A Lolicon Kingdom of Idiocy

tits

Fingers kiss the skin of his arms, shivers keep him from being still. He rasies his hands to touch her face, a silent plea for her love. The metal cracks against his chest, blood rushes to the thin cut. It seeps down and puddles on the floor, caressing his skin on the way down in a way she never will. Her hands gently touch his throat, too small to wrap around it, strong enough that the pressure makes him gasp. This is her gentle, it’s his pain. Her arm snaps forward, hands release. His back smacks against the wall, head colliding and nearly knocking him out. Her wrist flicks in the same way her arm had; there’s a tearing sound that he registers but can’t exactly process. The blur of his eyes only gos away after she’s already stradling him.

She isn’t nude but her skirt is gone. The jacket is unzipped, the shirt askew. He can only see half of her chest. She would never undress completely for him. Again, her hands touch his shoulders for but a second, the contact making his skin tingle. Tears cascade down his face, he opens his mouth to beg her to at least touch him. Her eyes are closed yet she still covers his mouth. Her eyes are always closed, she never looks at him, never lets him speak during this. When her hands leaves his mouth, he keeps silent; doesn’t want another cut. He’s thankful when her hand touches his lower stomach, though it is only so that she can use it to push herself up and down.

For a moment he wonders if it hurts her, the size difference. She’s so small and he is so large compared to her. Then he remembers that she has no perception of pain, is too perfect for pain. There’s blood when she lifts herself up, the red color standing out against his skin. For a second she lets him look at the blood, knows hes looking, knows he’s worried. After that second she lowers down, again. He fights against the urge to open his mouth, keeps silent for as long as he can. Her speed increases, he digs his fingers into the floor. He wants so bad to hold her. Against his will, his mouth opens and a moan escapes.

Her hands hands flashed up, one twisting in his hair pushes his head back. The other went to her pocket, there was a click, and the cold steel of a blade pressed against his cheek. Fear touched his stomach, freezing his movements. Her stomach pressed against his, thighs holding onto his hips tighter. She barely moved her own hips, yet she didn’t stop. Her nose touched the side of his face. Her voice filled his ear, words wrapping around his mind and stopping all thoughts.

“I don’t want to hear your disgusting voice.” Her voice was as cold and the blade. It was the voice of a child, yet it got it’s point across better than anything he’d ever heard. It was beautiful and deadly, like the rest of her. “Keep quiet—” the blade moved slightly towards his mouth, “—or I’ll cut your lips off.” A disgusting twitch in his cock, and his hand moved of it’s own according, barely touching her back before her hand left his hair, wrapped painfully around his fingers, bent in an inhuman way as she slammed it against the wall above his head. There was a flash of light as the hand holding the knife arched through the air, through the shaft of light coming from a nearly-boarded-up window, and the tip of the knife cut through his hand completely, going through the wall, as well.

The second it went through the wall, her hand left the knife and grabbed his face, pushing part of her palm into his mouth. The other hand released his arm, back of that hand collided with his chin, slamming his teeth into her hand to keep him from screaming. For a moment, he didn’t realize he had to hold his hand up for it to stop hurting as bad as it did. He didn’t want to cry, but the tears came naturally. He was so very weak compared to her. She looked down at him with a blank stare, no remorse. No emotion at all. Her hands left his face, and she bent her face towards his. One hand touched his cheek, and she whispered,

“Never touch me.” Her lips touched his for a moment, long enough for her rip the knife from his hand, blood smearing against her hand. “Ever.”

She placed the knife beside them, within her reach. One hand returned to his stomach, so she could start moving again. The other grabbed his wrist and held his hand where she could taste his blood, she picks up speed with every single taste. He has never seen something so frightening and beautiful at the same time. It’s at the moment that her eyes connect with his, red irises glinting in the light, that he climaxes, wanting so bad to run his hand across her skin. As usual, she isn’t finished. Her chest presses against his, whispers into his ear,

“May I?” She will no matter what he says. Blood is her true love, the one thing she can look at without disgust. The hand releases his wrist, touches the hilt of the knife and then brings it up to create a line of red against his cheek, the same one she had pressed it to when he had moaned. It flashes against the light again, blood suddenly running from his shoulder. Her cheek presses into the wound when she hugs him, holding him tight. At first, joy overwhelms him. Is this an apology? But, then, the tip of the knife touches his back.

The enters through the his back, going almost straight through. A shower of blood erupts from his throat, spraying part of her back. She shivers, finally coming hard against him. He can’t breath. For a moment, she stays where she is, and then stands. Small drops of blood run down her back, red on white, the knife clangs to the floor and the drawer groans when she pulls it.

The gun is pulled, the fun is done. He would have tried to beg, but he can barely muster what he does say:

“Why?” She looks down at him with dark eyes. There’s blood covering her cheek and mouth, some on her hands and staining her shirt. Her childish voice doesn’t match her bloody body like it used to.

“I told you I’d help you stop dying. I never said I wouldn’t kill you a few times on the way.”

END

…wait, who was I even writing about?

