#ive been seeing the same shades of pink & blue for so long help me

[synthshenanigans]

This took like 17 hours i want to explo d e

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[pwnyta]

Genshin character Judgement after all these years of playing. I will judge looks, personality, and say my favorite voice! Starting with 4-stars, alphabetical order.

(under the cut)

AMBER!

Still one of my favorite designs. The distribution of red/brown/white is really nice and well balanced. The rabbit theme is subtle but very cute. Her personality is adorable... I miss her. I MISS YOU AMBER.

Honestly all her voices are pretty similar and I dont really have a preference. Theyre all pretty good!

Barbara! ITS NOT HER FAULT... ITS NOT HER FAULT. Shes the first of a long line of blonde & blue characters.... Since she was the first(/one of the firsts) I wont be so harsh on her. She is very cute design wise. She makes me miss Milk Cookie... I do find her personality a little grating... or I just cant stand the 'GO BARBARA GO!' IDK. LOL Shes a good girl. I dont hate her. Despite my lukewarm take on her personality there is no other character that I feel MORE protective of IN GAME. I hate that she has stalkers and NO ONE IN GAME IS CONCERNED ABOUT IT. Venti excuses it, the nuns dismiss it, not even her sister seems to care... it drives me fucking NUTS.

Voice... Id say either CN or JP are the best but theyre all pretty cute. Some people say her old EN voice was better and those people are wrong.

BEIDOU- My beloved. Shes beautiful. Its hard to miss with black/red and the purplish shading of the reds is really nice too. I think she does sexy in a fun way. Her personality is the same. Shes a ton of fun and tough and adorable. I wish she was used more in the story.. shes a fricken pirate! How has she not been used for a summer event after all this time... Such a missed opportunity!

Her EN and JP voices clear.

God what a mess. Oh Bennett. That sweat-stained colored shirt grosses me out and he looks like a reject Kingdom Hearts character. I think some tweaks to her color palate would help him a lot. Personality is a bit rough too. Though I gotta say... its sorta similar to Barbara... where I feel protective of him although I find him kind of annoying. Please be nice to him. Hes one of the few characters that even I think hes like 12.

CN voice is best IMO. hes also sounds 12. LMAO PLEASE BE NICE TO HIM.

...Candace is so pretty. I remember seeing the leaks for her and being like SHES NOT A 5 STAR?! THE FUCK?! I wish she was. I wish she was more useful at least theres so many fuckin Hydro characters... The only complaint I have for her character is I wish she had darker skin. Ive seen a mod with her where she has darker skin and all her colors look so fucking good... Her personality is also TOP TIER. Her soft dommy-mommy thing was WILD to witness OMG her and Dehya... Shes so sweet... I love her so much. ;0; The only voice Im not THAT fond of is the JP voice. I think it stands out badly from the rest... CN is my favorite. The soft spoken tone is PERFECT.

I actually like Charlottes look... except for detached sleeves. It wouldnt be bad if this was a fucking design trope we see over & over on Genshin girls so its kinda unfair to judge Charlotte for it but IM GOING TO. TBF tho... Im not actually bothered by the pink/red which is my least favorite color combo. I think the red is purple-y enough to not make the colors clash as much. Her personality is fine. Im certainly not the biggest or smallest fan of her. Shes just fine.

Her EN voice is best for me. Her other voices sound SUPER young and I dont think fit her character. (they are cute tho)

Chevreuses design is crazy... shes one of the designs where its clearly sexy over practical and I just think its a bad look for her. IDKY (yes I do) HYV is so resistant to giving female characters PANTS but she'd look better with pants. Also the detached sleeves on this design is one of the MOST egregious. Her purple hair on this is also kinda wacky. PICK A STRUGGLE BITCH. her personality on the other hand... Phenomenal. I really liked the story we went through with her. Hers is the only blue life that matters.

I dont mind any of her voices either! Good job ladies!

Chongyun!!! Chongyun is my lil man and I love him so much. I know hes in his late teens/early 20s but hes my BABY and I love him very much. I really like his design even though Im not sure what is going on with his pants like where things connect... but the colors are nice (even if blue) and... YEAH. LOVE HIM. His personality is super cute. HE IS BABY.

I like his EN and CN voices best. His JP and KN voices sound a little too energetic for him.

Collei is great. I was really excited to see her in the leaks for Sumeru because Ive seen her in the comics. I mostly like the design they chose for her.... detached sleeves aside. I really like the woody color palate I like the references to Amber, I love the purple eyes against the greens of her hair and scarf thing....GOOD STUFF. her personality is fine too! No complaints here! Shes got big LIL GUY energy and I love her.

Her CN voice is by far my favorite. Her EN voice is super squeaky... I dont hate it but its probably my least favorite.

I used to hate Diona... I hate tsundere characters... HOWEVER when you max her friendship she says something that made me cry a little and that line was also incorporated into a limited event which was really good... anyways long story short shes MY daughter now. I love her design too. Shes very cute. I kinda wish her shirt was just white instead of the pink but I dont hate it.

I like all her voices. They all have a very similar tone! I think Dionas EN VA does the little girl voice a bit better than other EN little girl voices.

Unpopular opinion I guess but I like Doris design I get that her being an offensive greedy merchant stereotype might be annoying but I dont think shes the worst character I genuinely dont understand the intense vitriol against her. Criticism is well deserved but her design is SO mild. I love her glasses and color palate. Personality... MEH. We havent really seen much of her in story I feel like... she's a bit one note ATM. She definitely could use a hang-out to flesh her out some more. Shes fun when shes being played tho..

I like her EN voice the most I guess. But I have no strong feelings for any of them. I do like how quickly the CN VA talks tho... at least in the little clip I listened to.

Miku from WISH ass design. I sorta like elements to Faruzans design but it all feels kinda like a first draft. I completely accepted that I wasnt going to like her character in the slightest... but then in her hang out... she was really cute. Shes annoying in a funny way like Fish & Mona. LMAO

I like her EN voice the most! She sounds so dramatic and snooty it makes me laugh.

MY FISHY! I hated Fischl for so long... what a waste of time. It was the 2nd Summer event that made me change my mind on her. I WAS WRONG. OK. Sometimes even I make mistakes... shes IS annoying... but its in a funny way. Her design tho I hate. Why on earth Fish wasnt one of the Mondstadt characters to get a censor outfit baffles me to this day. JEAN got one but FISH didnt? OK... but at least she got a costume soon after (maybe thats why?) Anyways... Love her.

I dont have to even listen to the VAs... i know EN is my favorite. But I did listen to them anyways... I actually really LOVE KN Fishs voice... just not for Fish.

I can never like Frems design as much as I should because I saw his concept designs and they were MUCH better. That said... I guess its fine. I would prefer him be the ginger shark boy tho instead of A genderbent Barbara + Xingqiu. but god forbid HYV make an interesting design. His personality is very cute tho... he was saved by that Penguin event for me TBH LMAO... the way I fuckin SOBBED. Why did they do that... I DONT UNDERSTAND WHY THEY WENT THAT HARD.

All of Freminets voices are really good and very similar. if I had to pick my fav... KN and CN... I guess by a smidge.

Like Frem... GaMing had concept design leaks that were SO much more interesting than what we got. I was particularly interested in the bald one and I liked the bobcat outfit design... but I do prefer the colors they used in this design. His personality & hood hard carries him...

Im fine with all of Gas voices. En and KN are probably the best for him IMO.

Gorou is a lil buddy character. hes very appropriately good dog coded and I love him. He kinda reminds me of one character Tokyo Afterschool Summoners who was a anthro dog who was very proper but would act like a dog if prompted and then get embarrassed (like if you said 'paw' he would instinctually offer his hand)... Gorou kinda reminds me of that. A proper fella who doesnt realize how puppy he is. hes a good boy. His design is pretty good too. hes is probably the most... ero'd male character in the game its pretty funny. RIP buddy.

His JP voice is probably my favorite because it is so fucking funny. It sounds so deep and manly and proper... I think it fits his personality perfectly. All but KN are good tho... why'd KN go with such a baby voice for him I have no idea...

I LOVE all the colors of Heizous design just not together. I hate that Maroon with the mustard yellow... i really wish he had dark brown hair or even maybe a desaturated orange... IDK man... Also im just not connected to his character in the slightest... and he has a hangout. thats crazy.

All his voices are kinda weird for me... IDK what im supposed to get from any of them they all sound so different. EN sounds kinda shady (the way he speaks kinda reminds me of Kaeya when hes being a cheeky bitch), CN sounds a bit more sincere, JP sounds really young, KN is... just crazy... IDK what they were doing there.

...Oh Kaeya. My babygirl. I feel like anyone who liked Tony Stark would like Kaeya. hes got that saucy yet tragic air to him that makes him pretty misunderstood to people who dont know him well/dont care to know him. BUT I LOVE HIM. I cant wait to learn more about him... His design is one of my favorites too... and I didnt think Id like a costume on him but his costume is even prettier.

His EN voice is definitely my favorite. Honestly a lot of the KN voices sound so drastically different from the others it makes me wonder wtf they were thinking. Kaeyas KN voice is crazy.

Design-wise Im not that bothered by Kaveh but his personality irritates the fuck outta me. Hes definitely one of my least favorite characters in game. His only shining moment for me was when he was nice to Cyno and gave him the card he won. Im so glad his kit sucks so I dont ever have to use him.

All his voices are kinda the same vibe and I dont hate any of them.

Kiraras base design is SO ASS. Like Chev, her design is very sexy at the expense of design... but at least her personality is great and she recently got a phenomenal costume(even tho it looks very similar to Navias outfit... but if you could look more like Navia wouldnt you want to?). Anyways. Shes very cute.

Again I like all her voices except the KN... whyd KN make her sound so young... she sounds like a baby. She actually sounds a lot like Diona... except MORE baby. LMAO???

OOOH Layla. Babygirl. Im actually not bothered much by the detached sleeve look here since I guess she doesnt really have a top that the sleeves look like theyre supposed to be attached to... but its still like that same design trope... shes also blue THAT SAID. I really like her design overall. I just wish she had a different color. Im so sick of blue...

I actually really like ALL her voices... but this bitch talks so damn slowly... VAMONOS BITCH. I have shit to do!!!! You are very cute tho. If I had to pic a fav.... surprisingly? KN.

Lisa Lisa Lisa... ara ara ass bitch. Lisa is actually great. I love her. Her personality is way more grounded than I wouldve expected early on and I think they played it safe at the start of the game with characters... I think if she was introd later she might have been more like Yae. LOL but shes great. I like her design... although this blue-purple is probably my least favorite shade of purple in the world.

All her voices are great.... but CN is my favorite.

Attached sleeves? In this economy? Shout out to Lynette. Shes very cute. I really like how simple and practical her outfit looks compared to most female characters in this game. Its still kinda sexy but tasteful! I really like her simple boots. Kinda wish she wasnt blue tho... BUT I dont mind it as an accent on the main black. her personality is also great. ... her backstory is deranged... please be nice to her HYV wtf.

I like all her voices... but I dont think her EN voice is good for Lynette specifically. I prefer the more monotone soft-spoken sound of the others.

UGh... Mika.

UGH.

Only his JP voice is ok with me. UGH....

THANK GOD NINGGUANG. Hey beautiful girl.... I love everything about Ning. Shes so gorgeous. I love her personality. I love that she employs the kids in Liyue to keep an ear out for gossip and report back to her, I love her silly relationship with Beidou where they both sorta think the other thinks theyre shady and kinda acts defensively about it... goofy ass bitches. I LOVE HER (I LOVE THEM. Lantern Rite 2 cutscene you will always be famous.)

My favorite voice for her... KN!!! LETS GO KN. I also really like her EN voice when shes speaking normally but a lot of like attack lines and stuff sound kinda off.

Ah the babiest girl. Noelle... Why shes not a knight yet is DIABOLICAL work from the KoF. Theyre praying for her downfall. I know this. Mondstadt is corrupt and they cant have someone like Noelle in the ranks. I think her design is mostly good but the lack of petticoats makes her dress look so flimsy and weird.

I like her EN and Kn voices! Her JP and CN voices sound too young to me. EN also sounds kinda stiff but I do think its a character choice instead of a weird VA. Its suits her.

I think Razors design is a bit off but personality is great. Hes such a good boy... I hope we get to see more of him in the future but yeah i dont have much to say about him other than he is baby.

JP is my favorite voice for him. I actually cant stand his EN voice... I get what they were trying to do but it sounds TOO much like Tarzan but also goofy... and maybe im not bothered as much by the others since IDK the languages... this is similar to how I feel about child voices being done by adult women. Like I know what a child sounds like in English so when I hear that baby voice it just sounds like an adult doing a baby voice and thats so irritating to me.

I have some issues with Rosarias design (detached sleeves)but overall I like it. I like the uncensored version better. I also like her corpsy skin tone. I wish we got more on her character but considering her connection to Varka we'll probably have to wait till then to get more into her life then. Ah well.

Her KN voice is my favorite! but I dont mind any of them.

I was so excited for Sara when I saw the leaks. Her design is so good (detached sleeves aside) but getting to know her in story was so forgettable. It kinda reminds me of Dori where its like... ??? ok. Fingers crossed for a hangout event for her that fleshes her out a bit more.

