[Fiction] Dada Is Not The -ism Of Hipster Pussyfangfags
Title: Dada Is Not The -ism Of Hipster Pussyfangfags
Series: Hanna is Not a Boy's Name.
Pairing and Genre: Conrad/Worth. PWP, Surrealism.
Words/Progress: 1700; Complete.
Notes: NC-17. Art geekgasm (seriously, heed this warning). Bloodplay. Written as a fill for the hinabn kink meme ( prompt: Conrad is almost blind without his glasses and Doc likes it that way).
Summary: You know those papers you had to write for seventh grade art history with those annoying descriptions of how this period's color swirls look different from that period's color swirls? Yeah. That's what this fiction is. There's even links to actual artwork for reference. So go on if you want to basically reread that essay you got a B+/A- on... although now it's got first person POV sex, blind artsy failpires and a dose of masochism which might make the whole experience a little better for everyone.
He says he doesn't want to be reminded that he lowered his standards to an artsy queer like me.
That the plastic rim irritates his nose.
That my eyes move more, blink more, dilate more; that it's more like pounding a human than a corpse when I'm not wearing my glasses.
And, since my vision is so poor, that my eyes start lolling around aimlessly like I'm totally strung out, and only when they're spasming left and right do they match the "fucking ridiculous sex face" I got going on.
He says that he's concerned a stray punch/kick/whatever-he's-hitting-me-with to the face might crack the frame, shatter the lens, and then I'll be legally blind for however long it takes me to replace it... which would suck because Hanna would somehow find out and through whatever powers he's got over the doctor, he will make Worth take care of me. And then Worth would have to kill himself, obviously, because death is far more appealing than playing nursemaid to me.
Once, he even said that the glasses obscure the romanticism of the act: that he wants to see me as me and only me, without the filter of a quarter-inch of glass between us, so that even if the world is churning and revolting around us, the only things we can bother with are our eyes locked together in succient harmony.
He's told me a lot of reasons... and yeah, they all ring a little true. (Well, I would like to believe the last one has some semblance of truth in it, but judging from the harsh coughing fit he landed himself in after laughing at his own "joke," I doubt it.) But out of every comment he's made on the subject, I know I'll never hear his real motivation for tossing my glasses aside every time we fuck. He likes to believe that I don't know what the hell he's up to, because the alternative-me, understanding the way his tweaked mind works; him, having a logic to his thoughts-freaks him out too much to consider; but... I do know. I know about his fucking games and I know about his desperate need to humiliate me and I know that this kink of his isn't about that.
It can't be.
Because the second the glasses are off, I am the first to moan as the world around me melts into a symphony of colors and wistful mists of dulled light. I am the one who babbles "LuceLuceWorthLuce" into his mouth like the slut he claims-proves-I am when my glasses are so far from my reach that to get them would mean to leave Worth's dry breath warming my teeth.
He always responds to his name with a push hard enough to unsettle me, and I always fall back, the warm tones of my apartment streaking around me like the vibrant strikes of a particularly sloppy fauve. Or like a futurist's idea of a perfect circle jerk.
Or a... well, it doesn't matter what it's like because I fall down and am bound to hurt myself just the same. (Worth never aims for the bed-the edge of a table, the floor, or the bed frame, maybe, but never the mattress.) Then there's bursts of white amidst the oranges and yellows, and my body automatically spasms from the impact. It wouldn't be so bad if Worth wasn't so far away: over a distance of a foot from my face and he fades into a mass of pale forms. White coat then off-white shirt then waxen, slightly-jaundice skin: this is what I see as he strips. What I can't make out are the visible hollows between each of his ribs, or the coarse dusting of hair along his chest, or the grooves of a multitude of scars littering his skin that I know are there. It's downright disorienting but the familiar confusion counter-intuitively helps me focus on something, and I'm able to chaotically reach for and pull myself onto the bed, cursing him for every wrong he's ever done to me. I call him an asshole and I hiss that I'm only in "this" for the blood and then I start to ramble: why the fuck do I even deal with you, I know four gay guys in this building who want to sleep with me and they're fucking Apollos next to you.
