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Had it been down the whole time? He wondered. I never did tell her how much prettier she looks with it down than in those pigtails she always used to wear. |
He wanted to brush the hair back out of her face, to stroke it, to touch her in some way. He tried to raise one arm to do so, but of course, it wouldn't budge. He looked up for a moment, to see the Quinn-mermaid smile down at him and wag a finger back-and-forth in a tut-tutting gesture. |
The Stacy-mermaid took a brief detour, kissed her way a short distance up his abdomen, and, placing her lips over his navel, sucked most of the remaining fudge sauce out of it, then quickly scooped up what remained with her tongue. She then spent a little while kissing around in the general vicinity before taking him back into her mouth. Not as deeply this time, but she was moving more rapidly. Her hand wrapped around below where her oral attentions were reaching and began moving up-and-down in time with the bobbing of her head. |
It wouldn't be long now, Charles thought, not long at all. Soon he was squirming and writhing and whimpering beneath the Sandi-Quinn-Tiffany mermaids as he got closer and closer and closer... his head tilted back again, looking up... yes, this was it, this was it— |
A moment that obliterated all thought, then a brief confused wondering where the sky had gone, then the second spasm hit and Charles crunched forward, his beginning-to-focus gaze falling on a pair of eyes—not Stacy's, though they were lovely, even without their usual makeup—and a wild tangled mass of black hair. A third and final spasm, a shiver as it ended, and then Charles fell back on the bed as he tried to catch his breath. |
"And a good morning to you too," said a familiar voice. |
After a moment, Charles managed to prop himself up on his elbows and looked down to where Andrea was wiping at the corner of her mouth with the edge of her hand. |
"To you too?" asked Charles a little dazedly. Then a horrible possibility occurred to him. "Did I... uhm... say something as I... woke up?" |
Oh God, please let me not have said Stacy's name, he thought. |
"Yeah," replied Andrea, "and I suppose I should be offended..." |
Oh no, oh no, no |
"I mean, 'muhgugg'n-OOG!' is kind of inarticulate even by your usual early-morning standards," Andrea replied. |
"Still," she continued, sliding up in bed so she was lying next to Charles, "I guess I can forgive you." |
Partly in relief, but mostly from plain affection, Charles hugged Andrea tightly, buried his face in her shoulder, enjoying the warmth, and how soft she was—she'd been self-conscious about her weight early on in their relationship, but (and he was beginning to think he might actually have her convinced of this by now) he liked the way she felt. In fact, the thought of how one of those bone-skinny Fashion Clubbers would feel in a close embrace... well, he thought, some things were best left in dreams. Charles inhaled. His lover smelled a little bit of sweat... a tiny bit of whatever she'd washed her hair with yesterday... but mostly like, well, Andrea. It was kind of hard to describe. |
After a moment, she pushed away from him, rolled over so that she was sitting on the edge of the bed. She stretched, yawned, then said, "Well, you're welcome and all, Chuck, but I think it's time we both started thinking about showers and getting ready for work." |
Charles grinned and started towards Andrea, but she put a hand on the center of his chest and pressed, which had the two effects of giving her the leverage to push herself upright, and of pushing him back onto the bed. |
"Separate showers, Goatboy!" she admonished playfully. |
Charles contented himself with admiring the Rubenesque curves of Andrea's body as she walked off towards the bathroom. Of course, it was probably just as well, he thought. The few things the two of them had tried in the shower had proved a lot more... awkward... than he'd always expected they'd be. |
After a few moments of luxuriating in bed, when he heard the water running in the bathroom, Charles got up, pulled on a pair of sweatpants, and walked into the kitchen of the apartment he and Andrea shared. As he busied himself with making coffee and as much of breakfast as he could get together before Andrea was finished cleaning-up, he reflected on how... was 'energized' really the word for it?... he felt. However he was feeling, he'd just learned of a truly delightful way of being awakened. As he puttered about in the kitchen, he actually began humming to himself as he began musing—brushing aside a brief pang of ridiculous jealousy (such things being unworthy of a Ruttheimer!)—on just what sort of dreams his sweet Andrea might awaken from when, some morning very soon, he returned the favor. |
Daria (even though she doesn't appear in this story, I mention her anyway) and all ancillary characters are the property of MTV/Viacom, not me. I'm not making a dime off this story and suing me would probably be bad PR (to say nothing of Karma) anyway. |
The term 'Dariarotica' was coined by the mysterious Gystex, on/at the Paperpusher's Messageboard, a day or two ago. I like it, I'm pretty sure he didn't copyright it, and even kind of got the impression he didn't mind if others used it, so I'm using it here. |