I also dont like her EN voice much. All the others are great tho.

Sayu is a cutie pie and I love her. I think she looks a little goofy but since shes a baby its fine. her personality is very cute and Enjoyed her hangout event! her and Layla should have a sleepy-off. Who is the SLEEPIEST. We shall find out!

All her voices are good but CN is my favorite.

PART 1 done!

[mimik-u]

Flower Child, Chapter 19 (Blue IV)

AO3 Link

i.

Thursday, July 5th, 8:38AM:

Blue: Hello, Steven… how are you this morning?

Steven: tired.

Blue: I’m sorry.

Blue: Is there anything I can do?

Steven: no

Steven: I don’t think so

With one hand, Blue Diamond held her phone aloft and read Steven’s bare reply again and again. And with the other, she gently massaged her aching right hip, kneading her spiny knuckles gently over the bone beneath the thin layer of her nightgown. 

She’d slept on it the wrong way.

Had tossed and turned all night, nightmaring.

And she didn’t need a psychoanalyst to tell her what it meant that her dead daughter erupted from a wilting hibiscus flower before transforming into Steven Universe, who dissolved into petals as she tried to cling onto them both—her smile, his laugh, her freckles, his hair, all crumbling beneath her fingertips into pollen and pieces. Pearl’s words echoed in the dark chapel of her own head as she gathered the petals in her palms: “Start with a flower and a smile, perhaps.”

Help him, Blue.

Don’t look away.

(You’ve always been so good at looking away.)

In the end, she laid her phone facedown on the bed and rubbed her sore hip in the curtained darkness of her room for a few minutes longer. It was unclear to herself whether she was trying to soothe the pain or grate it in just a mica deeper, one sensitive knuckle movement at a time.

Either way, she was only giving herself what she deserved. 

Relief.

Injury.

And perhaps both at the exact same time.

A cocktail of them both—shaken, not stirred.

It was only when the alarm clock on the bedside table indicated that ten minutes had passed in silence and arthritic torture that she endeavored to apprehend her cane with both hands, violently wrenching herself into a standing position, briefly throwing her world into dizzying spirals. Blue closed her eyes against the initial nausea and told herself that she had to go on.

In so many more ways than just simply one.

She glanced fleetingly at the hibiscus that still remained on her nightstand, now withered around the edges, now graying, and thought to herself that perhaps she could save it if she acted fast, pressing it between the pages of a favorite book—an Austen, a Homer, a Kierkegaard.

Preserving it.

Start with a flower and a smile, perhaps.

Help him, Blue.

Don’t look away.

The sounds of her cane were muffled in the carpet as she made a detour to the bathroom to grab her robe, pulling on the worn garment like an old friend, the collar flush against her long neck. And then, her movements as stiff as they were laborious, she made her way from the bathroom back to the bedroom and then into the vast, empty hall—at the end of which the living room was framed in an arch of white, morning light. 

Clank, she barely glanced at the door leading into the study because she knew Yellow wouldn’t be in there.

The door was completely closed, which was a telltale sign in and of itself.

Clank.

Assorted images from the previous evening sifted through her head like grains of falling sand, salting her unsettled thoughts as she moved forward, her bare feet tracing the smooth wooden planks.

Clank.

They had sat in the backseat together on the car ride home from the hospital yesterday and dared to hold hands, fingers intertwining, palms touching.

Lifelines.

Yellow was as warm as Blue was cold, the gathering of their skin simply electric. 

Clank.

The sky outside the tinted glass windows had been the precise shade of a bruised peach—gold around the edges and a darker amber within. There were cream colored clouds that swirled and swirled through the ripening sky, becoming milky wisps in the places where they spread too thin.

Blue stared upwards into these vaulting heavens and thought fleetingly about beauty, how it could come from the most mundane of places.

In the continuous cycles of an ever-changing sky.

In children who gave flowers to random strangers at cemeteries.

In laughter.

In sadness.

Even in grief.

The fading light dusted the crown of her wife’s blonde head.

A slight frown pulled at her lips.

And there was great beauty and great sadness in this, too.

Paradoxes and contradictions.

“What are you thinking about?” Blue had asked, absently skimming her thumb along the side of Yellow’s hand, tracing every line, relearning every divot and groove.

“My luck,” Yellow returned in that familiar dry voice of hers. “That wreck could have been… disastrous.”

“Yes.” The word was hushed in her throat, cloistered, the possibilities that it engendered too much to bear: Yellow injured, Yellow dying, Yellow gone. The worst hypothetical had never felt more real to her than in the handful of hours that had elapsed between her doorbell ringing and rushing to the hospital in the dead of night.

With Pink, there had been no likewise chance.

No hospital to go to.

Only a morgue.

“Did… what’s her name… you know—the new valet—did she make it out alright? I forgot to ask.”

“She did,” Blue confirmed with a small nod. “Topaz—I mean. Only a few cuts on her face from what I understood. I gave her a temporary leave of absence.”

“Good,” Yellow sighed, relief palpable in her low voice. “Excellent.”

Her frown incrementally shifted, becoming the barest of smiles.

Subtle.

Almost easy to miss.

Clank.

They had ascended the elevator side by side, too, Yellow pulling her special keycard out from the pocket of her immaculately pressed shirt with fumbling fingers, and Blue could tell that she was tired by this uncharacteristic clumsiness alone.

“Let me,” she whispered before gently apprehending the card and slotting it into the reader that would grant them immediate access to their floor.

It was a tiny kindness.

Somehow, it was far more than that, too.

Yellow stared at her, eyes wide, and said, “Thank you.”

“It was nothing,” Blue murmured, a dull flush coloring her cheeks as she returned the card, slipping it back to where it belonged.

The doors opened slowly, welcoming the Diamonds home.

Clank.

Blue had insisted that Yellow sleep in the bed, that she needed a good night’s rest after all that she had been through, but Yellow was infuriatingly stubborn to the last—intransigent, inflexible, chivalrous—protesting that she didn’t want to aggravate Blue’s hip problem.

She’d be fine on the couch.

It only hit her later that night, as she laid in that bed that was much too big for her, that she could have invited her wife to come to bed with her.

But the thought scared her as much as it intrigued her.

She pushed it to the side, tabling it for a later date.

(Coward.)

Clank. 

The living room was dressed in a pale sunshine coat when Blue finally arrived at the very edge of it, her oceanic eyes washing over the scene until they lit upon Yellow Diamond, stretched beneath a thin blanket on the white couch, fast asleep, soft snores emitting from her half-open mouth.

In the hours that had elapsed, her wounds didn’t appear as angry as they had done yesterday, and there was already a little discoloration around the edges of her stitches that suggested that they were already beginning to do the complicated work of healing—as transitory wounds tended to do. 

Blue lifted the bottom of her cane now so it no longer thudded against the floor with each slow and deliberate footfall; she could retain her balance for that long, or, if she couldn’t, then she’d very well know it was likely time she had that hip replacement her physician kept threatening at each of her successive appointments.

But she didn’t waver.

Didn’t fall.

Miraculously refrained from breaking.

Long enough to reach the creamy ottoman in front of the couch, which Yellow had apparently used in lieu of a nightstand. Her reading glasses were folded neatly atop of yesterday’s copy of The Empire City Times, the crossword section right side up.

She’d almost finished it, lacking only two-across: ANTONYM OF CRUELTY.

And the answer, Blue Diamond could plainly see, was grace.

Fondness for her wife, exquisite and painful tenderness, unexpectedly erupted in the column of her throat—a rush of love, a flurrying sensation, spreading all over, both trickling water and raging fire, paradoxes and contradictions. And suddenly, all impulse, thought swept away by feeling, feeling unknotting her hesitant bones, Blue gingerly bent down and brushed the sharp line of Yellow’s jaw where sunlight had already scribbled itself in patches. She was a child running curious fingers along the edge of a forbidden shelf. She was a butterfly tentatively skimming a blade of grass. She was a broken mother trying to learn how to be unbroken again. She was a loving wife.

She hadn’t been intending to wake her—had only wanted to touch—but somewhere in the space of four awful years, Yellow had apparently learned to be a light sleeper. Her golden eyes flew open at the gesture, catching Blue in the act. 

“Blue,” she murmured, shocked, disbelieving, as though she wasn’t entirely convinced that she wasn’t dreaming. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Blue returned softly and at least had enough decency to look ashamed. (For what exactly? She wasn’t necessarily sure. Somehow, she just knew that it was a very shameful thing to touch her wife. To caress her gently after so many days and months and years of having not done it.) “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“No, no,” Yellow protested, sitting up abruptly to make room for Blue on the half-rumpled couch. The movement must have been too sudden for her sore body because she briefly winced, glancing downwards at her leg. “I should be getting up anyway. What time is it anyway? Seven? Seven-thirty?”

Blue remembered the timestamp that had accompanied Steven’s last message, and a frown bruised her lips as she slowly lowered herself by her wife’s side, balancing herself on the head of her cane.

“Closer to nine, I believe.”

Yellow blinked once, disbelief turning to cross bemusement in the slightest shift of her brow as she searched for the truth in her wife’s long face.

“Seriously?”

“More or less.” Blue’s lips slightly rippled, and Yellow shook her head with disgust, the emotion snarling across her weathered face.

“I haven’t slept in past eight since I was in college,” she muttered, pushing a hand through her sleep-straggled hair. “Goodness, that’s unusual.”

“You were exhausted,” Blue proffered immediately, as though this was explanation and excuse enough, but Yellow only shook her head again, refusing her own defense just as quickly as Blue had risen to it.

“Not anymore than usual,” came the stubborn reply. There wasn’t argument in her voice, so much as there was an edge, inwardly pointed.

Because that was the thing about Yellow Diamond.

She saved her sharpest words for herself, lancing her own criticisms deep into her skin in order to forcibly teach herself how to do better the next day. Blue knew better than to challenge her when she did this, for Yellow did enough challenging to herself.

So she looked away and allowed Yellow to punish herself and lapsed into contemplative silence, thinking about Steven again, threading her fingers together on top of her robed lap: his sunken face, his lachrymose messages, his careworn caretakers, and all of their collectively haunted eyes. Even glancing out onto the sun-warmed balcony was enough to conjure the image of him sitting beside her in the chair that usually belonged to Yellow and eating one of Holly Agatha’s famous chocolate cakes.

The one he would later throw up.

Because he was sick.

Terribly so.

“Blue?” Yellow’s voice was soft, prodding, hesitant, awkward—full of all the dichotomies and contradictions that their relationship seemed to have been built on these last four years. They both loved each other.

Surely. 

Deeply. 

Beyond a shadow of a doubt.

They were equally afraid to say it aloud.

“Is something troubling you?”

Blue’s turned away from the balcony and faced her wife again—the stitches on her sharply hewn jaw, the complicated emotions in her golden eyes, the sharp set of her frown—and wondered what would happen if she simply told her the truth, if she laid it nakedly between them and simply waited for a response.

It was terrifying to be vulnerable with another.

Somehow, in the midst of everything, she remembered that it was necessary.

“Steven Universe,” she finally whispered, the name less like a name and more like a confession, gently handed over between the sliding partition in a wooden booth. “I’m worried about him. I talked to one of his guardians yesterday, and he isn’t… doing well.”

Yellow’s face grappled with the news, appearing far more stricken than Blue could have ever expected of her.

When she frowned, the lines beneath her eyes darkened and creased, making her appear ancient.

Haunted.

“I know,” she said unexpectedly.

“You do?” Blue couldn’t help herself—she arched an incredulous brow, and her wife’s cheeks promptly colored in response, the pink feathering the sickly purple of her bruises. It wasn’t a particularly handsome effect.

“I met him the other night,” she muttered, a little impish, a little stiff, glancing away. “I was curious. I wanted to know what he looked like.”

Blue didn’t know what was more astonishing—the fact that Yellow had visited Steven in the first place or the miraculousness of her actually admitting to it so plainly. Neither action seemed particularly characteristic to a woman who attempted to subjugate all of her emotions beneath the sleeves of her immaculately ironed shirt.

But she could see the truth of the words in the tense sobriety of her profile.

And she knew, from experience, that as astonishingly unlikely as it was for Yellow Diamond to visit a sickly child in the hospital, it was even less likely that she would lie about it in the first place.

And so Blue did what she could to collect her face, but she was fairly sure that trace remnants of her surprise still remained because her wife scoffed, the color of her cheekbones still a rosé red, sweet and mild.

“You don’t have to look so shocked.”

“I’m… I’m not shocked,” she protested immediately, her own features shading themselves in. “I’m just—”

But Blue Diamond, eloquent though she was, could not find another fitting word, and Yellow Diamond, seemingly despite her better judgment, laughed once, the sound harsh and warm in that airy, light-filled living room.

“Shocked,” she repeated emphatically, shaking her head.

“You’ve disarmed me before I’ve taken my morning tea,” Blue mumbled, a little petulance in her voice, a little play.

“Good,” Yellow sniffed, half-grimacing, half-smiling. “I’m glad to see I can still keep you on your toes.”

And then they both stared at each other—nakedly, unflinchingly—quite painfully aware that they were on the verge of making each other laugh for the first time in years, and the solemnity of the occasion brought them both back to themselves.

