fic: honey sin skin
Title: honey sin skin
Fandom: Lolita
Word Count: 485
My fumbling attempts at grasping (read: imitating) Nabokov speech. I've been listening to the Lolita audiobook read by Jeremy Irons. It was mezmerizing. ♥
Humbert sits upon the porch, absently staring at the evening sun. The warm bleed of color. He had managed this moment of singular peace by going about with the farce of writing, and still in his hands were a black pen and his notebook. He had even toyed about with scribbling little nothing sentences in it, but that pretense was shed the moment Lolita scampered about out the door, and then sat beside him.
She is the picture of the Great Americana Girlhood- blue jeans, red gingham top that is knotted to show a small patch of brown skin. Her rusty hair in neat braids. Holding in her hand a fizzy soda pop. She is a perfect picture. A television ad.
On the other hand, Humbert himself looks particularly disheveled. The air is thick and hot, and his tie is loosened, and his shirt is crumpled, and his hair is slick with sweat. He wishes to smile - say something effortlessly charming. But he fears if he attempts, his smile will crack and spread into a leer. That his face will split with the burden of his adore.
She titters about, kicking her slender legs to-and-fro like great long pendulums. Twisting her hair around her bandaged finger. Humming some tune she had heard on the radio.
The beast Humbert sweats and pretends to write, to not look at her. But all he can produce are fragments of poetry that smell like her, like smoke you cannot catch by the tips of your fingers.
lola sweet lolita dolly lolly
swaying like a holy infant
in my arms my monstrous
arms that quake with the effort
of restraining my passion
my burden my crucifixion
my lolita do come closer
and Dolly, the rude child, swats at and subsequently kills a mosquito that had been sucking at her sweet blood. A small stain of gore as proof of the murder on her rosy palm. A ghost of a smile nips at her face, a satisfied smirk at herself.
He shivers as he looks at the tender skin. Oh how would he like to kiss and caress at her hot paws. My charming Carmen come closer.
As if she heard him - as if she did indeed know of his terrible heart - her shoulders slacken, as if she had grown incredibly tired. Her heavy eyelids look so sultry...
She does in fact come closer, shifting her unsubstantial weight toward him. Her face draws nearer and finally rests upon his arm. He wishes he hadn't worn a coat so that her cheek may touch his arm. To feel the peachy softness of her skin brush on him.
But this is close enough, for now. Her light head scarcely feels like any pressure at all. She lets out a yawn, a infantile yip that sounds rather like a noise a kitten might make. His Lolita.
He would have her.
Fandom: Lolita
Word Count: 485
My fumbling attempts at grasping (read: imitating) Nabokov speech. I've been listening to the Lolita audiobook read by Jeremy Irons. It was mezmerizing. ♥
Humbert sits upon the porch, absently staring at the evening sun. The warm bleed of color. He had managed this moment of singular peace by going about with the farce of writing, and still in his hands were a black pen and his notebook. He had even toyed about with scribbling little nothing sentences in it, but that pretense was shed the moment Lolita scampered about out the door, and then sat beside him.
She is the picture of the Great Americana Girlhood- blue jeans, red gingham top that is knotted to show a small patch of brown skin. Her rusty hair in neat braids. Holding in her hand a fizzy soda pop. She is a perfect picture. A television ad.
On the other hand, Humbert himself looks particularly disheveled. The air is thick and hot, and his tie is loosened, and his shirt is crumpled, and his hair is slick with sweat. He wishes to smile - say something effortlessly charming. But he fears if he attempts, his smile will crack and spread into a leer. That his face will split with the burden of his adore.
She titters about, kicking her slender legs to-and-fro like great long pendulums. Twisting her hair around her bandaged finger. Humming some tune she had heard on the radio.
The beast Humbert sweats and pretends to write, to not look at her. But all he can produce are fragments of poetry that smell like her, like smoke you cannot catch by the tips of your fingers.
lola sweet lolita dolly lolly
swaying like a holy infant
in my arms my monstrous
arms that quake with the effort
of restraining my passion
my burden my crucifixion
my lolita do come closer
and Dolly, the rude child, swats at and subsequently kills a mosquito that had been sucking at her sweet blood. A small stain of gore as proof of the murder on her rosy palm. A ghost of a smile nips at her face, a satisfied smirk at herself.
He shivers as he looks at the tender skin. Oh how would he like to kiss and caress at her hot paws. My charming Carmen come closer.
As if she heard him - as if she did indeed know of his terrible heart - her shoulders slacken, as if she had grown incredibly tired. Her heavy eyelids look so sultry...
She does in fact come closer, shifting her unsubstantial weight toward him. Her face draws nearer and finally rests upon his arm. He wishes he hadn't worn a coat so that her cheek may touch his arm. To feel the peachy softness of her skin brush on him.
But this is close enough, for now. Her light head scarcely feels like any pressure at all. She lets out a yawn, a infantile yip that sounds rather like a noise a kitten might make. His Lolita.
He would have her.