Anyway. Here’s what spawned this. I was boredly scrolling through some Kyman pictures on dA, and found this and just had that in my mind for a while. And my way of getting rid of it was to write some semi-bloody smut. So, I wrote this.

Let’s just say that this was my lolicon for South Park and it’s about Kenny. Just to get that out of the way, okay? He’s just, like, twenty in this, or something.

Shut up. I dunno.

What is happening to me.

I’ll write some actual lolicon fanfiction soon, I promise. And it’ll end happily.

It makes no sense and went in a completely different direction than I planned. I guess that’s what happens when you write without the slightest idea what the fuck you’re writing.

I Have No Title

“I’m not a faggot!”

He wants to scream it at the top of his lungs but he can’t. It’d just further the fact that he was. Or was he? It didn’t feel like he was one. It felt more like one of those gay movies; like Brokeback Mountain or some shit.

Where you were straight as an arrow, but you just meet that one person of the same gender that makes you feel complete. And you don’t get it because the opposite gender still seems like that’s what you like because it is. You don’t love the person because of their gender, you love the person because of who they are on the inside. And that would have been plausible except that for the entirety of the five years he’d known this boy, he’d hated him.

Well, everyone did. This kid was a pretty horrible person. He was … a dick. An intolerant, racist, fat, self-centered, narcissistic dick. He just made you want to hate him. It wasn’t what it seemed, though. He wasn’t naturally like that. It was something of a protection mechanism. His father left when he was real young, and he… he just kind of expected that to happen again. It was like he didn’t like people to get close to him because he was scared they might leave him, too. It was sad. He was said.

“Hey.” He said it quitely. Like there was a reason to. It was only two in the morning, sure, but no one else was here except for the two of them. The boy didn’t respond. He turned over and looked at him. He was on his back, spread out. “Hey, Cartman!” This time he tugged on the kid’s sleeve. Cartman was still wearing his red jacket.

They’d fallen asleep on accident. Neither had changed clothes. When he woke up a couple hours later, his first instinct was to curl up in the warmth beside him and just go back to sleep.He buried his face in whatever it was that was next to him, brought his knees up a little, and thought: Whoever or whatever you are, I love you. It was then that he realized that whatever he was hugging was a “whoever”. His immediate thought was that it was his mother. But they weren’t big enough. He hated to admit it, but Cartman was right, his mother was pretty large.Then again, they were too small to be his father, either. Yet, they were too large to be Stan or Ike. As much as he’d rather not, he uncurled just enough to take a look at who it was—

and fell off the bed in his hurry to get away.

After that, he’d gone to the bathroom, splashed water on his face to rid himself of the thought of accidently saying “I love you” to that asshole, and was heading into Cartman’s room to say he was leaving when he saw the clock and realized the time. It was just a little after two in the morning. He couldn’t go home, now.

Instead, he had taken off his jacket and placed it by his backpack. His gloves went on the bedside table. He kept his hat on. He always felt better with it on. Then, he crawled back in bed with the lump of a kid and curled up in a ball, facing away from Cartman. And then he’d started thinking.

Whoever or whatever you are, I love you. He didn’t know why, but the thought of even thinking that about Cartman as an accident scared him. It shouldn’t matter, he hadn’t meant it. But just the thought of even thinking it on accident about someone who hated more than anyone or anything in the entire world was … weird. And that’s when he realized it. He didn’t really hate Cartman, did he?

Sure, he was constantly insulted and put-down by Cartman. And sure, Cartman was just plain antagonizing towards him. But, he didn’t hate him. He kind of…

And that’s why he wanted to scream it. That’s what he had just spent ten-fifteen minutes thinking about until finally, he realized it and wanted to scream and yell that it wasn’t true. But, he was a smart boy. He knew it wouldn’t get him anywhere and the only thing he could do to get rid of this weird feeling swimming around in his stomach was to confront it.

“Cartman!” he tugged on the kid’s sleeve again.

“What, Jew?” He said ‘Jew’ like an insult. In his mind, it was. Said Jew pursed his lips and kept quiet for a moment, didn’t want to say something he’d regret. After that little burst of anger subsided, he said:

“I… I don’t hate you.” He didn’t look at Cartman when he said it. Kept his eyes down, away from Cartman’s face. He didn’t see it when Cartman opened his eyes and turned his head to look at him.

“What?”

“I don’t hate you, okay?” he paused, still didn’t look at Cartman. He wasn’t sure what he was going for or how Cartman would react, but he just needed to get it out there. Getting it out there was all that mattered. “I don’t.”

There was silence. Neither of them said or did anything. It seemed like an enternity before either did anything. In reality, it was only about half a minute. And then Cartman’s meaty hand surrounded his wrist, and with just a little tug pulled him closer.

“I don’t hate you either, Kahl.”

END

Wait, what am I…? I don’t know how that… I mean, that was…

Weird.

I know in the beginning of Broken I told you, “hey, shut up, I don’t write shotacon”. This isn’t exactly shotacon, but it is supposed to happen when they’re like eight/nine. Only thing is that “ohman not even a kiss”. And, uh… I might as well explain myself.