Blue frowned so easily that it was only muscle memory, primal reflex.

And Yellow followed suit, the sunlight raking itself across her wounded face.

“And what did you think of him?” Blue asked, both wanting the answer and dreading it. She slightly learned towards her wife; part of her wished to flee; and because she didn’t flee, because she stayed, the contradiction manifested as a twisting of her gut, a turning.

“A little impetuous…” Yellow said immediately, her voice low, distant with memory. “Annoyingly happy… but good, I think. Smart for his age. Kind. He almost reminded me of—”

But she caught herself just in time—stricken, terrified, revolted.

And Blue’s heart nearly failed with the simple proximity of her daughter’s ghost, of the closeness of her nearly evoked name.

But they danced through the horrible moment.

Silently. 

Together.

Yellow swallowed thickly, and Blue Diamond was merciful; she gently took her wife’s splinted hand.

“Pink,” she murmured softly, the word, the name, the ghost reverent on her tongue.

Holy.

“Those eyes,” Yellow croaked painfully, folding her fingers into the gaps between Blue’s own. “That wide smile.”

“I know,” Blue whispered. “I know.”

“I can see why you like him, Blue,” she said seriously. “He hooks you in.”

Blue’s mind worked far ahead of her. Even though she didn’t explicitly articulate it, even though she likely never would, it was clear that Yellow was amongst this number. 

She liked Steven Universe.

She cared.

“Before you even know it,” she agreed softly. “Before you’re even aware.”

“It’s all so very sudden,” Yellow muttered uncomfortably, frowning, a divot forming between her dark brow.

And Blue thought to herself, very quietly, that that was the nature of love, really. 

It was all so very sudden.

And beautiful and extraordinary and rare.

And sad and horrible and tragic.

And lasting.

Even when it happened suddenly.

(Even when it was suddenly taken away.)

“What isn’t in this world?” Blue murmured, and she gently skimmed the side of her wife’s hand with her thumb, watching as this simple revelation played out across her powerful features.

Smoothing them.

Sanding and softening all those rough edges.

“Frankly,” she finally said, smiling a little sadly, “I have no damn clue.”

ii.

Once upon a time, there was a princess, a knight, and a little elven girl, all tucked up in bed together, side by side by side. 

Blue ran her fingers through her daughter’s mass of curly hair as she snored lightly. Her tiny hand was curled into the front of Yellow’s pajama shirt, knobbly fingers twisted into the fabric, secure there. She’d fallen asleep protesting the need for sleep, trying to convince her mothers for one story more, and just as Blue had finally conceded—she rarely ever didn’t when it came to Pink—her hooded eyes drifted to a close beneath the gentle lamp-strewn haziness of the room, where she was warm.

Safe.

Loved.

For that was the crucial fact, the fundamental thing—Pink Diamond was loved most of all.

“We’re never going to have a sex life again, are we?” Yellow lamented, slanting a honey-eyed gaze at her wife over the top of Pink’s head.

Amusement in the expression.

Fondness.

Blue laughed lightly and could not help but play along, teasing her body upwards so that she was propped on her elbow, and she could look at her wife properly, drinking in the way she looked at ten o’clock at night, with her hair still a little wet from the shower. There was a certain gentleness in her hawklike face that she tended to eschew during the day around business colleagues, subordinates, and clients, but here, in the safety of their shared bedroom, it had always been implicitly understood that even birds of prey had to roost, too.

“It isn’t too late, you know,” Blue returned, her voice warm, low, suggestive . Yellow had started it after all; it was only fair that she finished. “We can simply move her to her own bed…”

“And chance waking her up again? Hell, no. It was an ordeal just getting her to sleep.”

“The couch is always an option.”

Yellow scoffed imperiously, poking her lips out in a magnificent imitation of her mother’s trademark pout.

“Every time we try that, one of us falls off the damn thing.”

“Hey,” Blue laughed again, causing a heavy strand of hair to fall from where it had been swept from behind her ear, “I wasn’t the one who vouched for hardwood floors.”

Yellow pulled on a faux-offended look like it was one of her favorite ties, dramatically starfishing one of her hands across her chest, exactly where her collared pajama shirt dipped into a vee.

“Well excuse me for thinking that carpet looks outdated.”

“You’re impossible,” Blue smiled gently, shaking her head.

“I believe the word you’re looking for is practical .”

And then, because it was late at night, and they were tired and being stupid, and there was a baby in the bed between them, the two of them caught each other’s eye and couldn’t help themselves, collapsing into laughter that was lovely and loud and ridiculous enough to make Pink briefly stir, her ears twitching irritably at the disturbance.

And then, because this was somehow incredibly funny even though it really, really wasn’t, they laughed some more—silently this time albeit—before eventually flicking off both of their lamps and wrapping their arms around their daughter in the cool darkness, fingers meeting precisely in the middle.

iii.

Friday, July 6th, 9:20AM:

Blue: Hello, Steven. Are you feeling better today?

Blue: If you are, I would love to come visit you again soon. 

Steven: not really

Steven: sorry, Blue

Saturday, July 7th, 9:51AM:

Blue: Just checking in, sweet boy. Respond only when you feel up to it.

Blue: And if that’s not at all… that is perfectly okay, too.

They took their tea and coffee out on the balcony, Blue assuming the right armchair and Yellow the left, and somehow, there was both a rightness and a wrongness to these simple actions.

Because this was new.

And yet, achingly familiar.

One week ago today, they danced this same vicious dance, drinking coffee, drinking tea, sitting in these chairs, appropriating a sense of normality that they did not feel. And the memory of their failed ruse swallowed a lot of the precious oxygen in the air, making it hard for either of them to speak. Blue spidered her hand across her sternum, the tips of her long fingers touching spiny collarbone, and tried to remind herself how to breathe.

Yellow was more finicky in her discomfort, her careworn face drawn as she bobbed her left leg up and down, the heel of her slipper flicking arrhythmically against the smooth floor. And the sun that she stared at was the precise color of a healing bruise, pale ochre against a silver sky. And the bruises on her angularly hewn face were mottled in the strange light, pulsing like miniature supernovas, burning, gradually dulling.

“I heard it was going to rain tomorrow,” the businesswoman eventually said, and it was clear from the way that her voice was clipped that she didn’t really want to talk about the weather.

“I saw that, too,” Blue Diamond replied in a low voice. “On the news, I believe.” She had seen no such thing, in fact, but they were talking again, she and Yellow, and that was something that would occasionally take baby steps.

Weather talk.

Mere pleasantries.

Scratching the deep, dark surfaces with fingernails.

But then, because the weather could only take them so far, they lapsed into a silence that was its own person, sitting indelicately in the space between them.

Pink hair.

Constellation freckles.

A black hoodie.

A mischievous smile.

Once upon a time, there was a princess, a knight, and a little elven girl, who hadn’t been so little anymore—not really. She’d been tall and willowy and full of passion for a life she had yet to live. She’d been twenty-one, but both of her mothers had treated her like she was twelve. 

And they loved her, but they suffocated her. 

And they loved her, but they ignored her. 

And they loved her, but the awful and unbearable truth of the matter was that love was not enough. 

Love was the foundation, but it had to be built upon with care and attentiveness—with perceptive eyes and willing ears and flexible hearts. It required sacrifice. It demanded compromise. Mutability. Vulnerability. Change.

And so Blue and Yellow loved Pink Diamond, down to their marrow, down to all the atoms in their four hundred and twelve collective bones, but they failed her in so many of those other important respects. 

And they paid the steep price.

Because once upon a time, the little elven girl who wasn’t so little anymore had had enough of her own fairytale and dreamed of carving out another.

She sought freedom and adventure.

She was daring; she wished to rebel.

But when she did for the first time (and the last), when she snuck out of her palace of a room, there were monsters out there, and nothing in the world had ever prepared her for monsters—not even her parents, who had slain their fair share of monsters: dragons and greedy businessmen and hardhearted mothers.

And so she died, and the princess and the knight were left alone in their high tower to lose their goddamn minds.

In separate rooms.

Away from each other.

They mourned and mourned and mourned.

And on that sun-paled balcony, before she knew it, before she could stop herself, Blue Diamond’s eyes were pooling with hot tears. She tried to swipe them away, so Yellow wouldn’t see, wouldn’t chide her, wouldn’t scold, but Yellow had already seen—of course she had already seen—and her golden eyes were wide.

Lined.

Horror-struck.

“I’m sorry,” Blue pleaded reflexively, covering her face with her tall hands. She was always so very sorry. “I was just... I was thinking of her and I couldn’t help it... and I’m—“

“Don’t apologize, Blue,” Yellow cut across her hoarsely, her voice a sharp knife on the edge of breaking. “Don’t ever feel like you have to apologize to me.”

But Blue didn’t think that this was a particularly healthy way of looking at things either. There were so many things she felt the need to apologize for.

(All of them had to do with looking away.)

“But—“

“Because I was thinking about her, too.” 

The sentence was an admission, rushed, expulsive, thrown to the floor like it was a bomb ready to ignite.

Yellow abruptly flinched, and Blue did, too, waiting for the aftermath of the blow that didn’t quite come. 

So now there was an invisible body in the space between them and a ticking time bomb on the floor. 

Company was always diverse in the Diamonds’ penthouse suite.

Perpetually attuned to their self-made demons.

“You were?” Blue’s voice verged on the edge of offensively wondrous. She dared to look at her wife in the gaps between her fingers, slicing her statuesque profile into vees. Her stern jaw. Her world-weary eyes. The lines crisscrossing her face. The defeated hunch of her Atlantean shoulders.

Blue pulled her fingers downwards until they were tightly clenching the lapels of her robe, fingers sinking into the thin fabric, knuckles turning white at the grip.

“How could I not be?” Each word was acerbic, gritted through the teeth, self-loathing. “Just last week, we did this, too, and I hurt you then… I’ve hurt you so many times over Pink. I should be the one who is saying sorry.”

Yellow looked over then, her face desperately open, as though she was trying to convey the force of her raw penance by expression alone.

How tortured she was.

How craven.

Feral.

Agonized.

Undone.

“And I am sorry, Blue,” she continued, the lines beneath her eyes contracting harshly. “I am so sorry—for every wrong I’ve ever done to you. For every time I’ve made you feel wrong for grieving Pink. I… I have no excuse, no semblance of a justification… I just…” But she violently interrupted herself, her ferociousness seemingly drained from her body as she jerked forward, elbows on her knees, dragging a hand across the whole of her face, uncaring of her stitches.

And she remained like that for what felt like an eternity, a statue ruined, palm covering her mouth

Staring wide-eyed into space.

Into an awfully bruised sky.

Blue Diamond’s entire nervous system was in total disrepair as she looked at her wife.

And tried to comprehend the words she had just said, the very ones she had resigned herself to never hearing. 

Because for all the four years that she had grieved and grieved, Yellow had been right there beside her, insisting that she should get a grip on herself, should get better, should move on.

And here was the apology for all those awful words.

Here was the proof that they had existed, and that they had injured, and that they had hurt.

The creased skin around Yellow’s eyes was damp.

Her robed shoulders trembled.

“Yellow Clytemnestra Diamond,” Blue finally whispered, the name less invocation than it was admonition, less admonition than it was cruelty, less cruelty than it was love, “you cannot honestly believe that it is that simple.”

That caught her attention.

Yellow jerked her head in Blue’s direction so quickly that it looked painful.

“What?”

“Can’t you see?” She asked, a pleading note in her voice as she leaned a little across the gap between their chairs, her silvery hair falling in loose gossamer curtains around her face. “It isn’t all just you, and it isn’t all just me either. It’s both of us. Together. My God and my goodness, it always has been.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Yellow snapped, her face leached of its color as she scrabbled for purchase, for a reasonable ledge upon which to mount her own cross. “You were grieving, and I kept pushing you. I couldn’t stand watching you fall apart.”

“But you were grieving, too, Yellow!” Blue all but shrieked, desperate to impress upon her wife how important it was to acknowledge the unplumbed depths of her pain.

To own it, by God.

To share it.

Because she didn’t want to be alone anymore.

She couldn’t bear to be.

“You were hurting, and you were sad,” she continued unrestrainedly, tears pricking the corners of her eyes again. She made no attempt to brush them away this time. “And I was so cruel, Yellow. I wanted you to acknowledge it for my own selfish reasons, and then, at the very same time, I was desperate to push you away. You hurt me, but fundamentally, I hurt you, too, and you can’t just… you can’t take away our history like that. You can’t shoulder all these four years on your own. It doesn’t work like that. Love doesn’t! Marriage doesn’t! We don’t!”

Blue Diamond’s chest heaved painfully at the end of all this, as though she had just run a marathon. She rubbed her sternum again, trying to excise the damage, but there was so much of it there—so many hundreds of days worth—and she was so tired.

Exhausted.

But still, there was more to be said; there were mountains between hers and Yellow Diamond’s chairs.

Insurmountable oceans.

And Yellow was frozen, a monument to her own colossal grief.

Stone.

Leaking stone.

She had fountains for eyes; they dripped and dripped.

“And we hurt Pink,” Blue whispered, closing her eyes against this final, horrible truth as the tears continued to lance down her long face, salting her cracked lips. “Oh, my God, how we hurt that poor child. She wanted so badly to grow up, and we wouldn’t let her. We looked away. And that’s what I think about every time I close my eyes, Yellow. Her last words to me echo perpetually in the dark of my head.”