He cuts me off by splitting open a half-healed wound (he always has one somewhere). And then I'm back to wanting him and it's back to why my glasses are halfway across the room. It all goes back to it-the reason I stay, the reason he stays, the reason I can force myself to drink from him like it's a normal thing for guy to do to the guy he's fucking.
Everything: back to the simple act of artificially blinding me.
Everything: because he knows I can get any number of hotter, nicer guys to suck me off, but there's no one else who will do this for me. Risk himself for a moment like this for... for me. And fuck...
I can see the red. Everywhere and anywhere and inside me. I literally see it: the slow swell of blood blanketing the air... and the soft swirls of my room are infected by it. The red.
The red and the scent of bitterness akin to lust and wanton heat seeps into everything.
And fuck, if I don't know what to do with myself. I can't even do anything but stare and shake as the colors burn bright and fuck he always keeps the light on because he knows how overwhelming it is for me to absorb so much brightness, so much drama, so so much-
Jesus, I would have forgotten what fucking daylight is like if it wasn't for him.
And I swear the redness in the air even trebles in his voice as he growls, "Calm yerself." God-mock-synesthesia never felt so damn good. "Only just begun, Connie-boy. Can't have ye finishin' on me juss yet."
He's already naked when he saunters over-his movement temporarily dragging everything into fields of pink-yellow and pink-orange-and drapes his thin form over me like the skeleton of a tent (we don't do it under sheets any more for precisely this reason; apparently, my laughing at this obviously hilarious mental image for the nth time had finally gotten to him). He's got my legs between his, and for once I had managed to push my pants and boxer briefs to around my ankles so I feel his cock heavy against my thighs. And I really wish I had the strength or humanity to care but with his pulse so close I hungrily seek whatever's bleeding. It's his neck this time so I drag him close and suck on the mess he's already made, making it messier by the second.
And for the precious few moments while my body adjusts to the shock of unadulterated relief of the intake of sustenance, I don't see anything.
Nothing.
Just me.
And him.
And blood and red.
And nothing else.
And I suck and suck and suck-suck more devotedly than I could ever blow him, not that he minds (he won't admit it, but he prefers to get on his knees for me, hissing "cockslut" to me and himself until we're both riding on our orgasms).
And I feel his pulse wane a bit and I realize his hands have been doing something all along: fisting the linens at my elbows; running fingers through my hair as he grinds into me; gripping my hips as he clandestinely brushes his lips against my temple, grunting inconsequential things like "ugh" and "Conrad" and "fairy." I... I know I should pay more attention but...
The blood and the red and him...
I taste his lust in the chemicals streaming through him...
Fuck, I'm so distracted.
But... he doesn't mind and he's pleased by being ignored (his masochism... his backwards process of submission...); another way he's better... the best...
I...
"Fuck, Luce."
His sweat slicks his jutting ministrations.
"Tha's it. Tha's it. Com'ere. Tha's it, Connie. Com'ere."
I see his face again, although it's still not completely clear, not utterly right. There's the distant halo of earthly golden hues around framing him, and the splotches of red remain... but he's... he's so close that I can make some sense of the world I live in without my glasses. And it's not the most beautiful sight I could possibly see: Worth is still Worth, and he's got gaunt avian features and his mouth systematically shutters between a crooked smirk and a crooked grimace, but that's all I will ever need. God... if only he could hear my thoughts; I'll never hear the end of it...
He stares and I kiss him occasionally and he finds the lube in the top drawer and he preps hastily, always keeping his face close enough that I can identify cheek from nose.
I moan and he wraps my legs around his waist and I bite through the apex of his lower lip (accidentally! I swear) and I don't keel as he fucks me into the mattress-red and white and off-white and fuck and oh god and LuceLuceWorth flooding my vision. I don't press my dry palms against his wrists, don't blink more no matter what he claims I do. I certainly don't want it to end...
But it does and all I can see is white. Bright, light white.
And I'm blind but it's okay because it's okay to be blind with Worth because he, the most selfish fuck in the whole fucking world, once paid attention long enough to hear me say that as a graphic designer I usually have to make my lines clean, but without my glasses the world is wild and unrestrained and kind of freaking awesome in a psychedelic color explosion kind of way.