So- so basically…

OHSWEETCHRIST ISHIPITSOHARD. I swear. I watched the newest episode of South Park and then died. Like, before I was kind of like, “eh, whatever, I don’t really care about South Park pairings, don’t really like Style so I guess Kyman is okay”. And then I watched Cartman Finds Love.

And then I spent two days non-stop reading fanfiction.

And I’ve been obsessing like… like, really hard. It scares me. So, you see, usually when I obsess over something, I just have to write about it, and it’ll stop. Naturally, I wrote this to get rid of this insane Cartman/Kyle obsession.

And, hey, guess what?

It didn’t fucking work. I’m gonna die or something.

You know the weirdest part? Matt and Trey created that episode to make fun of fangirls (because of how Cartman was acting about Nicole and Token). An episode making fun of fangirls made me fangirl. Like really hard, too.

Nicole/Token is to Cartman what Cartman/Kyle is to me.

Help me.

Please..

please…

…

..

.

…as to how old you guys think I am?

Nachos and … lolicon. That’s a party right there. The only thing that could make this better would be having a bromo to be hanging out with….

Well, guys. I popped into town and got myself some nachos and white cheese at Margaritas and then a fuckton of soda from the gas station. Then came home, put my ear buds in, and listened to weird music on full blast while reading Inuboshi and writing. Actually, the girl in this is heavily inspired by Sakura from Sakura Testament/Sentimental, if you can believe that.

And this is what came out of it.

(Warning: During the creation of this, I tried to pretend I was a good author.)

One Button Undone

The funeral was brief and lonely. The lack of people was near depressing, if the circumstances of the weather weren’t already enough. Rain was appropriate; tears were not. Little to no people were crying for this man. And only fifteen minutes after the service, there was an absence of anyone in the graveyeard. One person remained; one little girl. Lillianna Jones.

Lillianna didn’t truly wish to be here, anymore. She had intended on coming for the service, and leaving immediately. Michael Howard had meant very little to her. Others, such as her older sister, would beg to differ. Yet, Mike had truly been a man who held little importance in her life; a quick use-and-forget case. She was only here in the first place to say a half-hearted and severely nonchalant last goodbye. And she was still here because her older sister was incompetent of doing the simplest task of just coming to pick her up at the time she had requested.

She cast a wayward glance at the sky, though it was futile. Lillianna was just assuming that it was after her set time. Without the slightest visual of the sun, she really wasn’t certain. The clouds hung heavy, like her eyelids. At her feet, an umbrella lay, unused. Unused, only because of how brilliantly it stood out in the gray of everything around her. Although, with no one left to see this utter atrocity she could use it, free of skeptical glances. Hoisting the colorful mess onto her shoulder, she secured it there to rummage around in her bag, pulling out the desired little box: a pack of cigarettes. She pulled but one from it, before dropping back into the back.

She lit it carefully with the cheap red lighter, took a drag, and then blew smoke into the air.

~~~

“I already don’t like this,” was the first thing Lillianna said when they stepped up onto the front step of a lonely little house. Wendy nudged her. It was the ‘shut up’ kind of nudge. Lillianna looked up at her with moderate disdain before huffing and looking back at the door. She loved her sister, she really did, but this was irritating. She understood that despite her maturity, someone would look down on leaving someone of her age home alone and she knew that arguing would get her nowhere. Instead, she swallowed her disgust and leaned in to knock on the door again. Some people would say that this was preposterous; who would trust their little sister to a near-complete stranger?  Well, a person who had things to do; a person like Wendy.

Although, most wouldn’t think of doing such a thing because most are conditioned to expect the worst; that what lied behind the door woul be a rapist and a freak. Someone who should never be around children. People are paranoid. Michael Howard, the man who opened the door, was neither of these things. He was just a normal guy, aged somewhere around thirty, reasonably handsome. Likeable, nice to most, and easy to get along with.

Exactly why he was more than happy to say, “Sure, I can watch her for you,”. The exact thing Lillianna would have perfered he hadn’t said.

~~~

“So,” Mike’s smile was met with a blank stare; she had no intention of hiding the fact that she did not wish to be here. Wendy had always told her to be nicer to people. And, for the most part, she was. This was just asking too much. “what’s your name?”

“Lillianna,”  she turned away from him, now, looking at a wall; his stupid smile was irritating. “but you will not be allowed to call me that.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t like you.”

~~~

It was a slow night. Like the idiot she had percieved him to be, Mike had switched on the TV, thinking it could keep her entertained. She didn’t watch TV too much, but when she did, the programs passed time horribly quickly. To watch it would be time wasted that could have been spent doing so much more important things. Tonight, though, the show he selected at random (a half hour long cartoon) seemed to take more than an hour to pass. She couldn’t take it.

The door clicked when she turned the handle. Mike, who had been slouching on the couch, turned his head to look at her.

“What?” she spat.

“Where are you going?”

“Calm down.” The door swung open and she took a step out. “I’m just going to be out on the front step with a cigarette.” He would have questioned that, but he didn’t have time to. The door swung shut just as he opened his mouth.

