particular part of me; an almost erotic melange of power and impunity. I came to realize with age and experience that hunting is not dissimilar to foreplay, and therein lies my current problem; foreplay is not endless teasing, for I am neither patient nor interested in maintaining myself on the edge of my pleasure. And when I am being ignored for too long, I cannot help but feel somewhat insulted; ultimately, I want her to see me.

My fingernails tap and scratch the cold bricks, an abominable gurgling noise escaping my fatigued throat. She freezes instantly, and my sex twitches in sensible interest which I attempt to calm down, a feverish excitement pooling in my stomach. I distinguish the tremor in her silhouette and her breath hitching ever so slightly, a subtle perfume floating in the air, one that I know by heart now and makes my mind sing and mouth salivate. She does not look behind her, a wise choice I would say under more normal circumstances, her pace quickening in the narrow alley right between the first and third street of Gray Avenue.

I inhale the acidic perfume of my body; I would like to say that my entire form is impregnated with the residuals of an old chemical toxin I’ve developed decades ago, but perhaps it is simply my own essence, now corrupted to its very core. I am certain that the delirious effects of these quasi pheromones will soon hit her as well and change her like I expect her to.

As she navigates through the almost pitch black alleys, fingertips grazing at the walls to help her find her way, I wheeze a wretched noise from within my ribcage, dreadful sounds I have been practicing since I was born and which never seems to get old. My poor girl is sobbing earnestly now, an arm wrapped around her middle section as if to seek comfort, almost running away from me, her short heels making a music akin to a typewriter in the night of Gotham. I am fully aware I have her complete attention, but I wish she would just look at me.

I run after her, vomiting more guttural gibberish from my distorted voice, fingernails hitting and scratching every surface in a pleading cacophony. She whimpers more frankly, I can tell how delicate her nerves are at this very moment. In her panic, she picks the wrong turn. Exquisite.

She looks around her with agony and confusion, persuaded that she would be welcomed by a bridge crossing the river of the Old Street; instead, she is met with a damp and sinister dead end. She whimpers audibly, her scent turning acrid and pungent now; fear, she reeks of fear . I pant, a hundred meters behind her, putting enough distance to remain a formless creature while still appearing very much real in the dim light. The soft tremor turns into heavy shaking when she turns her head behind her shoulder, as if to convince herself that this is just a dream, just like the others she’s had. Then she screams, oh! she screams…

Her crystalline voice breaks and shatters, pure and visceral, high pitched and perverted with terror; I am so hard I could hammer a nail in raw wood. I move in a dislocated fashion, long limbs akin to spider legs, the nightmarish look making her trip and fall on her bottom and crawl back, fingers desperately digging in the cold pavement until a nail breaks, curling her form into a ball in a damp corner. She cries so hard her face turns ruby red, smeared mascara leaving dark streaks on her puffy cheeks, glistening saliva bubbling on her screaming lips – oh, how beautiful she is, my sweet girl. My cock feels heavy in my now awfully tight pants; under different circumstances, maybe I would have offered her a different fate.

She hides her face in her arms, fingers grabbing ferociously at her hair as if trying to wake herself up, but she doesn’t, no, she doesn’t wake up, and the reality is sinking in, especially when I am standing not even five meters in front of her. There is a bitter, stinging smell in the air, and a recognizable warm golden puddle underneath her shaking body that glistens beautifully under the moonlight; I purr in between two groans, witnessing her weakest form dissolve and collapse into the void of her mind that I have conceived. I want to create her anew, an abomination made of flesh and terror, and she will recognize me as her cruel Creator. My low distorted voice echoes in the muted alley, inspired and impassioned.

Are you afraid, child?

She screams louder, screams for help, screams for her life. But no one will save her, not here, not in Gotham, not this pathetic piss soaked girl . I mock and taunt her, towering over her as she chokes on her own sobs, desperate and painfully lonely. Why won’t anyone save me , she must be thinking. Why did Father lock me in this cell, she must be thinking. Why did Father abandon me in the cornfield. My laugh sounds more like a croak, sinister and penetrating, while she begs me for her life.

Do you know who I am, child?

She does not. I blame it on her delirious state, on her body pumping her full of adrenaline, and most probably the toxins my body produces and which she’s been inhaling. This will not do, however; I want to ruin her in a way that matters, and for that to happen I need her to know who I am, what I represent.

I crouch in front of her weaker form, barking her name and demanding she looks at me, which she does, obediently so; I reiterate my question, my hands hunched like claws scratching the walls around her. She cries harder, but her body produces no more tears, exhausted and drained; she screws her eyes shut and so I have no other option but to grab her hair viciously, forcing her to look at me.

And she does, oh she does , giant glassy eyes that lost their innocent spark and instead glow with a fury only trauma could forge and terror could sublimate. She sees the humiliation and the absence, the neglect and the judgment; she sees what she could have been if it had not been taken away from her. She does not say it but she mouths it, the two syllables of her misery.

Father.

My cackle is nothing short of demoniac, entire body jerking wildly enough to remember my turgid sex still leaking its filth in my ruined pants, heartbeat frantic as I am slowly but surely reaching my peak; release is not only needed but deserved , I believe, as my hand crawl inside my pants and free my cock, seizing it in a vicious grip that is mostly pain under her terrified and disgusted gaze. I take in her beautifully wrecked face as I pump myself with vigor and intent while croaking heavy moans, my eyes devouring every single wrinkle, every tear and tremor, swallowing the sight of the tense tendons of her throat choking on her sobs until I hiss in disgust at the repugnant pearl necklace.

She does not need it anymore, I believe. And so, in a movement aquiver with lust and desire, my knotted fingers slip under the chain akin to a snake closing its embrace. She shrieks in pain when I pull tightly, a most needed evil I am afraid although ephemeral, the horrendous necklace eventually giving in to my brutal punishment and breaking. I hear the clattering of the pearls falling and rolling on the pavement, hand still tightly locked around my cock as I fuck my fist earnestly in deliciously wet noises; she caresses the skin of her bare neck, as if understanding something, her terrified eyes turning back at me and begging me to let her go. Oh, my sweet child, be certain that I will miss your honeyed pleas…

My orgasm comes quickly, long spurts of milky cum spilling on her throat, the soft flesh now adorning a unique, more appropriate and beautiful set of pearls. A generous gift, one she will remember fondly, I am certain. Her lower lips tremble as more tears roll down her cheek, although not a sound comes out of her mouth. I understand, it is a lot to process. Therapy can be difficult sometimes.

I left her alone to collect herself. Once home, and after a quick yet invigorating shower, I became busy writing down in great detail tonight’s experiment and, one must admit, its most triumphant outcome.

The day before our scheduled appointment, she informed me that she would not be able to come, pretending to have a cold. I understood, of course, and asked her if I would see her next week then. She said that she wasn’t certain, and that she would call back. She never did.

#jonathan crane #the scarecrow #jonathan crane x reader #the scarecrow x reader #fanfic #my writing

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