He'd nodded then and left with a "yer one loopy homo"; but he never did allow me to wear my glasses to bed again.
Series: Hanna is Not a Boy's Name.
Pairing and Genre: Conrad/Worth. PWP, Surrealism.
Words/Progress: 1700; Complete.
Notes: NC-17. Art geekgasm (seriously, heed this warning). Bloodplay. Written as a fill for the hinabn kink meme ( prompt: Conrad is almost blind without his glasses and Doc likes it that way).
Summary: You know those papers you had to write for seventh grade art history with those annoying descriptions of how this period's color swirls look different from that period's color swirls? Yeah. That's what this fiction is. There's even links to actual artwork for reference. So go on if you want to basically reread that essay you got a B+/A- on... although now it's got first person POV sex, blind artsy failpires and a dose of masochism which might make the whole experience a little better for everyone.
He says he doesn't want to be reminded that he lowered his standards to an artsy queer like me.
That the plastic rim irritates his nose.
That my eyes move more, blink more, dilate more; that it's more like pounding a human than a corpse when I'm not wearing my glasses.
And, since my vision is so poor, that my eyes start lolling around aimlessly like I'm totally strung out, and only when they're spasming left and right do they match the "fucking ridiculous sex face" I got going on.
He says that he's concerned a stray punch/kick/whatever-he's-hitting-me-with to the face might crack the frame, shatter the lens, and then I'll be legally blind for however long it takes me to replace it... which would suck because Hanna would somehow find out and through whatever powers he's got over the doctor, he will make Worth take care of me. And then Worth would have to kill himself, obviously, because death is far more appealing than playing nursemaid to me.
Once, he even said that the glasses obscure the romanticism of the act: that he wants to see me as me and only me, without the filter of a quarter-inch of glass between us, so that even if the world is churning and revolting around us, the only things we can bother with are our eyes locked together in succient harmony.
He's told me a lot of reasons... and yeah, they all ring a little true. (Well, I would like to believe the last one has some semblance of truth in it, but judging from the harsh coughing fit he landed himself in after laughing at his own "joke," I doubt it.) But out of every comment he's made on the subject, I know I'll never hear his real motivation for tossing my glasses aside every time we fuck. He likes to believe that I don't know what the hell he's up to, because the alternative-me, understanding the way his tweaked mind works; him, having a logic to his thoughts-freaks him out too much to consider; but... I do know. I know about his fucking games and I know about his desperate need to humiliate me and I know that this kink of his isn't about that.
It can't be.
Because the second the glasses are off, I am the first to moan as the world around me melts into a symphony of colors and wistful mists of dulled light. I am the one who babbles "LuceLuceWorthLuce" into his mouth like the slut he claims-proves-I am when my glasses are so far from my reach that to get them would mean to leave Worth's dry breath warming my teeth.
He always responds to his name with a push hard enough to unsettle me, and I always fall back, the warm tones of my apartment streaking around me like the vibrant strikes of a particularly sloppy fauve. Or like a futurist's idea of a perfect circle jerk.
Or a... well, it doesn't matter what it's like because I fall down and am bound to hurt myself just the same. (Worth never aims for the bed-the edge of a table, the floor, or the bed frame, maybe, but never the mattress.) Then there's bursts of white amidst the oranges and yellows, and my body automatically spasms from the impact. It wouldn't be so bad if Worth wasn't so far away: over a distance of a foot from my face and he fades into a mass of pale forms. White coat then off-white shirt then waxen, slightly-jaundice skin: this is what I see as he strips. What I can't make out are the visible hollows between each of his ribs, or the coarse dusting of hair along his chest, or the grooves of a multitude of scars littering his skin that I know are there. It's downright disorienting but the familiar confusion counter-intuitively helps me focus on something, and I'm able to chaotically reach for and pull myself onto the bed, cursing him for every wrong he's ever done to me. I call him an asshole and I hiss that I'm only in "this" for the blood and then I start to ramble: why the fuck do I even deal with you, I know four gay guys in this building who want to sleep with me and they're fucking Apollos next to you.