~~~

His foot lightly tapped the center of her back. She only spared a glance—a very cold glance—at him before looking back into the well-lit street. She didn’t invite him to do so, but he plopped down beside her and nudged her arm. Her knees were up by her chest, one arm was arounnd her legs and the other was sitting on her right knee holding her cigarette. Not even half of it was gone, yet, but some ash hung off the end.

Lillianna turned away; she didn’t want to be bothered with this fool. He didn’t say anything, though. He just looked at the street with that dumb smile. Perhaps she wasn’t being exactly fair to him. Maybe he wasn’t as dumb as she had thought. He hadn’t pried when she had explained why she didn’t want him using her name, and he could read now that she didn’t want to talk.

“Don’t take it personally.”

“Hm?” he looked down at her. She took a drag from her cigarette and then turned to him.

“The fact that I don’t like you. Don’t take it personally.” Again, she turned away. “I don’t like anyone.”

~~~

The pain, the heat, the guilt. Maybe even a little regret. Wondering how it all panned out this way, wondering what was going to happen after tonight. What you were going to tell people. What was going to happen when they started pressing, started wondering, started prying. Or maybe that was just Lillianna.

She shouldn’t be focused on anything, right now. But she was.  She should be looking at Mike, not past him. Her mind should have been right here, taking in the feeling of Mike inside her, looking up into his blue eyes. Instead, thousands of things were running through her mind. Someone had to be the responsible one. What about all of her life plans? She couldn’t be tethered down to this sack of shit. Then again, a few weeks ago, when Mike first said, “I love you,” should have been a warning.

And, what about Wendy? What would she think if she found out? No. Wendy couldn’t know. No one could know. They would take Mike away from her- No! She didn’t care! She didn’t about Mike or what happened to him. She grabbed his shoulders and brought him down to put her head against his chest. She couldn’t care. It would ruin everything.

An unexpected rippling went through her, and her arms wrapped around his chest, squeezing tight. She said it,

“I- I love y-you.”

~~~

Mike was pretty happy. Lillianna could tell without asking him. Because he had that dumb grin on his face. That shit-eating grin. She, on the other hand, didn’t know what to think. She wasn’t entirely certain how this night had ended this way. Wasn’t sure why those three little words had slipped out of her mouth as they had. She didn’t feel that way, right? She could tell Mike knew she hadn’t meant to say it, and she knew that he was happy she had, anyway.

~~~

The door opened on the first ring. Because it always opened on the first ring when it was them. He knew it was them, he only got visits from a few people. Jimmy, and them. And Jimmy was at the summer home with Kristen, presumably rolling around in the sheets at this point for a little celebratory love-making. So, it could only be—

“Jonesy!” She brushed right past him. That had gotten pretty normal, too. What wasn’t normal was the fact that Wendy wasn’t standing in the doorway. “Where’s Wendy?”

“She, Margret, and Weston have already left.” She was already on the couch. “They won’t be home until tomorrow. Why are you in a tux?” He dropped down on the couch beside her.

“I was at a wedding. A couple of friends.”

“Short reception?”

“No, I left early.”

“Why?”

“I just had a feeling I’d be seeing you tonight.” She flipped her book open. Hannibal Rising, Thomas Harris. The book was almost half-way through. “And that makes me pretty happy.”

“Of course it does.”

~~~

There were pillows and a blanket on the couch, that night. Not because that was where she was going to sleep, but because they wanted to give the illusion that that’s where she had slept. So that when Wendy arrived in the morning, she could walk from Mike’s room as though she had been in the bathroom, and make it seem like she had been on that couch all night. Simple.

Mike’s bed was warm. He was warm. Hell, everything was warm. Even without the added comfort of a blanket. Of course, there was a blanket. Draped across Mike’s waist, but not really doing much for Lillianna, as his hips were raised too much for the blanket to really cover her at all. She didn’t really mind it.

For the first time her mind wasn’t wandering. For the first time in her entire life she gave all of her concentration to one thing. For the first time, she was truly looking at him and thinking about him and feeling him. The squeaking of the bed springs went unnoticed, thoughts of the future didn’t flit across her mind.

It felt good.

~~~

Silence. They weren’t asleep, they were silent. The fan overhead was the only noise in the room, whispering down on the two of them, laying together completely silent. She wore nothing, he still had his white dress shirt and black pants on. The fly was unzipped, three of his shirt buttons were undone, his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. She was beginning to retain more and more information, like before this night. Her mind was starting to wander more, as it usually did.

Lillianna didn’t have a problem concentrating. Rather, she just had a large attention span. She could see and retain what was in front of her, every line of a conversation she was or wasn’t a part of, and at the same time she could metally record every single part of the world around her, as well as let her mind wander to other subjects. And not a single thought would be lost.

“Your phone.”

“Hm?”

“Your phone. You have a message.” The phone hadn’t actually made a sound. But looking at the ceiling she noticed that every few minutes a rectangle of blue light would illuminate the room. It wasn’t bright, and Mike wasn’t facing it; he didn’t notice it. Now he did.

He removed his arms from around her, and turned to grab the phone off the table. Called his voicemail, put in the code, and listened.

“Mike, it’s me. We’re at the house, now. I, uh… I know you’re fucking drunk, maybe you’re asleep now, but… uh… I’ll tell you when I see you, but things… They didn’t work out the way I planned at all. Um… I’m going to need you to come out here and get me. Just whenever you wake up in the morning. I’m going to give her the car. Just call me when you get this, okay? I know- I know it’s a bitch to come all the way out here, but, sorry, this sucks. Okay.”. A beep, and an electronic voice said: End of message.