You’ll never let me grow up, will you?

She couldn’t help herself then; she let out a bitter sob, wrenched to her very core.

Because their daughter was dead and never coming back, and the pain of that simple fact would haunt her until the day she died, the memories of her so many thousands of scattered ghosts.

Eternal.

Omnipresent.

Her own constructed gods to worship and to fear.

“I was grieving,” Yellow confessed hoarsely, and the naked baldness of it forced Blue to open her eyes again to take a look. Her wife was rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet, fingers dug into the thighs of her pajama pants. Without her trademark three piece suit, without her makeup, without her man-killing heels, she seemed so much smaller than usual—less adamantine, more human. “And I hurt you.”

“Yes,” Blue said simply.

It was a mere syllable; it cost everything in her to utter it.

“And you were grieving… and you didn’t mean to… but you… you hurt me, too.”

“But sometimes,” Blue reminded her gently, the words awful on her lilting tongue, “I absolutely did mean to. I wanted to hurt you, Yellow… I wanted you to feel the barest inch of pain that I felt and suffer with me. Us. Together.”

Yellow looked like she didn’t know what to say to that, so she ignored it, striking the heel of one of her hands across her running face, sniffing harshly.

“And we hurt Pink,” she carried on, this unforgivable truth the salt in the exposed wound. Yellow’s voice broke at the end as the pain of it simply burned. “We hurt her so many times over.”

There was only one possible answer to this leveled charge, too.

“Yes.”

Yellow closed her eyes against this final condemnation, wincing harshly, as though skewered through with a sword. Her jaw was red in the place where she’d tried to wipe away the tears that still continued to flow down her angular face.

“So what do we do now?” She asked, and the question was almost childish in her stringent voice. The desperation in her golden eyes pleaded for an answer, a foundation upon which to stand. “Where the hell do we even go from here?”

It was a simple question at the same time that it was a loaded one.

It engendered the possibilities of more pain, dissolution, and grief.

The startling potentiality that neither Blue nor Yellow Diamond would ever recover from the loss of their only child.

Their shared tomb of a bleak and horrible future.

But there was hope there, too.

The startling possibility of it.

The barest potentiality.

Small.

Slight.

Goddamn miraculous even.

But there.

Taught first to Blue Diamond by a boy in a cemetery, so many days upon long, aching days ago.

Thinking clearly for the first time in four years or perhaps not thinking straight at all, the fifty-five year old woman tenderly reached her shaking hand across the gap between their chairs and held her palm upwards as though it had a flower in it, inviting her wife’s fingers to fill in the empty spaces, to imagine a conceivable future where they could one day hold hands and be content.

“I don’t know,” she murmured, her voice also quite childish, the words so very small. “But wherever it is, Yellow, let’s go together.”

To heaven.

To hell.

To the grave.

To their golden years.

Yellow stared at her open hand for the longest fraction of an infinity, and there was exquisite agony in her eyes, painful tenderness, too.

Paradoxes and contradictions.

“Okay,” she finally whispered, taking Blue Diamond’s hand, interlinking their long fingers.

“Okay.”

iv.

Once upon a time, there was a princess, a knight, and a night that seemed to swallow them both entirely whole.

Because White Diamond wasn’t doing well. 

Her live-in nurse had called Yellow just today and told her that some days were worse than others, and worse days were become less exception than the rule; she was often agitated, frustrated, terrified, confused; she thought that Yellow was still at boarding school; she saw shadows of strange men on the alabaster walls; she missed her own mother, who had been dead for some forty-odd years; she wanted to send her dearest Starlight a postcard from Paris.

As they laid in bed together in the darkness, Blue wrapped her arms around her wife’s tense body, pressing soft lips against her pillow-rumpled hair.

“Mother always said that she wanted a grand funeral when her time came,” Yellow said stiffly, each word yanked from behind gritted teeth. “If her casket cost less than a hundred grand, she’d haunt me from the aether for the rest of my life.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Blue sighed, a little sad, a little amused, a little fond. Her mother-in-law had always been quite the character, larger than life, always meticulously dressed in Gucci jumpsuits that were more expensive than most people’s home mortgages. 

“She wants to be buried in the same crypt as my grandparents naturally,” Yellow continued in that same halting voice, “and I told her that she was being ridiculous. Someone would have to knock out a damn wall to fit another casket in there.”

But Blue knew her wife too well, perhaps better than she knew herself sometimes with her obstinate avoidance of all things introspective in nature.

“My colleague’s husband is a contractor,” she said gently, skimming her fingers up and down Yellow’s sleeved arm. “I can get a quote for you on Monday...?”

“Mm,” came a noncommittal grunt, which Blue correctly interpreted as reluctant assent.

The silence laid thickly upon the two women then.

Seconds passed.

Electric minutes.

Blue could almost feel the tension agitating Yellow’s bones.

And then—

“We should talk about our own burial plans one day in the near future,” she said brusquely. “At the very least, we need to have the Zircons codify our basic intentions into a will.”

Blue stared at the back of her wife’s head incredulously, eyes wide, her dark brow contracting somewhere in the middle. With some effort, she extricated her arms from around her, so that she could prop herself up on one elbow more easily.

“Yellow Clytemnestra Diamond,” she whispered, unable to quite keep the emotion from her voice, the rising pitch, “what on Earth do you mean? We’re not even fifty yet.”

Goodness, they were barely forty. 

“Accidents happen all the time,” Yellow reasoned sagely, rolling around to face Blue properly, “and I want to leave Pink with a clear blueprint. Otherwise, you and I might end up in neon pink caskets as Weezer plays over our grave.”

“How serious of you,” Blue quipped, lowering herself down to the pillow again so that they were at eye level. In the barest light that seeped through the curtains, she saw that there were tired lines scoring Yellow’s face, straining shadows. 

“I’m being completely serious,” she protested shortly. “Not about Weezer, perhaps, but the fact that we should have solidified plans.”

Abstractly, Blue knew she was correct—it was only common sense for them to put their affairs in order, even if they were young, and perhaps especially while they were. And yet, she had a feeling that this particular topic of conversation wasn’t strictly about the common sense of it, the practicality, the realism.

It was more so about the haunted look in Yellow’s eyes.

And the stiffness of her body.

And her sick mother.

Assuredly, it was about grief.

“Yellow,” Blue only whispered, reaching across the barest gap between them and placing the palm of her hand on the woman’s warm cheek. Her thumb cradled that imperial jaw, tracing its harsh geometry, loving it softly.

And Yellow Diamond immediately jerked, as though stung by such a gentle, careful touch, but ultimately, she didn’t move away from it.

She leaned into it, in fact.

And closed her dark-stricken eyes.

Sighing.

“Sorry,” she muttered thickly. “I was being morbid... I just... it’s all becoming real to me, I think...”

Blue remained silent in this awful darkness, simply listening, simply holding her wife’s face. 

“The inevitability that one day, my mother isn’t going to call me on the phone to chew my ass out about the company again... she’s just always been so stubborn, so implacable, that to imagine her as anything else is...”

But she trailed off, opening her eyes again. They were strangely filmy, bright but simultaneously dull.

“Well, you know what it is,” she finished awkwardly.

The words sprung immediately to Blue’s clever and elocutionary mind: unbearable, unfathomable, cruel.

She decided quickly, though, against saying any of them aloud; thinking them was punishment enough.

“I know,” she whispered, continuing to study the planes of her wife’s jaw by touch alone. She chose not to say anything when there was sudden dampness on the side of her hand.

“What do I do, Blue? The question was hushed, strangled, barely articulated into the night. “What happens next?”

Blue Diamond didn’t particularly know grief yet, the harrowing nature of it, its iron-sharp teeth.

And so that was the only answer she could give her wife in the end, as intelligent as she was, as intuitive, and as sensitive to the natures of others.

“I don’t know,” she admitted gently, “but I promise you, Yellow Diamond, I’ll be by your side through all of it.”

In sickness and in health.

’Til death did them part.

’Til Weezer apparently one day played over their grave.

“How sentimental of you,” Yellow laughed humorlessly in a failure of an attempt to hide that she was touched.

Blue leaned over then and pressed her lips against Yellow’s cool forehead, fingers still cupping her face. And when the stalwart general of a businesswoman’s entire body shuddered, she was merciful again; she pretended not to notice.

“Yes.”

v.

Tuesday, July 10th, 7:22PM:

Steven: i’m sorry for just getting back to you, Blue. It’s been a rough couple of days.

Blue: I know how that feels.

Steven: it’s just kinda hard to get outta my own head right now.

Blue typed and sent her reply just as the door leading into the penthouse suite abruptly swung open: I know how that feels, too.

When she glanced up from her phone from where she was sitting on the couch, Yellow Diamond was limping through the threshold in such a way that it was painfully obvious that she was trying to hide that she was limping—holding her shoulders ridiculously straight and grimacing as though to subjugate any pain she was feeling in the firm press of her mouth.

Though she was dressed in a button down with black slacks and a suit vest to match, she wasn’t quite coming home from work; rather—as she’d told Poppy to tell Blue earlier that morning—she had been at the hospital all day.

Doing some more tests.

Placing her phone facedown on the nearby end table, Blue narrowed her eyes in what she hoped was sympathy but probably more so resembled fear.

“Yellow?” She asked softly, her voice small and tremulous and terrified of its own aggrandized shadow. She loathed herself; she didn’t know how to be anyone other than herself. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” came the immediate and stubborn reply as the woman shuffled over to the couch, her face unbending in unsubtle relief when she finally collapsed into a sitting position. Her palm immediately went to her right thigh, which Blue knew had been the one heavily bruised in the accident.

Blue’s brow bent pointedly over her arctic eyes.

Coldly.

“No,” Yellow amended herself, abashed, embarrassed, sniffing haughtily. “It’s only my leg, though. I was on it too much today.”

“I told you you could borrow my cane.”

“And I told you that that was the last thing I wanted to do,” she muttered, flushing, continuing to rub the inflicted area. “Besides, you need it more.”

Because it was always a competition between them—who was suffering the most. And for some odd and likely unhealthy reason, it was one competition that the ambitious CEO didn’t like to win.

Blue sighed heavily at this silent observation, disturbing the heavy braid that was slung across her shoulder, before slowly pulling herself upwards from the couch, drawing her wife’s incredulous, harried gaze.

“Wait! I didn’t mean for you to leave—”

But Blue only shook her head, quelling Yellow’s protests with the gesture, before slowly hobbling over to the kitchen and slowly hobbling back, this time bearing the ice pack that she sometimes took to bed with her and a gray towel to wrap around it. Using the head of her cane cane as leverage, knuckling it tightly, she nudged the white ottoman towards Yellow with her good knee until it was right in front of her.

“Prop your bad leg up,” she commanded quietly, her voice taking on that same authoritative note that she had once used with her pupils. “Elevating your leg will help drain some of the tension from it.”

And like the best of the headmistress’s former pupils, Yellow knew it was best to swiftly comply.

Laboriously, with obvious discomfort, she used her hands to drag her right leg onto the ottoman, wincing a little with each microscopic adjustment of her thigh. Blue, careful to give the limb wide berth, lowered herself down to the ottoman, too, where she encased the ice pack in the towel, neatly tucking the ends in together so that the cloth wouldn’t unloose itself.

Yellow watched all of this with offensively wide eyes, staring at Blue as though she was turning water into wine or doing somersaults in the middle of the living room. Self-conscious, hyperconscious, anxious, painfully aware, she tucked a stray strand of silvery hair behind her ear and tried not to pay attention to her as she gently pressed the ice pack against her leg, meticulous to cover the entirety of the affected area.

“Cold helps,” she only proffered in explanation. “I can instruct one of the maids to change it out for a new one in a few hours or so.”

“Thank you, Blue.” Yellow’s voice was constricted, tender, raw.

Blue didn’t think she deserved such an outpouring of emotion for such a simple task, this tiny, most minuscule of kindnesses; she glanced away, feathers of color dusting her hollowed cheeks.

“It’s nothing,” she returned gently. “You would do the same for me…”

A slight pause.

Loaded.

Unbearable.

She felt the need to extinguish it at once.

“You have done the same for me,” she added with quiet forcefulness, still not quite looking in Yellow’s direction, drawing both of her hands into her lap. They were cold now from handling the ice pack, rigid and stiff. 

“So many times over.”

After all, how many times had Yellow Diamond sat vigil by her bedside in these past four years? Bathed her? Accompanied her to doctor’s appointments? Taken care of her the best way she knew how?

The number was unfathomable to Blue, innumerable even—both from a lack of attention and from the stunning knowledge that indeed, there were probably too many times to count.

There was a shifting noise then—Yellow adjusting herself on the couch, perhaps—and when Blue finally forced herself to glance up, she could see that there was a rumpled look in her wife’s eyes—the same messiness of an unironed collar, the stain of tea spilt on a tiled floor. She had jerked forward as though to reach out and touch Blue, but the position of her extended leg had made it difficult.

“But I could have done so much more, Blue,” she said softly, with quiet pain, the barren and fervent truth of it shining in those liquid gold eyes. “I watched you suffer more than I ever helped you… I’m so sorry.”