He cuts me off by splitting open a half-healed wound (he always has one somewhere). And then I'm back to wanting him and it's back to why my glasses are halfway across the room. It all goes back to it-the reason I stay, the reason he stays, the reason I can force myself to drink from him like it's a normal thing for guy to do to the guy he's fucking.
Everything: back to the simple act of artificially blinding me.
Everything: because he knows I can get any number of hotter, nicer guys to suck me off, but there's no one else who will do this for me. Risk himself for a moment like this for... for me. And fuck...
I can see the red. Everywhere and anywhere and inside me. I literally see it: the slow swell of blood blanketing the air... and the soft swirls of my room are infected by it. The red.
The red and the scent of bitterness akin to lust and wanton heat seeps into everything.
And fuck, if I don't know what to do with myself. I can't even do anything but stare and shake as the colors burn bright and fuck he always keeps the light on because he knows how overwhelming it is for me to absorb so much brightness, so much drama, so so much-
Jesus, I would have forgotten what fucking daylight is like if it wasn't for him.
And I swear the redness in the air even trebles in his voice as he growls, "Calm yerself." God-mock-synesthesia never felt so damn good. "Only just begun, Connie-boy. Can't have ye finishin' on me juss yet."
He's already naked when he saunters over-his movement temporarily dragging everything into fields of pink-yellow and pink-orange-and drapes his thin form over me like the skeleton of a tent (we don't do it under sheets any more for precisely this reason; apparently, my laughing at this obviously hilarious mental image for the nth time had finally gotten to him). He's got my legs between his, and for once I had managed to push my pants and boxer briefs to around my ankles so I feel his cock heavy against my thighs. And I really wish I had the strength or humanity to care but with his pulse so close I hungrily seek whatever's bleeding. It's his neck this time so I drag him close and suck on the mess he's already made, making it messier by the second.
And for the precious few moments while my body adjusts to the shock of unadulterated relief of the intake of sustenance, I don't see anything.
Nothing.
Just me.
And him.
And blood and red.
And nothing else.
And I suck and suck and suck-suck more devotedly than I could ever blow him, not that he minds (he won't admit it, but he prefers to get on his knees for me, hissing "cockslut" to me and himself until we're both riding on our orgasms).
And I feel his pulse wane a bit and I realize his hands have been doing something all along: fisting the linens at my elbows; running fingers through my hair as he grinds into me; gripping my hips as he clandestinely brushes his lips against my temple, grunting inconsequential things like "ugh" and "Conrad" and "fairy." I... I know I should pay more attention but...
The blood and the red and him...
I taste his lust in the chemicals streaming through him...
Fuck, I'm so distracted.
But... he doesn't mind and he's pleased by being ignored (his masochism... his backwards process of submission...); another way he's better... the best...
I...
"Fuck, Luce."
His sweat slicks his jutting ministrations.
"Tha's it. Tha's it. Com'ere. Tha's it, Connie. Com'ere."
I see his face again, although it's still not completely clear, not utterly right. There's the distant halo of earthly golden hues around framing him, and the splotches of red remain... but he's... he's so close that I can make some sense of the world I live in without my glasses. And it's not the most beautiful sight I could possibly see: Worth is still Worth, and he's got gaunt avian features and his mouth systematically shutters between a crooked smirk and a crooked grimace, but that's all I will ever need. God... if only he could hear my thoughts; I'll never hear the end of it...
He stares and I kiss him occasionally and he finds the lube in the top drawer and he preps hastily, always keeping his face close enough that I can identify cheek from nose.
I moan and he wraps my legs around his waist and I bite through the apex of his lower lip (accidentally! I swear) and I don't keel as he fucks me into the mattress-red and white and off-white and fuck and oh god and LuceLuceWorth flooding my vision. I don't press my dry palms against his wrists, don't blink more no matter what he claims I do. I certainly don't want it to end...
But it does and all I can see is white. Bright, light white.
And I'm blind but it's okay because it's okay to be blind with Worth because he, the most selfish fuck in the whole fucking world, once paid attention long enough to hear me say that as a graphic designer I usually have to make my lines clean, but without my glasses the world is wild and unrestrained and kind of freaking awesome in a psychedelic color explosion kind of way.
He'd nodded then and left with a "yer one loopy homo"; but he never did allow me to wear my glasses to bed again.