~~~

The chinking of cups against plates.

“Well, Miss Lillianna, you have a very beautiful name.”

“Hm? Oh, thank you.” Mary Leeman was a nice woman. She had neither a husband nor a boyfriend. She had a girlfriend. At first glance, she looked like she could pass for fifteen. She was, in fact, nearly thirty. Twenty-seven, to be specific. Her girlfriend, on the other hand, was only nineteen. They were a cute couple, though.

“I can call you Lillianna, right? Mike told me about how you make him call you Jonesy.” Lillianna took a sip of the tea Mary’s girlfriend, Alecia Bittner, had made. Aleica was currently in the kitchen making some treats to go with the tea. She really was a nice girl, just like Mary.

“Oh, no, Lillianna is fine.” She said after a moment. Her mind was elsewhere— which, quite frankly, scared her. She never had trouble being part of a conversation and thinking about something else before.

Only about ten minutes ago, Mike had left to go pick up his friend, James. He’d left a note on his front door, for if Wendy just so happened to return before Mike did, she’d know where to find Lillianna— across the street, here, with Mary and Alecia.

Alecia entered with a small tray of cookies. Not homemade; out of the package. Still good, though. Taking one off the tray for herself, Alecia turned to Lillianna.

“So, I hear you like to read?”

“Um, yes, I’m currently in the middle of Hannibal Rising by Thomas Harris.”

Twenty minutes ago Mike had listened to the message from James and began getting ready to leave. ‘I need to be there for him, now. He proposed to his girlfriend, tonight… I don’t think it went well.’  He had said. ‘I’ll have to leave you with Mary, across the street.’ He had said. She had wanted— Alecia said something. She had wanted to protest and act mad, but it’d just make her look childish. Instead she had taken a show— Lillianna hadn’t heard it. She saw Alecia’s lips move, couldn’t make out what she said. —taken a shower so as not to smell like sex and sweat.

“I’m sorry?” Alecia smiled.

“It’s alright. I was saying how that’s kind of an adult book for someone your age.”

“I suppose it is, but … That kind of thing doesn’t bother me, much.”

One button undone. He’d had one button undone  when he left. She had wanted to pull him down and button it for him, but she knew she couldn’t. It would look too strange. So she kept it to herself, and waved half-heartedly and then went inside with Mary and sat down at the coffee table. But it still irked her to some extent,— “Have you read Silence of the Lambs?” says Alecia. —she liked order and that’s when she realized that nothing about Mike was orderly.

“No, not yet. I want to read them in order of the story, not in order of which they were written.”

His hair was always messy, his clothes were always unpressed, his house was never really clean. Everything about him— She feigned a yawn. —was wrong and she hated it but she- she-

“Are you tired? I suppose it is getting a little late.” Mary rose. Left through the doorway to the hall on the right, returned with a couple pillows and a blanket. Alecia made the couch, Mary told her where the bathroom was and where she could get water if she needed it. And then there she was alone in the dark living room of two people she barely knew.

She- she-

The couch was soft, and the blanket was hefty. It was more of a comforter, really. But she was cold. She missed it. Missed Mike’s bed, where it was so very warm.

She-

She loved it.

She loved him.

~~~

Wendy returned the next day, at 12:34. The truck pulled into their small driveway, and Margret and Weston went inside. Wendy walked to Mike’s home, where she found the note on the door, and followed it across the street to where Alecia, Mary, and Lillianna were having tea. She stayed for a few minutes to talk to Mary and Alecia, asked if they could watch Lillianna again some time. They agreed wholeheartedly. Lillianna kept silent; she didn’t intend on returning her, in all honesty. As long as Mike was home, that was where she’d go.

Mike. Mike hadn’t returned home last night. That was all that was on her mind. She listened to what Wendy and Mary and Alecia said, but she didn’t bother with it. For a moment she was worried. And then it occured to her that maybe Mike had just stayed with his friend. His friend had needed him, after all.

On the short walk home, Wendy had her arm around Lillianna’s shoulders. As they approached the front door,

“He’s dead.” Lillianna looked at her. “Him.” Her head turned in the direction of the house. “Sorry.”

~~~

It was cold. Very cold. The rain was still pouring, and holding the umbrella had tired. The cigarette lay on the grass, now wet with the rain. The umbrella was back on the ground, not folded up, just dropped. It was collecting water in it’s scoop, getting dirt on the vibrant colors from the mud. Her tears mingled with the rain drops.