Genre: celebrity |
Chapter 1 |
Pairing: Ilse/Moritz |
Notes: I've wanted to write this since I first read the original play. It's based mostly on that, with little bits of the musical sprinkled in. I've taken liberties that a director might, particularly since such a large part of the fic is what Ilse is wearing (which is not an oversized white shirt). |
Ilse crept down the path, marveling at how silent her footsteps were, now that she wore the ballet slippers Adolar had bought her for their celebration. 'Kätzchen,' he called her, stroking her hair and hand-feeding her the chocolates he always bought with the money left over after paints and canvas, even before food and rent. She was about to start singing, some vulgar ditty she had picked up from the artists, but a motion through the brush made her pause. She heard a voice—a young man's voice, distressed. |
She padded closer, carefully pushing the branches out of her way. She gasped softly as she realized who it was—dear Moritz Stiefel, the boy who had always been by her side as Captain Ilse the Insouciant's First Mate when they played at being pirates. She had called him Moritz the Fearless, out of some vague hope that her fantasies would begin to blur into reality and make him so. Moritz sat on the ground with a stack of schoolbooks beside him, and in his trembling hands, he held a gun. |
She couldn't hear what he was saying as he turned it over and over in his hands, but the hopeless look on his face filled her with dread. She saw him glancing around, seeming to search for something. "What are you looking for?" she asked suddenly, pushing through the brush to join him in the clearing. He jumped to his feet, hiding the gun behind his back and tucking it into the waistband of his pants. "Ilse!" she asked again, "What are you looking for here?" |
He took a deep breath, twisting his hands in the fabric of his pants to hide the fact that he was shaking. "Why did you give me such a fright?" she persisted. "What are you looking for—what have you lost?" He considered, for an instant, telling her everything, but the words stuck in his throat. "Why frighten me so dreadfully?" he demanded. She sighed slightly. "I've come from the town. I'm going home," she explained. |
He tried a half-truth. Ilse was the fairy that appeared in his dreams—the ones he used to have, before those awful blue tights, the ones that had always calmed him when he worried. She could not be lied to. He had a suspicion that she would know if he even tried. "I don't know what I've lost." She gave him a queer little half-smile. "Then looking for it won't help." He returned the half-smile and cast his eyes downward. "Hell, hell, hell!" he hissed. |
She wore blue tights. Ilse started at his exclamation, glancing at herself to see what had upset him so. "Moritz?" He simply stared at her legs, trying not to blink. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the tights climbing over the lectern again… and knew that from now on, Ilse would follow them. He gasped and looked down at himself as he felt his body's traitorous reaction—the stirrings of manhood, as Melchior had called them. |
"Moritz, are you ill?" Ilse cried, reaching out to grab his shoulder concernedly. He stiffened as her pale hand wrapped around him. "Ilse… you shouldn't touch me. I… oh, god…" he stammered, trying to force his body to obey his mind. She followed his mortified gaze, her mouth forming a silent 'O' as she realized what was distracting him so. "Dear Moritz, is that all your trouble?" she asked, her eyes kind as she raised them to meet his. |
A crimson flush crossed his face as he nodded dumbly. She smiled and leaned in to murmur conspiratorially in his ear. "They talk about that all the time." Moritz felt as though he were about to faint. "Around you?" he finally managed to whisper, blushing even more deeply. Ilse nodded. "I've always said I live where Priapus reigns, Moritz. They do more than talk." The color that had been accumulating in his cheeks drained immediately. |
Had his fairy-pirate-queen been so fully taken in by the artists, with their silver tongues and skillful hands? "Do they… have they… with you?" She shook her head. "That's far too dangerous, Moritz. Imagine if there were a child! Heinrich's tried, the beast, but all the rest keep him in check. No, there are… other ways," she explained. "Other ways?" he echoed, his voice breaking slightly. "Other ways," she confirmed. |
She bit her lip in contemplation, and then glanced up at his face with an elfin smile. "Like this." She slid her hand from his shoulder down to his hip; then gently let it creep to the growing bulge in the front of his pants. He gasped sharply, one hand gripping Ilse's wrist. "Shh, dearest Moritz," she crooned, delicately stroking him. "If you make a sound, someone might find us." |
He bit his lip and inhaled as obviously practiced fingers traced lines he had so often forbidden himself from tracing. "I don't think I can stand," he whispered breathlessly, stumbling backwards to lean against a tree, pulling Ilse with him. She smiled again, still reminding him of nothing so much as a pagan goddess—Venus, some still-sensible part of his mind supplied. If she was Venus, that would make him Adonis, he realized. |