And when Blue immediately opened her mouth to protest, to rearticulate that it wasn’t as straightforward as that, that they had both done inconceivable wrongs to each other, that Yellow had done the best that she could, Yellow shook her head ferociously, her aspect taking on that same indefinable sense of authority which had so permeated her reign as the CEO of Diamond Electric.

And like the wisest of Yellow’s colleagues, Blue knew when it was best to simply stand down.

“No! I’ve been thinking about this,” she continued doggedly, “and I’ve come to the conclusion that just because we’ve both hurt each other doesn’t very well cancel out the fact that we did. That’s asinine, Blue—fallacious logic. I hurt you. I pushed you away. I didn’t want to acknowledge your grief for the inglorious reason that if I did, I would have to acknowledge my goddamn own.”

She raised her voice only at the end, flinching when she did, looking away.

The pale light flooding down from the strips in the ceiling cast strange shadows across her beaten face, and Blue Diamond’s heart bruised with the utter surreality of it all.

The confession.

The accountability.

The simple agony in Yellow’s voice, laid bare.

There were no barriers between them now, no walls, no facades, no meticulously constructed pretenses—only words.

Words and words and words.

Yellow Diamond had been there for Blue in so many different ways in four years… but she had hurt Blue so many times in so many different ways, too, and that was apparently something that neither of them were allowed to forget.

How many times had Blue laid in the horrible dark by herself, silent tears streaming down her face weathered? And how many times had Yellow insisted to her physician do up her meds, as though the underlying problem of grief could be treated first and foremost with a pill? How many times had her wife raised her voice at her—so devastatingly harsh, aloof, and cruel?

The number was unfathomable, innumerable.

Blue could not immediately swallow the lump in her throat.

“I… I remember thinking that if I could just keep myself together on the outside,” Yellow half-whispered, “I could be strong enough for both of us. I couldn’t bear being weak.”

And she flexed her fists on top of her powerful thighs, scraped knuckles trembling.

And she somehow found enough courage to look Blue in the eye.

And Blue stared at her right back, her eyes melting with awful tears.

“Grief isn’t weakness, Yellow,” she said ardently, with all the conviction she could muster, with all the atoms in her broken body.

Because she knew grief; she understood it; it was her closest companion, her very best and most horrible friend.

Yellow sniffed and swiped a hand across her face as though it would do anything, as though it would annihilate the over-brightness of her eyes.

“What is it then?” She asked, and from the quiet tone of her voice, Blue thought that she’d already guessed the answer.

But she said it aloud anyway, for both of them to hear and to know and to never forget again.

She reached over and gently took her lover’s hand and whispered, “Love.”

Tuesday, July 10, 9:02PM:

Blue: It’s such a hard feeling to contend with, sweet boy—the feeling of everything, the feeling of nothing, the feeling of drowning in the empty space of your own head.

Blue: I was there.

Blue: Some days, I still am.

Blue: But please know, Steven Universe, that I am here for you.

Blue: So many people are here for you.

Wednesday, July 11, 6:58AM:

Steven: thank you, Blue

vi.

Once upon a time, there was a princess, a knight, and a dead queen to mourn and to bury in a one-hundred thousand dollar casket.

On the day that White Diamond died, Blue washed her wife’s hair when they showered together that night, rubbing her fingers gingerly across her scalp as the steaming water broke across the crowns of both of their heads.

Yellow braced her shaking hands against the marbled walls and tried not to make so much as a sound.

Her shoulder blades were knife-sharp with the excruciating tension of holding herself together.

(Of not falling apart.)

Blue kissed the skin right between the middle of those tremulous mountains and scrubbed those places tenderly, too.

And when they dressed in their pajamas and went to bed together later on, loosely intertwining hands and painfully letting go, Pink Diamond came in, wearing one of Yellow’s old t-shirts as a gown, and wrapped her arms around Blue’s neck first, pressing a gentle kiss against her head. Her dark eyes were red from where she had been crying, for she had loved her Gran dearly, even if the eighty-five year old woman had taken habitual offense to the teenager’s choices of music. 

“Goodnight, Mom.”

Blue closed her eyes in her daughter’s warm embrace and inhaled the scent of her floral shampoo.

“Goodnight, Pink.”

“I love you so much.”

“I love you, too.

She used to say it so easily then, and she said it so often, too.

It was commonplace.

It was habit.

(What had ever happened in the intervening years? Blue Diamond, to her eternal condemnation, could not know.)

And then the sixteen-year old dutifully shuffled over to the other side of the bed, where Yellow was sitting on the edge, staring blankly into space, the lines beneath her eyes stark, as though dictated in black ink. And Pink wrapped her arms around her other mother, too, burying her nose against that tall column of a neck.

Tears flowing down her freckled face, she whispered, loud enough for Blue to hear, “I’m so sorry, Momma.”

Yellow Diamond didn’t seem capable of moving a muscle at that very moment, more statue than human, obelisk-like, calcified.

But Blue watched as their beautiful daughter squeezed all the tighter, uncaring that she was meeting stone, her slender shoulders wrenching with a sob.

“I’m going to miss her, too.”

Yellow hadn’t cried since she had first gotten the call earlier that morning, and she didn’t start then either; Blue knew her too well; she was desperately afraid to be vulnerable for anyone to see. 

And yet, with slow rigidity, with a tenderness that almost did not befit her, labored though it was, the businesswoman reached upwards and encircled her arms around her daughter, drawing the sixteen-year old girl into her lap as though she was that same child who had perpetually come into her mothers’ room after a bad nightmare.

“Shh,” she croaked, and there was pain in her fractured voice.

Pronounced agony.

Love.

Blue’s heart stuttered at the sight and at the sound.

“Shh, Pink,” she repeated, cradling her child, tangling her fingers in that wild, pink hair. “I’m here.”

vii.

Thursday, July 12, 7:12PM:

Steven: hey Blue?

Blue: Yes, Steven?

Steven: You can come visit me tomorrow if you want.

Steven: Would morning be okay? 9:00 maybe? I think they have some more tests to do on me in the afternoon

Blue: I’ll be there.

The summer evening was flush with soft colors—pink and indigo and aegean blue, all bleeding into each other, all melting, until the sky was falling with hazy radiance, white stars dotting the sky like angels in the night. Blue was on the balcony when Yellow arrived home, listening to a familiar piano arrangement that was playing on the classical radio station; the portable stereo was sitting on the table between the chairs.

“You’ve always liked this one,” Yellow said fondly, and when Blue turned around, she saw that her wife was leaning against the sliding glass doorway, dressed as impeccably as usual in a black button down and well-tailored khakis. The collar of her shirt was popped up around her sinewy neck, and there was a manila folder tucked neatly beneath her unhurt arm. She’d spent yet another day at the hospital, doing heavens only knew what. 

At least she wasn’t coming home with any new injuries, though. 

“Debussy?”

“Chopin,” Blue smiled faintly, and the gesture stretched a little stiffly across her unpracticed lips. “Nocturne in E Flat Major… I used to play it at my parents’ estate for our guests…”

“You used to get so frustrated when you pressed the wrong key,” Yellow teased as she pushed herself off of the door and ambled over. She didn’t quite sit down in her chair, but rather placed the manila folder down in front of the stereo before straightening up again, her silhouette tall in the burgeoning night. “Your brow would furrow just in the middle before you’d start all over again, intent on getting it right this time…”

Blue Diamond’s heart gently pulsed in her throat as she stared upwards at this figure she knew so well—so stern and so simultaneously magnanimous, so magnificent and so undeniably… broken, the lines beneath her eyes fixed scars, her face an angular canvas for cuts and oddly healing bruises.

“I’ve always been a perfectionist, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

Yellow drew a purposeful step closer, and Blue instinctively leaned back, her stomach clenching against wild and irrational and warranted fright.

“Yellow…”

Because then, with a little awkwardness in her eyes, with a hell of a lot of fear, Yellow Diamond slowly proffered her hand, the metal band of her watch catching in the golden light that illumined the balcony.

There was no mistaking the gesture.

It was an invitation.

“The song’s almost over,” Blue whispered, her throat savanna-dry.

“So?” Yellow meant it to be casual, Blue inferred, but the sound came out too agitated. Color leaked from the sky and seemed to scribble the hollows of her cheeks in. “That’s never stopped us before.”

She was embarrassed.

It was adorable.

And strange.

And oddly sad.

And so, Blue Diamond swallowed her fears.

She took her wife’s hand in the star-strewn darkness.

They could be embarrassed and strange and oddly sad together.

Relief shattering her face, Yellow leaned forward then and wrapped her arms around Blue to help her stand, going slowly, with all consummate gentleness. Their bodies were so close that they could hear the hummingbird beating of each other’s hearts—loud, quick, and desperately afraid.

Blue placed her chin on Yellow’s shoulder and allowed herself to be held by her wife for the first time in four years.

The thought and the sensation nearly made her want to cry.

Yellow Diamond led them slowly and carefully as the arrangement lolled through its sweeping notes. With Blue’s bad hip and Yellow’s sore leg, they couldn’t do much more than turn around in careful circles.

Once upon a time, they would have both sworn that they could out-waltz a king.

“I had an interesting day today,” Yellow said suddenly, as though this was explanation enough for why she was dancing with her wife. Her breath was warm against the tip of Blue’s right ear.

“Oh?”

“Indeed,” she nodded, her chin briefly pressing against Blue’s shoulder, “but I’ll have to tell you about it later, I’m afraid.”

“You’re such a tease,” Blue murmured, but the accusation didn’t come out quite as light as she wanted it to. Her voice shook, and her hands trembled where they were resting on the woman’s back.

Tears danced in her sea-dark eyes.

“Something of the sort, yes.”

The song continued on, but it was nearing its beautiful end—a series of high-lilting lifts and then a final, graceful fall.

Blue greeted every note like it was an old friend, long lost at sea, now come home.

“I’m going to see Steven tomorrow,” she whispered as they continued to draw their slow circle upon the floor. “Early. He asked me to come visit.”

A slight pause.

The piano tinkled a spray of final notes.

And then, there was silence.

“I don’t think his head is in a good place.”

The silence made the proclamation all the more wretched.

Yellow stopped them in their place but didn’t quite let go of Blue, her fingers curling into the thin fabric of her dress.

“I don’t find that hard to believe,” she murmured. “We wouldn’t be in a good place either if…”

But rightfully so, she let the end of that particular hypothetical trail off into the night, for Yellow and Blue Diamond both weren’t in a good place either yet. They were dancing, and they were tentatively smiling, and they were learning how to love each other all over again.

But that was only the beginning.

The start of another piano arrangement began to rise softly from the stereo.

“Bach,” Blue said automatically to smooth the rough moment over. “One of the Goldberg Variations, I believe.”

And so they began their gentle revolutions again, swaying, barely moving their feet to the solemn melody. The wind ran its fingers across them, stirring Blue’s heavy braid, ruffling the collar of Yellow’s shirt.

“Do you know what you're going to say to him?”

It was a remarkably intrusive question, or perhaps it very well wasn’t. Perhaps Blue was judging off the standard that four years of standoffishness from her wife had taught her so emphatically. The questions she most associated with Yellow now largely had to do with whether or not she’d taken all her pills.

She shivered a little, even though the air was mild.

“No,” she replied, closing her sunken eyes. “I haven’t the faintest idea…”

She hadn’t been able to rouse herself out of four years of grief; despite whatever Pearl seemed to believe, she wasn’t entirely sure that she possessed the words that would be enough to help Steven Universe. For even he hadn’t given her words that fateful day in the cemetery.

He’d given her kindness.

He’d given her a flower.

“You’ll figure it out,” Yellow said with an assuredness that made Blue’s heart flutter again. It was a wonder that she could even breathe.

“You say that with such confidence on my behalf.”

And as Bach’s mournful contemplation scored that profound night, Yellow Diamond drew back, so that Blue could see her face, every sharply drawn facet of it, illuminated in that softly scattered lamplight—fifty-six years of life, pressed into the layers of her skin, lines and shadows and lines. These were the lines that had formed beneath her eyes when their daughter first died. And there was the cut that raced across the bridge of her nose from the car accident. And here were the stitches that currently served as a memento of that scary night, too. And there were the slight parentheses formed around her mouth whenever she frowned, relics of time and age and grief.

Her golden eyes were bright with emotion and ancient with the weight of so many passed years.

“Because I know you,” she returned simply, “and I love you.”

They were merely three words, but Blue’s heart nearly failed to hear them.

Spoken to her.

Meant for her.

By the person whom she loved.

Oh, dear God, when was the last time anyone had ever told her that they loved her?

She could not say; she strained to remember.

“I love you, too,” she whispered it back, even though it was only four words, and they were all so very semantically simple. 

But the expression on Yellow Diamond’s face was anything but as she, too, registered what it was to be loved by another, her mouth agape, pleasure and pain and ecstasy and terror warring across her face in dizzying swirls.

Oh, dear God, when was the last time she had told Yellow that she loved her?

She could not say; she strained to remember.

And there was hesitancy then.

And vast, godawful fear.

And there was longing then.

And tender, unquestioning desire.

And they both leaned forward then…

And tilted their heads in just the right way…

And they…

viii.