‘It’s okay if you hate me.’ Wendy had said.

She didn’t blame Wendy. She had no one to blame. Not Wendy or Weston or Margret or even James.

‘I got you something.’ Wendy had said.

It had been a mask. Split down the middle. One half was smiling, the other was crying. It was in her bag, now.

‘He died quickly.’ Wendy had said.

He had died looking the exact same way he had looked when he left her with Mary and Alecia. His hair a little more disheveled than usual, his fly half-way unzipped.

‘I love you.’ He had said, before they left on their way across the street. He’d kissed her and then they’d gone. She didn’t say it.

He’d had one button undone.

END

…sorry. I know that was sad. Man… a lot of my stories end in death, don’t they? I’m trying to fix that by writing on about [a dude played by Danny McBride] from [a 2009 movie remake of a TV show of the same name] in which neither [that dude] nor [loli] dies, but… I dunno, I just need help because I can’t finish it, for some reason. I would like to finish it before I do one about [an asshole] from [a 1990 Stephen King film], because in that one both [the asshole] and [his loli] die, so…

Man, there were too many brackets in that thing.

Anyway, might as well explain some names. Because that’s always fun. I gave Lillianna a long beautiful name because initially she was going to tell Mike that her name is too beautiful for him to use. Which sounds conceited, but it’s because the only reason she thinks it’s beautiful is because it was her mother’s, who died a couple year before she met Mike (her father died too, by the way, so she and Wendy moved in with Margret and Weston, her parents’ friends).

With Wendy and Margret and Weston, I just took the first couple letters of the actors last names, and bam, names. As for Mary and Alecia… one of them is British. So TEEAAA.

…

…

…

…

Whyyyy don’t I have a bromo to hang out with while I eat nachos, read Inuboshi, watch horror, and make brownies at two in the morning? I’m so aloneeee.

Also, I think that at this point I’ve just gone full-on Queen-y…. How do I know this? Because my desktop background is a picture of Ronald McDonald and Wendy… *ahem* Yeah.

Holy… holy shit. How did I already finish something… What.

Hey there. My name is Ketsu and … OHMANLETTHERIGHTONEIN. Yeah. That’s what this is. A thing about an couple things called Let The Right One In. And I know a lot of you are like, “ohman, Eli/Oskar time”. And to that I say… No. If ya’ll haven’t read the book, then.. ohmanspoiler. Eli is a dude. Yeeahh. Y’know that scar she had that Oskar saw? Yeah. That’s where her penis used to be. It was cut off by a chubby dude right before she became a vampire.

So, instead of a good ole’ Eli/Oskar, you’re getting… Jimmy and a random girl that I have dreamed up. Yeah. Ohman, her name’s Aria. I’m finally using a girl’s name (don’t get used to it). Anyway. All the dialogue in this is Swedish, for the sake of owning a steak. But don’t worry! No need to break out Ye Olde Google Translate. The Swedish is translated right afterwards. What’s the point of it? There is none.

Scream

Scream. That’s what she wanted to do. Instead she opted to simply twist her hand in her shirt and remain silent, choking on every breath she attempted to draw in. There was a lump forming in her throat; she wanted to cry, not that she could. Several people looked at the same sight she did, with mixed emotion. One woman off to the other side of the pool looked sick to her stomach. One of the men closest to her had his fist against his mouth. A man at the other end of the pool, a tall, thin man, said quietly to the woman,

“Någon som vet vad som hände?” Does anyone know what happened? No. She didn’t want to know what happened. She turned away from the pool, unable to look anymore. A horrible feeling tugged at her stomach and found its way into her heart. That disgusting taste filled her mouth, and her lower abdomen started to ache. She felt so very empty. There were a few footsteps behind her, and a hand touched her shoulder. It was that woman.

“Vilken av dem visste du det?” Which one of them did you know? Her voice gave off a tone of understanding, and caring.

“Den äldsta av dem.” The oldest of them. “Jimmy Forsberg.”

“Vad var han för dig?” What was he to you? She swallowed hard.

“Min pojkv-” she stopped. My boyf-. She couldn’t leave it at that. “Jag vet inte riktigt.” I don’t really know. The woman turned her around to look at her. There was a forced smile on her face; it didn’t belong there.