A small laugh escaped his lips, turning into a groan as she squeezed him gently. "What amuses you so?" she asked playfully. Usually, with the artists, she was smoldering and sensual, but with Moritz… she could be her true self, as she had always been. "Latin forever haunts me… but the torture has let me see you as the goddess you are, existing for mortals like me to worship and by which we are amazed," he replied, beginning to pant softly. |
"You sound like you've the makings of a poet!" she exclaimed, her breath sweet against his cheek. She hesitated a moment, and then kissed him. He understood, finally, why books went on so about kisses. He wondered why Melchior had neglected to mention it, save in passing, in the many pages of his essay—when Ilse's tongue slipped between his parted lips, he stopped thinking, and found himself drawing her sharply to him, kissing back with a surprising passion. |
He pulled back only when the need for air made his head swim. Now they were both panting, and Ilse felt her knees go weak. She sank to the ground, glancing up at Moritz through her long eyelashes as she began to undo the fly of his pants. As they slid to pool around his ankles, the gun he had tucked into them clattered to the ground. He didn't seem to notice, and she pointedly ignored the weapon, instead wrapping her hands fully around his hardened shaft, smoothly stroking him. |
He groaned softly and his eyes fluttered closed, utterly overcome by the sensations—with every passing moment, the fears that had nearly caused him to take his life moments ago were being pulled away from his very soul. Suddenly, warm wetness enveloping his member made him cry out in shock. He looked down wildly to see a curtain of dark curls moving between his legs, and realized that she had taken him into her mouth—and was licking and sucking delicately at him until he could no longer stand it. |
"Ilse, I… oh God!" he hissed, grasping at the tree as he came hard. Utterly spent, he slid down the smooth tree until he sat on the grass beneath, legs splayed in front of him. He felt a grin, the first in he didn't know how long, spread across his lips as he gazed adoringly at Ilse through half-lidded eyes. She smiled—almost shyly—at him. "I'll be right back," she murmured, darting down to the riverbank where he heard her splashing for a moment before she returned, drying her hands on her skirt. |
Her eyes met his for a moment, and then shifted to the forgotten gun on the ground next to him. "You were going to use it, weren't you," she said softly. It wasn't a question. "I… I've been expelled from school. I've no money, I've disgraced my parents, and I can scarcely stand to see anyone I know… save Melchi. And you," he explained, his voice gaining strength as he recovered and fixed his pants, forcing himself to analyze the last minutes' events later. |
Ilse knelt next to him, taking the gun and turning it over in her hands. "I know what it feels like to have a loaded pistol pressed against your skin, Moritz. I do. Will you… will you throw this in the river? Throw it away and… and… and come with me!" His eyes seemed to bore into hers, his soul laid bare. "Ilse, I'm scared. I don't… I'm not a man of actions, I'm a man of thoughts; of ideas…." He trailed off. |
"Priapia doesn't yet have a poet or philosopher," she commented, "and I'll be with you," she added softly, twining her fingers with his. He looked uncertain for a moment, before a faint smile spread over his face. "If you're there," he said, "I can do anything." She let out a whoop and pulled him to his feet, handing him the pistol. Dashing to the riverbank, he took a deep breath and hurled the offending item into the middle, where it landed with a loud splash and sank. |
He felt lighter and freer than he could ever remember being when he turned back to Ilse, his face lit up with a grin. "In what direction lies Priapia, Captain Ilse?" She giggled and grabbed his wrist, and they crashed through the brush, running full tilt down the path. |
Genre: inuyasha |
Chapter 1 |
In the end, they had both stood at the ancient roots of Goshinboku and stared into the twilight of their days together. |
It wasn't as painful as Kagome believed it would be. In fact, she could describe herself as feeling quietly relieved, if not numb, to the fact of her last departure from the Feudal Era. The Shikon Shards had all been reunited with one another, making whole a jewel that had been Kagome's error from the beginning. |
The wish had been made as well upon the Shikon no Tama. The schoolgirl from the future had hugged Sango one last time, both of them crying softly. Shippo had wept as well when she knelt to scoop him up in a tight embrace. The houshi came next, and she uttered her name before giving her a quiet look. She even forgave him when they embraced, and he goosed her. |
Kikyo received a hug as well, and after fighting back tears that threatened to fall down her face in fast rivulets, she turned to Inuyasha. No, Inuyasha and Kikyo. Kagome had always wished for his happiness. She had always meant to preserve the happiness of others before her own. It seemed to complement her function as a miko, but now she felt that it compounded it. |
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