Once upon a time, there was a princess, a knight, and a master bedroom that smelled like a fresh coat of paint. 

It was empty as of yet, hollow and silver-walled and woefully unadorned—the movers had just placed the bed and mattress down. They’d be coming back later on that day with the nightstands, armoires, and dressers—all custom-made for the Diamonds’ penthouse suite. 

For their first home.

“Wait,” Yellow said, and there was mischief in her twenty-eight year old voice that took Blue by pleasant and tender surprise. “Let’s finalize this bridal style.”

“Yellow,” she laughed, her face coloring pink, “don’t be ridiculous.”

But the heiress only shook her head, grinning with all the self-assuredness of her love and general air of arrogance, as she bent down and scooped her wife into her well-toned arms. Instinctively, Blue wrapped her own arms around that corded neck to help support her weight and found herself so close to Yellow’s face that she could not help but be enchanted.

By her.

Because of her.

This golden-eyed knight.

“I’m not being ridiculous,” Yellow scoffed, pressing a quick kiss against her head. “I’m being romantic. Haven’t you heard of the concept before?”

“Abstractly,” she teased. “In novels and fairytales and the like.”

“You read too many books.” “And you read too little.”

“Nerd.”

“Neolith.”

And they grinned at each other with unbearable affection as Yellow Diamond walked them over the threshold of the room, careful to maneuver her body in such a way that Blue’s feet didn’t hit the doorframe. 

When they were on the other side, though, she gently placed her down, so that they were directly in front of the bed that would soon be their own. Blue would assume the right side and Yellow the left, and on some nights, they would meet directly in the middle.

“Soon,” Blue murmured, softly interlinking her fingers with Yellow’s. The bands of their wedding rings clinked delicately at the touch.

“No more bumming out in my mother’s mansion,” Yellow smiled, playing a little with Blue’s hand, swinging it.

“And hearing her daily tirades about being late to breakfast…”

“Oh, yes,” came that harsh, lovely laugh that Blue so loved. “I certainly won’t miss those.”

And they turned to face each other then, light playing in their youthful eyes. 

And Yellow reached up and tentatively brushed back a strand of loose hair behind Blue’s ear.

And Blue leaned into the touch because she could not imagine ever doing anything else in this world.

And their futures stretched before them, ribbon-like, graceful, spiraling into each other’s lifelines with an inextricability that they simultaneously believed in and found hard to fathom. They were each other’s beginnings and their ends. They were partners, soulmates, wives. They dreamed, in that very moment, tiny though it was, of all the things that they would do together over the course of an interconnected lifetime. They would chase their ambitions with wild abandon and climb to the very height of them side by side. They would take long walks in the park near their high rise. They would go see musicals on the date nights that Blue chose and drink the most expensive bottles of champagne over steak and lobster on the ones that Yellow preferred. They would fall into the same bed every night, the very bed in front of them now. They would fall asleep in each other’s arms—warm, loved, secure. Maybe they would get a cat at some point, even though Yellow swore up and down that she was allergic to them. And maybe they would travel the world, seeing all the sights and wonders and ultimately concluding that somehow, even the Eiffel Tower paled in comparison to the view that they had of each other.

And maybe, one day, they would even adopt a child to love, to raise, and to cherish.

For Blue had always wanted a little girl.

The possibilities were endless.

And so, they leaned forward then…

There was nothing else left to do.

And they tilted their heads in just the right way…

And they…

ix.

Thursday, July 12, 7:45PM:

Steven: I’m scared, Blue.

They danced in the incomplete darkness for as long as they could both bear it, but eventually, their bodies caught up to them—Blue’s aching hip and Yellow’s sore leg and the overwhelming awkwardness of it all that arrested their limbs, too, as they slowly remembered what it was to touch each other.

They hadn’t touched each other in so many years.

Holding on to the head of her cane for support, Blue leaned down and turned off the stereo, while Yellow collected that curious manila envelope from the table and tucked it beneath her arm again.

When they both straightened up again, their noses were inches away from each other.

Blue could see every microfilament in her wife’s expression, softly realized by the amber light above. She was a beautiful creature, down to every last line that had struck itself across her face. Those dark lashes and golden eyes. The way her teeth gently pressed into her lower lip in tender and shy hesitancy.

With this sort of notable self-consciousness, though, she stepped backwards and away, giving them both space to breathe.

Blue’s heart felt as though it was going to beat right out of her chest.

“You can shower first,” Yellow said, rubbing the back of her neck. “I have some paperwork to attend to anyway.”

Oh.

She’d forgotten, for however long that they had been on the balcony together, that it was commonplace for them to part at night.

That they weren’t together.

How awful and how unbearable.

How completely and utterly cruel.

Yellow’s gaze flicked down to the manila envelope, but Blue’s remained centered on her wife’s face as she struggled to articulate the words she desperately wanted to say and ardently dreaded to, her lips partially cracked open, her entire body electric with nerves.

“Blue?” Concern bent Yellow’s brow. She shifted her weight uncomfortably from foot to foot.” Are you—”

“Come with me, Yellow.”

Oh, the awful and beautiful and terrible words—how they fell so clumsily and stupidly off her laden tongue.

“What?” The businesswoman’s eyes flew wide open, stretching the lines beneath them into almost comedic proportions.

Blue tried again, slowly extending her hand, palm up, her oversized sleeve dangling from her wrist.

Her skeletal fingers were trembling, but there was no mistaking the gesture.

It was an invitation.

“Come to bed with me, Yellow,” she whispered as tears reflexively blurred her eyes. It was no small wonder that she still had the capacity to cry after so many days and nights of weeping herself undone.

“Please.”

What complicated emotions were going through Yellow Diamond’s mind then, Blue could not entirely say. Sundry emotions seized across her eyes; her mouth wrenched itself open; and for what felt like an eternity, an infinity wrapped into excruciating seconds, she was simply and utterly speechless, staring at that outstretched hand as though she was seeing God for the first time.

How many nights had this woman dreamed of this moment? Blue wondered to herself, pain and love and fear commingling in the column of her throat.

And how many nights have I half-wanted it?

Half-dreaded it?

Craved it.

Pushed it away.

She did not have time to answer these profound questions, though, for with astonishing tenderness, with paramount and equivalent fear, Yellow took her hand, palms against palms, the striations of their fingers aligning themselves perfectly.

“Are you sure?” She asked quietly.

She was thorough as ever; she was giving Blue a readymade out.

Blue Diamond had never been more unsure about anything in her life.

“Yes,” she whispered anyway.

And so they…

Thursday, July 12, 8:15PM:

Blue: It’s okay to be scared, Steven.

x.

Once upon a time, there was a princess, a knight, and a king-sized bed that had always been meant for two.

Theirs was a sad tale.

A tragedy.

Their daughter died, and that was something that neither of them would ever entirely recover from.

But, and all the same, they could love each other nonetheless.

They could be there for each other for the rest of their dwindling days.

Holding hands.

Learning the shapes of each other’s collected and accumulated scars.

Braving the night together, one second, one minute, one fraction of a vast and incomprehensible infinity at a time.

In that dark bedroom, silent tears streamed down Blue Diamond’s face as her wife tentatively held her, her face against her shoulder, her arms encircling the softness of her gowned belly. She rested her slender hands on top of those of tall, leathery ones and didn’t know whether to be devastated that this was the first time they had shared a bed together in four years or so utterly relieved.

Yellow kissed her head.

And the back of her neck.

And her cheek.

And kept asking if she was okay? Was her hip doing fine? Did she need more space?

And Blue replied, every time, in the strongest voice she could muster, “No.”

No, she was not okay.

No, her hip was not fine.

No, she didn’t need more space.

It was all paradoxes and contradictions: grief and love and so many wasted years. The potential for a better future. The awful fear that things could eventually become worse. Blue’s softness and Yellow’s sternness. Blue’s selfishness and Yellow’s tender care.

But they went to bed together, and that was what mattered.

And when Blue Diamond finally fell asleep, for the first time in a very long time, she did not nightmare.

She did not dream.

xi.

Friday, July 13, 7:22AM:

Steven: you think so?

Blue: I know so.

Blue: Being scared is how we know that we are alive.

By the time Blue had woken up and gotten dressed and made it to the kitchen the next morning, Yellow was already gone to work according to Livia, who was fixing Blue’s choice of tea. The slightly bitter aroma sharpened the air.

“She left something for you, though, Mrs. Diamond.” The slight maid used a spoon to point towards the counter. “She asked me to tell you…”

“Thank you, Livia,” she returned gently as she proceeded to the directed area, one doleful cane clink at a time.

Laying on top of the cool marble was the manila envelope Yellow had brought out onto the balcony last night. It was clasp-side down, and the businesswoman’s squared, utilitarian penmanship had dictated a short note to Blue in black ink.

Before she had the chance to read it, though, Livia was sliding the steaming cup of earl gray across the counter, the dark liquid gently sloshing against the rim.

“Do you need anything else, ma’am?”

Blue glanced up and studied the maid’s face, which was tentative with kindness and shy with awe. It suddenly struck her then, with all the precision of a lanced sword, how hard these past four years must have been for her, too.

“No,” she murmured softly. “Thank you, Livia… I think I’m…”

But then, she remembered.

Yes, there was in fact something she required before she went to the hospital today.

“My checkbook if you would, please, Livia… I haven’t the slightest clue where I’ve last placed it.”

If Livia seemed surprised by this odd request, she didn’t betray it in her features, simply nodding with all the delicacy that her natural constitution seemed to entail.

“Yes, Mrs. Diamond.”

“Thank you again.”

And the girl fluttered off, wisp-like in her movements, towards the dark corridor, leaving Blue alone with her thoughts and her tea and the manila envelope beneath her. She looked down again, running her fingers across that familiar scrawl.

Test results. The doctors rushed to get them done. I love you. - Yellow

Blue’s harrowed heart lurched against her ribcage as she comprehended these words, as they seemingly fell to the pit of her stomach.

Sickening her.

Immediately goring her.

She flipped the envelope over and unclasped it with almost indecent haste.

There were about twenty papers in all, neatly stacked; the first sheet was the same shade of light pink that had once been their daughter’s favorite color, and the reminder nearly ruined her where she stood.

But eventually, with trembling fingers, she negotiated the papers out of their sheath, her dark eyes scanning the neatly printed words.

And when she comprehended them, when realization swept down across her body with glorious, sweeping force, Blue Diamond did something she had not an occasion to do for years upon years now.

Strangely enough, though, in these past few weeks alone, it was becoming something of a commonality.

Her lips tilted upward in the barest, most gentle of curves.

And she...

[angelicmichael]

Hoax - Prologue

Michael Langdon x Mallory

Summary: After failing to kill murder house Michael; Mallory must travel back in time to Sojourn era to try again. However; she finds to her horrific discovery that jumping through time repeatedly does not come without its consequences.

Words: 3.0k+

Warnings: Death, They both almost die (or do die) so.. a lot of describing wounds and nearly dying and that jazz ✌🏻, major wounds, lowkey a dark fic, Mallory discusses wanting to kill Michael and finds celebrates it??, angst, Mallory goes and sees his dead body, blood

A/N: this takes place right after Mallory drives away from Michael in the finale btw!! I literally didnt intend on making it this dark but it just happened LOL. I feel like most of the dark stuff is vague so.. it should still be chill. This is the first time ive written millory/character x character so please go easy on me!! I also tried to follow canon and stay accurate to details the best I could but knowing me I probably fucked up somehow LMAO but enjoy 💖💖 major plot twist is coming in the next chapter btw! Also Mallorys thots are italicized.

As soon as Mallory drove away; she knew nearly immeadietly that it was too good to be true. Things could never be this fucking easy.

She felt a pit in her stomach almost instantaneously once she was in the year 2015; Even though she couldnt decipher if the anxiety was a warning or something else.. She continued on with the dark destiny she was put on this earth to fulfull.. to kill the antichrist.

Even though she was fully aware of this; and had come to terms with what she had to do - she learned the hard way that it didnt seem to make things easier at all; like how she dreamed it would. Although, even now as she continued to speed away from the infamous 'murder house', the drop in her stomach seemed to only grow; along with her self doubt.

Was he really dead??

Did I really do it??

She knew that the answer to both of those questions should be yes; but the longer she remained driving in her car, getting farther and farther away from where the incident had occured.. she knew something was wrong.

Mallory suddenly jolted the steering wheel into a sharp left; continuing to turn it until she was doing U-Turn.. She couldnt help but to feel completly bewildered at her own actions - never doing something so impulsive, like going back to a crime scene let alone commit murder, in her life.

Although Mallory felt a bit disgusted with her recent previous actions; she couldnt help but imagine how disgusted she would feel with herself if she didnt pull this off. She mulled over the previous thoughts she had had about this moment and how dreamed it would feel; she thought she would feel joy, elated, and at peace but.. instead she still felt as if she was being suffocated by his presence.

He wasnt gone. Not yet.

She pressed her foot down on the gas, she knew she hadn't gone too far away from Michael's residence yet it seemed as if it was a millenia away. The task she was supposed to complete was starting to seem more and more increasingly impossible the less distance was put between them.

If running him over with a car three times wasnt enough to kill him, whose to say anything else would? What if Constance had brought him inside?? What if she was still out there with him?? Mourning?