“Nå, vad heter du?” What’s your name? She hesitated. Why did this woman care so much? A moment passed, before she said it,

“Aria.”

~~~

She leaned against his chest. Ear pressed against the bare skin right over his heart, listening to the steady beat. Under a harshly thin blanket, one of her legs rested over his thigh, her bare skin meeting the denim of his jeans. His hand on her arm is so very much larger, tracing little circles. And, suddenly, he sighs loud.

“Nå?”  Well?

“Nå, vad?”  Well, what? He poked her lightly in the back, and then lifted her head to look at him.

“Du vet vad jag vill.” You know what I want. A horribly sensual smile crossed his face. Yeah, she knew. What an ass. She adjusted her position until she was face to face with him; that smile still wasn’t gone. “Varför är du klädd fortfarande dina trosor?” Why are you still wearing your panties?

A blush flooded across her cheeks. All she could think to do to hide it was lean down and brush her lips against his. It really couldn’t be called a kiss… More like a “tease”. And that was one thing Jimmy hated. His hand snapped up to grab her arm and flip her onto her back, and he followed to kneel over her.

“Otålig?” Impatient? He leaned down to plant a kiss on her lips, fingers looping in the waistband of her underwear.

“Jag är alltid.” I always am. He nearly tore her underwear with the force he used to pull them off of her. His belt went next, though he had trouble with it. Fumbling over the buckle, he looked up at her. “Speciellt när allt jag vill göra är att knulla dig.” Especially when all I want to do is fuck you. He managed to get his belt of just as he finished saying that. She turned away, blushing hard.

“Dumskalle.” His hand suddenly grabbed her thigh, and turned her hips up towards his own. The tip of his cock grazed her stomach, the shaft rested against her pussy. He was rubbing it there carefully, hardening it as much as possible before he actually entered her. In some strange way, that was … scary.

“Färdig?” Ready? All she had to do was nod, and he moved back just enough to position directly over her hole. Pressing against it, but not actually entering, he noticed just how big he was compared to her. Disregarding that, he shoved in, and waited a moment for her to adjust. It didn’t take as long as before. She was getting more used to the feeling of him being inside of her. And—not that she’d ever tell him this—she liked it. A lot.

~~~

She yanked him close, a weird rippling feeling washing over her. He snapped his hips forward one last time before stopping and just holding himself deep inside of her. A new warmth spurted into her stomach, something she had felt only a few times before.

~~~

She lay still, half on his chest, half off. One of his arms surrounded her waist, hand resting on her hip in a strangely protective way. The other was draped casually over his stomach, only partially covered by the blanket that he had cast over the both of them.

“Hej, Aria.”

“Ja?”

“Jag älskar dig.”

“Visst du gör.”

~~~

“Du måste känna … förrådde.” The woman put her arm around Aria’s shoulders, pulling her a little closer. The air out here was cold and the bench they were sitting on wasn’t any warmer. Aria wasn’t wearing anything other than a frighteningly thin jacket.

“Hm?”

“Du måste ha hatat det!” You must have hated it! Aria moved away from her; what was she even saying?

“Vad pratar du om?” What are you talking about? The woman grabbed her shoulders and turned her to look her in the eye. There was a strange, misplaced caring in her gaze.

“Se in i mina ögon!” Look into my eyes! Aria shrunk away from her as best she could. She was regretting accepting the offer to get coffee with this woman. What a strange person. “Du behövde inte göra det med honom.” You didn’t have to do that with him.

Oh. Now she understood. As a typical adult response this stupid woman had automatically assumed that just because of her age, the sex had to be rape; something Jimmy had forced on her, and she didn’t understand. With sudden strength—something she had been lacking since she saw that pool— she shoved the woman away and stood up. Her coffee met the ground.

“Du vet inte ett skit om mig eller Jimmy.” You don’t know shit about me or Jimmy. She gathered her jacket around her and turned away. “Sluta agera som du gör.” Stop acting like you do.

~~~

The rest of the day had been gray. And the night was black. She wanted to go home, but it just reminded her of him. Instead, here she sat, in the underpass. A train passed overhead, loud and annoying, yet comforting, in a way. The boys that had present when Jimmy was killed had said it was an angel. An angel. She couldn’t really accept that. Not when the only person she had ever loved—and probably ever would love—was killed by said angel.

She stayed under there for a while. At one point during the night, she had put her arms against her chest, and had to remove them immediately because she could feel her heartbeat and it hurt. The moon cast a glow near where she sat, an extremely dull light slant that turned the snow somehow whiter. She hoped that angel was out there. And that it would lose one of the things it loved.

Her hand clutched at her heart, eyes met the moon. And she screamed.

~~~

END

Man, that… That was a something. I didn’t actually plan anything after what I’ve written, so… I literally do not know what happened to her after that. Assume what you want.

So, not gonna lie, this story was something of a smut practice. That somehow progressed into… this. Yeah, I dunno.

I don’t have a lot to say. So…

OSKEGAKMIKEALGVHohmanlandofthelostisprobablynextISOJGOEKGVOIKIE

Edit: Oh yeah. There’s gonna be some … some really, really weird stuff happening. As in I watched Lady and the Tramp last night (shut up, I was bored and I couldn’t think of anything else to watch) and … that movie doesn’t have any humans in it… and it fits into the category of “Everything Created EVAR”.

I hope you understand where I’m going with this.

So, I was derping around on the Tumblr. And then I realized something. It has been a really long time since I’ve written something… Well, I had started writing some stories, but hadn’t finished them yet (there’s like … 2 on Google Docs, 3 on Evernote, and 6 on my iPhone … yeah, horrible, I know). And then I realized… with a simple picture and some random follows, I gained, like, 15 fucking followers for literally no reason. And I feel bad, because they really don’t know what they’re in store for. Because, if you haven’t noticed, by following me you’re basically giving me permission to interrupt your dash with a random, pointlessly long story about something you probably haven’t heard of. So, right now, I’m giving you the chance to leave, if you want to. 

Anyway, for those of you who are going to stay, here’s something… I’ve kind of realized that if I run out of ideas and go, “brain, please, give me something!” my brain just gives me … new parts of Broken. So, ohman, that’s what I’m doing now. I know I just did Destroyed, but.. Shut up, I did Kisses, too (which, by the way, got 5 notes, and that surprises me; I thought you didn’t like pedocops.. or maybe you just don’t like SickHOWDAREYOU!?)..

Splintered

That feeling. Strong fingers closing around her neck like a vice, a crushing feeling in the center of her throat, so very akin to the lump that would grow there if she were about to cry. The feeling is all too familiar; crying was something that she did on a daily basis. He would leave and then it would just happen; sometimes it spontaneous, sometimes it built up into something even worse. There was a horrible squeezing, and the thought of the bruises to come was planted into her mind to sprout another horrible grouping of thoughts. Yes, there would be bruises and there would be cuts— both inside and out.

Not that it mattered; because tonight the slaughter would occur and the pain would be amplified for but a few seconds before everything turned black and pain wouldn’t matter anymore because there would be none. Not until tomorrow. Although, in that state, she had no perception of time; you can’t understand something unless you can really feel it and feel the way it affects you. And time didn’t affect her. It never would, ever again. Not in this world.

Not in this world; in which everything is forever monochrome, expressions will never change of those who died smiling. Looks of fear will chase away all other emotions of most of the people left behind in this place, forcing happiness down her throat that she was stuck forever in his lair. In here dullness faded, giving way to the light of the candles adorning all walls of this place.  It was all red, not black: the blood that splattered across the walls and the sheets and her mind, smeared across skin covered in invisible scars from nights passed. If you could call them nights.

Even in that place where the blacks and white and grays dominated everything, his face would remain as red as before and his eyes would remain just as golden. Those golden eyes. More piercing than the claws on his fingers and yet more beautiful than anything she had even seen. Looking deep, deep into her own, waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting. He was waiting for her to scream, that was it. And, if she didn’t, he’d just have to try harder; he would rape her and she wouldn’t scream because it was her job not to. He would try everything he possibly could; shoving claws where they didn’t belong, tearing parts of her throat to ribbony shreds— anything possible, he had tried and would try again. And every single time, she would resist it. Even now, feeling that crushing weight against her throat and knowing the inevitable.. Screams bubbled up in her throat, begging, begging to be let out. And she would love to scream; she wanted to more than anything. But there were so many things that would be lost if she even whimpered.

So, she didn’t give up. Her eyes met his, the emotions conveyed just behind the blue irises the very pinnacle of defiance and disobedience. She would never voice what she had to say, because she knew that to even hear her voice would be some type of victory for him. Instead, he had to just read what was in her eyes and respond accordingly. Her best guess was that he would simply rape her and then shred every part of her neck, maybe tear long cuts across her back and maybe even shove his hand clean through her stom—

There was a sickening crack as everything in her neck splintered, sending shards of bone to pierce the inside of her throat. At the last moment, the facade wavered and her eyes revealed the true feelings spurting in her mind flowing fast like the blood in her throat. A cruel smile split his face, something showing in his amber eyes for a few seconds; triumph, perhaps. For a second she attempted to open her mouth, not to scream, just to say something to him. Another second passed and she gave up, succumbing to the darkness fluttering around the edges of her vision.

I l- nevermind.

End.

I’ve said it once, I’ll say it a thousand times… I am a horrible person. Really, I don’t know where this came from. I was just chillin’ with the dog, listenin’ to Blue Monday, and suddenly…

Bam, this! Anyhoozlefuck… I figure that ya’ll should know the other sides of me, besides the lolicon side (WHAT?! THERE’S ANOTHER SIDE!?). So, here’s something random from my little list of things I’ve admitted to my computer:

Sometimes, when I get bored, I blankly scroll through the Dan vs. porn on Rule 34. And when I see a super awesomely drawn yaoi of Chris and Dan, I stop to stare at it for, like, five minutes. But, when I see one of Dan and Hortence I nearly vomit.

Mostly because I think of Dan as more of a lolicon, than anything… Dammit, I thought that was part of the non-lolicon side.

Anyway, I’m going to go eat boneless BBQ wings and watch some cartoons (actually, I’ll probably watch Dan Vs., now that I think about it… oh, me, you are just so childish).

Pay me to write things. Do it now. I need extra money. So pay me, like, ten dollars for writing you things. Seriously. Just … just do it. It doesn’t have to be lolicon. I’d like it to be horror, if it isn’t, though. Because straight sex that doesn’t involve a loli makes me want to vomit. Yeah.

ohman

haley.logan.writing@gmail.com

ohman

ohman

oh…

man…