Mallory wasnt a monster; she wasnt going to tear away a dying boy from his grandmother in his (hopefully) final moments, even if he was the antichrist.

She felt as if she was a total loss for what to do; which made her grow sick to her stomach because she knew that was a cruel form of denial. She was destined for this moment; every moment thus far had led up to this.. so why did she feel like such a failure? Her thoughts grew more foggy and distant with panic; her throat became entirely dry as she slowed the car down. The murder house now in view; the first thing she noticed.

The red bricks and stained glass windows shined brightly in the sun. The house, which Mallory was sure typically looked beautiful, radiated a terrifying aura.. even more so this time versus when she was here only a mere minutes ago. The expanse and exterior of the house was intimidating; it held a certain danger to it that she couldnt pinpoint her finger on where the source came from.. it certainly was not Michael. Mallory knew that even if he wasnt dead; his powers would fade out for atleast a few minutes from being so wounded.

Mallory stopped the car once she saw Michael's dead body; which still resided in the middle of the road. Her feelings of panic and nausea only amplified once she saw his body -  her gaze lingering upon it. She approached him with no hesitation; she could nearly feel that he was gone.. his spirit momentarily missing.. somewhere else.

She studied him carefully and nearly pitifully as she crouched down to kneel next to his body. His body was littered and splattered with bright red wounds. His pants looked as if they were dip dyed in red paint; His once pale skin along with the majority of his clothes was covered in a bright red splatter. Long, dark red lacerations decorated his face. His mouth was still agape; his once white teeth were coated in the same shade of red his clothes were.

Even though he looked absolutely horrible; Mallory still felt absolutely no remorse for the antichrist. Knowing what he would become, and his sick ways of manipulation deserved no mercy. However, knowing only seconds ago he was nothing but a mere bloody, suffering child.. she couldnt help but to not fight the tears she felt budding at her eyes; letting one slide down her cheek before quickly wiping it away - she knew it was naive to assume she wasnt being watched.

Mallory wasnt stupid - she knew her powers and what she was capable of, like the back of her hand by now. The past few months practically consisted of her testing and expanding on her limits... She knew that healing Michael in this exact moment wasnt out of the question. In fact, it almost seemed to be more difficult to restrain herself from healing him.. but she knew better.

He deserves to fucking suffer. He deserved to rot in his personal hell; wherever that may be.

She couldnt help but to nearly laugh at the thought that he finally got what was fucking coming to him.

Mallory could feel herself shaking with how close she was to Michael now. She couldnt stand how he made her feel when they were this close - almost touching.

She now was kneeling next to his body on the concrete, her knees aching from the rough surface but she couldnt go just yet. Not when she still had no fucking clue where to go from here.

The world seemed as if it came to stand still; nothing seemed like it existed outside of the small bubble that Mallory felt her and Michael were suddenly trapped in.. The birds stopped singing, no cars happened to drive by.. everything just stopped.

All the spirits and souls that Mallory could feel that were trapped within the grounds of the house, didnt bother to make a appearance either. But she knew they were still there... she could still feel their eyes on her. Watching; waiting.

The sun's warmth, which normally Mallory chose to bask in, was starting to make her itch. She could feel her skin start to moisten with sweat.. Instinctively she knew that her sudden newfound state of being uncomfortable was her cue to leave... To go where though? She wasnt sure.

Why am I still here? If everything had happened correctly; if I really killed him.. then why havent I woken up yet??

Mallory continued to stare at him grimly; not quite brave enough to speak but still managing to maintain the courage to sit by him and look at the damage she caused. The most jarring feature of Michael's current appearance would be his eyes. Mallory couldnt help but to stare at them; and it certainly wasnt because they were beautiful.

His once vibrant, sky blue, irises were now starting to look oddly dull. A faint, milky white color looked as if it were painted over them instead.

His skin was now a bruised white; Mallory shakily extended out her hand - pressing the back of her knuckles softly to his forearm. She wanted to see how cold his body was; and when she made contact - she pulled her hand back so fast as if it had been burned. She hissed, the coolness of his skin stunned her. She stared at his body intensely - shocked that she even dared to touch him, let alone even stick around for this long. 

The sounds Michael started to make is what finally drove Mallory to wake up out her near trance she found herself amidst in and to realize the reality of the situation. After minutes of silence and stillness, and sure death, Michael's chest finally started to move. The amount at which his chest moved was nearly minuscule at first; but he was recovering rather quickly.. too fucking quickly for Mallorys liking.

It was almost sickly ironic how Mallorys chest started to move faster and faster as soon as Michael's did; she couldn't help but to feel entirely panicked. The rest of her emotions; her thoughts; her feelings; everything that used to make up her was now fleeting.. rapidly leaving until as she could focus on was the oxygen briskly escaping her.

She watched the color from his skin start to return; the off putting stark whiteness leaving and a very subtle pink gracing his skin tone. More noticeably; she observed how the color in his lips and eyes returned back.. almost appearing normal.

She unconsciously found herself rising; panic still occupying all of her senses. She quickly unfolded her legs and steadied herself as she stood up.. One thought and one thought only rang through her mind like a sick mantra..

I need to get the fuck out of here.

Mallory tried to gasp as she suddenly felt her throat grow incredibly dry; she let out a desperate dry cough. Her eyes started to tear up unwillingly as she felt a enormous amount of self doubt suddenly surge into the core of her being - the feeling slipping momentarily into her soul.

The world around her began to spin and melt away simultaneously; until she felt her physical body melt away from Michael and the Murder House incredibly rapidly before she could even fully process what was happening.

She felt the harsh coldness of the bath tub water for a split second before she emerged; the black water engulfing her as she stayed partially concealed within the water. Immeadietly she found herself gasping and gagging on her tongue from not being able to breath possibly fast enough... The next thing she felt was otherworldly pain. She felt so much fucking pain.

Mallory gripped the edge of the bathtub until her fingertips turned white and her nails threatened to split. She stayed like that for a moment; spitting and gasping, trying to find a way to consume as much oxygen as possible while managing the nearly unimaginable pain. Her entire body throbbed but her eyes felt a different pain; a sickly stinging.

Keeping her posture and preventing herself from slipping entirely back into the black water was a fucking mission in itself, she quickly learned. She didnt even bother to pretend to be quiet.. Her breaths and groans were far too loud to even begin to ignore.

Is Michael still alive?  Where is Myrtle?

Mallorys lungs seemed to return to normal capacity after a while, her gasping decreased until she was utterly and completely quiet. She arose from the water as quietly as she possibly could, biting her lip to prevent making any additional noise from the sudden cold air she felt against her body.. stinging and torturous..

Her eyes still ached, bringing her hands instinctively to her eyes to stop the pain - she realized ones of her hands was still balled into a fist.. holding onto something.

Was that.. is that MICHAELS hair??

Mallory stared at the once curly, perfectly golden strands of hair that lie in her balled up fist in complete horror - it was now a dark red from the blood that had washed off her skin and into the water.

There was no way this was HIS hair. It had to be someone elses; anyone elses! She refused to believe that she was holding onto anything that belonged or had to do with Michael... complete disgust and delirium rendered her from thinking that.

Her first instinct was to drop the hair; but something told her to keep holding onto the lock, it would only serve her well in the future.

Her vision was inky with blood; dark red clouding her vision and making her feel even more impaired and utterly hopeless then she already felt.. even with the large wound still gaping and bleeding from her stomach. Her stomach wound made her entire body ache, trying to stay conscious was a fight within itself.

It happened again. I failed.

She wasnt sure if she was just being cynical or if her thoughts were even to be trusted anymore when she was in this state.. she only knew she wanted this horrible nightmare to be fucking over with already. She wanted to wake up in Robichauxs and see her sisters; Misty, Madison, Queenie, Zoe and more than anyone.. Cordelia... Oh fuck.

Cordelia... She was still dead.. because of me.

Mallory blinked slowly a few times; taking her free hand and wiping as much blood away from her face and eyes as she could - just enough so she could fully take in her surroundings.

If she could feel her stomach; she was sure she would feel it drop because as much as she looked, she saw no one. Absolutely no one. Tears slipped down her cheeks but they werent bloody anymore. She knew she was completely fucked; he had her cornered.

Well not literally anyways. He still managed to lurk somewhere within the vast empty walls of Outpost Three; most likely looking for her.. but he had to know she was fatally wounded.. right? 

That's when out of the thick silenceness, she heard the first sign of life. Loud; but distant heavy footsteps.

Michael.

She knew she was fucked right away. She could almost feel his spirit itself within Hawthorne; the feeling slowly flowing to her until it forced her to be frozen. Petrified, still sopping wet and with some left over blood dripping off her chin - she knew what she had to do.. and she only had seconds to do it. Mallory knew he was approaching closer and closer the longer she stood docile in the bathtub.. like a idiot.

She took deep, heavy breaths. Fully; for the first time, cherishing the feeling of oxygen in her lungs - knowing that she very well might not make it out alive. Preforming time travel once alone was a enormous feat; but she had already done it twice.. but three times?

The thought simultaneously scared and excited her; she continued take deep breaths before relaxing. Closing her eyes and focusing; searching for a moment in Michael's history to go back too.

There had to be another time Michael was weak besides when he was with Constance at the murder house.. Another time that he felt abandoned.. lost.. confused..

She swallowed as she felt and focused on the soft strands of hair that she held onto; trying to search desperately for the answer that she needed as she took the next step and plunged herself under the water, first barely managing to weakly whisper, "tempus infinituum".

The water tore at her skin as she felt herself letting go from the past reality... slowly yet rapidly her senses seemed to all melt away at once before she was floating- until nothing.

Suddenly Mallory opened her eyes, blinking as she kept calm as she adjusted to her new surroundings.. an open, nearly empty forest was what welcomed her as she slowly spun around.

The smell of pine leaves and the heavy scent of the forest consumed her senses. She first felt calm and at peace; the forest was beautiful. She almost felt tempted to forget about what she came here to do and to lose herself within the sea of greenery but.. something was terribly wrong.

More so; someone was here.

Mallory first stood still; puzzled as to why she was now standing in a vacant forest with pine needles at her feet.

She didnt dare say a word out loud, just in case, but she knew she was waiting for something before she dared to take a step.. she was waiting for a sign. She didnt bat a eye when she felt a soft, warm breeze tousle her hair forward. She felt it continue to crash against her body - almost like soft waves crashing upon rocks. She felt it on her warm skin; her skin getting goosebumps as she knew what this meant. She was getting her sign.

This is it. Is he here?

Mallory giggled at the mere thought; the anticipation and glee of imagining how this nightmare perhaps could be over in the near future was making her experience true euphoria.

She began to walk through the forest; passing several trees as she searched for what she was yearning for. The breeze was far gone by now but she knew to keep going; to keep looking. She looked at the forest landscape that lie ahead of her; a sea of moss and blended greens and blues. The forest didnt have the same magic it typically held though; something was missing.

It was because she was getting closer to him.

Mallory had to suppress a scream as she suddenly felt herself step on something that wasnt the forest floor. She felt a painful shiver run directly down her spine, almost as if someone was running a blade down her back. She was becoming consumed with panic once more; and with the sudden realization what was happening.. What this meant.

It was pure reflex which caused her to take a step back; even before she had the opportunity to look down and confirm her suspicions, she knew exactly what she had stepped on. A body.

She quickly looked down at what she had stepped on - not able to take the anonymity of the individual any longer.. and of course..

I fucking knew it.

She recognized who it was immeadietly, curly blonde hair that was mangled with dirt and a typical black outfit.. it was too easy to guess the identity of the body. He was face down, his body sprawled out unnaturally and in a uncomfortable manner..

It was once again; Michael Langdon.

Taglist: @mina672 @michaellangdonstanaccount @langdonsexual @jimmason @blakewaterxx @dark-mei-rose @9layerdevilfoodcake @prophecy-is-inevitable @matildaofoz @beautyiswithinchaos @frenchlangdon @beyond-repentance @lizzy-claire-fandom

[honeyhan-123]

Doctor Doctor

Summary: With a bullet in his arm, Bucky seeks medical attention and a certain surgeon catches his eye. 

Warnings: non-con, gun play (gun fucking), biker!Bucky, minor descriptions of blood and bullet wounds. 

Word Count: 3k

AN: This was written for the incredible and lovely @the-soulofdevil​ and her 500 follower writing challenge. Congrats gurl, I’m so proud. My prompt was a doctor au. Also, I’ve been watching wayyyyy to much Grey’s Anatomy, pls help me. 

Squares Filled: Biker!AU & Knife/Gun play

My Masterlist 

Exhaustion held your body captive as you dragged your feet, your eyes fluttering shut every few steps. Your entire body was sore, your neck cricked from looking down at the body on your operating table for so long and your hands were slightly cramping. The CABG surgery had taken far longer than you had expected, and now nothing was sounding better than going home, opening a bottle of sauvignon blanc and taking a long hot bath. 

You eyes the door for the stairs disdainfully. Deep down you knew you should take them. The attendings lounge was only two floors up but you were dead tired so instead, you plodded along to the elevator, jabbing the up button. Looking back on it you really should have taken the stairs.

The elevator finally dinged on your floor, the doors opening slowly and without even looking, you jumped inside. You only noticed the other occupant after the doors had slid closed. He was tall, impressively built, and his eyes were a stunning shade of cerulean blue. You hated yourself for wondering briefly if he was here visiting a girlfriend. 

However you could tell there was something off about him but, maybe that’s what attracted you. You had always had terrible taste in men. You could feel his body come closer, invading your personal space. A hand reached out to your name tag, his eyes flickering over it. 

‘A surgeon huh? So I guess you know your way around the body.’ 

‘Excuse me?’ The words were barely out of your mouth before he reached into the waist bands of his jeans, pulling a gun from it with one hand, his other pressing the shutdown button on the elevator panel.

‘I need you to do me a favour Doc. I need you to get this bullet out of my arm.’ You stared down the barrel of his glock, your mouth going dry as he continued to speak. ‘Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to press the start button and then the elevator doors will open. You’ll take me somewhere private and you’ll quietly and stealthily get whatever you need to get the fuckin’ bullet out of me. If you even think about calling for help I will blow the brains out of whoever is around. Clear?’ Your heart thudded like a hummingbird’s wings and the turtleneck underneath your scrubs felt far too tight around your throat. 

‘I said. Are we clear?’ He pressed the gun directly between your eyes, forcing the cool metal against your heated skin and you nodded. 

‘Yes.’ You barely managed to squeak out your assent.

‘Sir.’ He added for emphasis. 

‘Yes Sir. I understand.’ 

‘Good girl. Are you ready? And remember, if anyone dies, it’s your fault.’ You nodded once more and watched as he pressed the green start button, the elevator coming back to life. He stowed his gun back into the waistband of his jeans, sending you a look that clearly said he could whip it back out faster than you could scream. But his look was unneeded. You weren’t going to call for help. The people that worked at this hospital were like your family. There was no way you were going to risk any of their lives.

You lead him through various hallways, picking up an abandoned supply trolley as you went until you came across an empty patient room. You gestured for him to sit on the bed as you pulled on a gown and gloves before wheeling the stool over and sitting in front of him. 

He grunted in pain as he pulled his leather jacket off, his t-shirt following soon after. Under normal circumstances you would have cut the material away but seeing him in pain gave you a sick sense of glee. But as you stared at his now bare chest, any sense of joy quickly seeped from you, dread taking its place. It shouldn’t have been as much of a shock as it was to see the pitch black ink staring back at you. He had waved a gun in your face for crying out loud. But still, seeing the dark outline of a wolf on his chest sent a chill through you. Of course this man was a White Wolf. 

‘Scared of a little ink doc?’ The man before you teased a smirk taking over his plush pink lips.

‘Of course not Sir.’ You quipped back. It was only half a lie. You weren’t afraid of the tattoo itself, more of what it represented. You had seen far too many victims of the White Wolves over your time working at Seattle Grace Hospital. ‘I’m going to have to go in blind, I hope that’s okay as I assume you don’t want to be checked in?’ You asked even though you knew the answer you would get. 

‘Obviously.’ His voice was a monotone as he rolled his eyes, your hands sweeping over the blood surrounding the torn skin. The bullet didn’t seem to be too deep which was lucky for him. It would make extraction a lot easier. Once the site was clean you pulled over the IV kit, standing to attach the morphine to the drip before picking up the needle and making for his other arm. ‘No.’ He yanked his arm out of your grip with such force that you stumbled. 

‘Excuse me?’ You were confused as you sat back on the stool, the needle still in your hand. 

‘No drugs. Just get it out now.’ He pulled the needle from you, chucking it across the room as he did so.

‘I’m sorry sir but I have to insist. The drugs will help you stay still through the pain as I extract the bullet.’ No matter how much his pain earlier had helped ease your own you weren’t a sadist. 

‘I said no. I don’t want any drugs, I can handle the pain. Just get the fucking bullet out now.’ He growled and you submitted, scared that the commotion might attract unwanted visitors. Quickly you organised your tray and held the tweezers up to the bullet hole. 

To your surprise, the man barely flinched as you pressed the metal against the tender flesh, searching for the bronze bullet that you could barely make out. You had expected him to yield, allowing you to administer the painkillers but he barely reacted, the occasional hiss or grunt escaping his lips was the only sign he felt anything. 

Finally the bullet came free and there was a clink as you disposed of it in one of the metal bowls. Next you started working on patching him up. Some more blood had spilled from the wound as you had worked and he would definitely need stitches. As you worked you heard your parents voices echo around in your head, telling you horror stories of the White Wolves. 

The gang had been haunting Seattle since the early forties and were often used as bedtime stories told to young children to make sure they didn’t stay out too late. While you had taken your parents warnings seriously growing up, you had always thought they exaggerated the cruelty of the gang. Working in the hospital had changed your mind. Their cruelty was unparalleled and perhaps if you weren’t so afraid of what they would do to your family you might have thought about “accidentally” clipping his axillary artery. He would be dead within minutes but you knew the other Wolves would come around sniffing for answers. 

You struggled to keep your hands steady as you worked but finally you did the last stitch and bandaged his arm. ‘You’re going to have to wear a sling for next 4-6 weeks to make sure it heals properly and isn’t jolted around because you don’t want to be pulling your stitches. Also no strenuous exercise for at least two weeks and after then only light exercise such as going for a walk.’

‘What about fucking?’ Your lips parted involuntarily, shocked at how blatantly he had asked the question.  

‘Erm, well that would count as strenuous exercise but after the two week mark perhaps depending on umm… on how you… on your chosen, erm, position then it should be okay.’ You felt your cheeks heat in embarrassment. You talked about sex and other embarrassing topics all the time in post-care but something about the way his cerulean blue eyes were staring at you so intently had you stumbling over your words like a school girl. 

‘Hmmm… that’s a shame. If I had known this morning was going to be the last time for a while I would have made it something special.’ He mused to himself, his eyes drifting over your dark blue scrubs as you pulled off the gloves and gown. ‘But since I’m here, you could always fix me back up if something happened. Couldn’t you doc?’   

‘Excuse me?’ You asked in confusion, blood draining from your face as he got off the bed and began stalking towards you. You backed away quickly, your hands fumbling with the door as you tried to pull it open only to have his uninjured arm slam it back shut. He twisted your body around so your back was pressed against the wood, both his arms pinning you against the wall as he leaned in. 

‘I think you heard me doc. The same warnings apply. Scream and I’ll kill anyone who walks through that door.’ His breath tasted like cigarettes and his body was hot and hard against you. When you gulped and finally managed a nod, he pulled you from the door, bringing you back over to the bed, forcing you to lean over it. 

He pressed his growing bulge against your ass as he pulled your scrub top over your head, the pale blue turtleneck and your bra following soon after. You squirmed in his arms but despite his injury his grip was steel tight. He groaned against the shell of your ear as he palmed your breasts, kneading them until your nipples began to harden. His breath was hot and heavy against the skin of your neck as his hands moved lower, down to the waistband of your scrubs. He slipped one hand in underneath your panties and groaned out. 

‘Oh Doc, you’re already so wet for me.’ He breathed out and you shuddered against him, trying to squeeze your legs together as tightly as you could. He tutted you, pinching your ass through the scrubs. ‘Behave. You don’t want to know what happens to bad girls.’ You choked back your sob as you nodded and allowed him to push you back against the bed, Your chest resting on the cold sheets. He slipped your scrubs down your legs and continued to play with your clit, rubbing it harshly as you tried to force your body not to react. One hand grabbed both your wrists, pinning them both at the small of your back as he moved.

‘One thing I’ve learnt from girls like you is that you always need something inside of you to feel full don’t you?’ You felt him shift behind you and then suddenly something very cold brushed against your thigh. You struggled in his hold even harder, thrashing your body around the cool metal brushed against your heated lips. You didn’t have to see it to know what it was.

He swirled the barrel around, coating it in the slick that had involuntarily pooled along your lips. ‘No. No! Stop it! Get off of me.’ You tried to buck him off but his grip remained like iron, holding you down against the mattress with one hand as the other eased the barrel inside of you. You thrashed wildly as the cool metal juxtaposed the heat between your legs causing an odd sensation to form. 

You hated the way the edges of the gun moved against your walls, making you feel every tiny ridge in the metal. You hated the way your body was responding to it even more. 

You barely managed to hold back your moans as his pace picked up, becoming unrelenting. The urge to roll your hips back onto him had you shuddering with disgust. Your body shouldn’t be responding like this, it shouldn’t be enjoying it as much as it was. But you couldn’t help it anymore, not when he called you his good girl. Praising you for taking his gun so well. 

The moans started tumbling from your lips and soon enough the coil in your belly had snapped and you pulsated in his arms. Your body convulsed as he slowly edged you down from your high. 

‘See? That wasn’t so bad. I’ve always wanted to have a cunt on the end of my gun.’ You shivered at his words, your senses slowly coming back to you. ‘Here, taste yourself.’ He forced the metal by your face and you wanted to shrink away in disgust, yet the tone of his voice told you that wasn’t an option. Hesitantly, you moved your head towards it, licking a small stripe along the side, praying that was enough to satisfy him. ‘Not like that. Suck it like it's my cock.’ You shuddered and cringing inside, you angled your head to take it like he wanted, terrified that his finger would slip on the trigger. 

You forced yourself to slowly bob your head going up and down the gun’s length, his groans echoing in the room as he rubbed himself against you in time with your movements. Suddenly, the gun was gone and you heard the tell-tale clink of his buckle, the fly of his zipper following. 

‘Please you don’t have to do this. I won’t tell anyone, please.’ You could no longer hold back the tears and they fell onto the mattress beneath you, darkening the white sheets. 

‘I’m sorry Sweetheart, but that’s just not how the White Wolves work. You see, when we see something we want... ’ his face dipped down next to your ear as he whispered into it, ‘we take it.’ And with that he entered you with one long thrust. You cried out at the intrusion. Although you were shamefully wet, you hadn’t been prepared for the sheer size of him. ‘Oh fuck doc. Your pussy’s so fuckin’ tight.’ 

There was no gradual build up. Just straight hard fucking. His balls slapped against your ass as he rutted into you, his pace unforgiving. You screamed out underneath him as you felt one hand wrap around your thigh, circling your already sensitive clit. ‘That’s it sweetheart. That’s such a good girl.’ You moaned as his deep sensual voice penetrated your ears. 

You felt his grip on your hands loosen before it wrapped around your throat, pulling you up against his chest. He felt even deeper like this and your tears ran down your cheeks freely. You hated how every stroke of his cock made you shudder in the best way possible. 

Your hands clutched at his around your throat as black dots started to appear in your vision. Between how breathless you were from the fucking and the crying, it was no surprise that you were struggling to breathe. 

‘C'mon sweetheart. Scream my name for me. Let everyone know who’s fucking this pussy so right.’ He didn’t seem to care that you could barely breathe or that he hadn’t even bothered to give you his name so you choked a meager Sir. He seemed to realise his mistake as he grunted his name into your ear. 

‘Bucky….’ Your voice was hoarse. 

‘Louder.’ He growled and you repeated yourself. ‘Louder baby, louder.’ 

With air you didn’t know you had, you screamed his name for him, the waves of pleasure crashing inside of you reaching their peaks as you did. He groaned into your ear as he kept rutting, riding you out through your orgasm as your body collapsed back on the bed. He thrusted a few more times before hastily pulling out, his seed dripping down onto your ass as he moaned unashamedly. 

‘Well fuck doc. How was that for strenuous  activity?’ You couldn’t respond as he laughed, fabric rustling in the background as he dressed. ‘Didn’t even pull any stitches either.’ He mused to himself and you couldn’t bring yourself to move. Shame washed over you like a tidal wave, pinning you in place. 

You saw him walk around the bed, kneeling down as he came into view. ‘Get dressed.’ His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument, but still, you didn't move. ‘Fine. Stay like that and let the next guy who walks in see your wrecked cunt. Like I give a shit.’ It was only at his brusque words and the reminder that this is in fact your workplace that you finally stood sorely. Your hands reached up to brush away the tears on your cheeks and you see him fiddling with your phone that had been in your pants pockets as you dress. 

‘What are you doing?’ You barely manage to get the words out. 

‘Just getting your number. You never know when having a doctor on call will be handy in my line of work.’ You tried to hide your scoff and failed. 

‘Your line of work? You mean terrorising the streets of Seattle.’ You have no idea where this fire has come from and if you knew better you would have definitely kept your mouth shut.

‘No, I mean running a multi-million dollar enterprise.’ You gulp, swallowing thicky as he stands his chest nearly touching yours. 

‘Running?’ You question, even though you’re not sure you quite want his answer. 

‘Yeah sweetheart. Running.’ His hands lift up and he slides your phone back into your chest pocket. And with a wink sent your way he slips out from the room, leaving you with a sense of dread for the next time your phone will ring. 

+

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My Masterlist

[callmeelle22]

Blue Dream II

Paring: Iris West x Barry Allen

Rating: E

Chapter Word Count: 6, 097

Summary: A series of sporadic dates between Iris and Barry turn into something more, a story in its own making.

Chapter I: Primetime

Chapter II: It's Cool; Summary: His response is to tilt his head to the side and gaze down at her, eyes tracing the length of her legs and the curve of her hips and the dip of her waist. He lingers on her cleavage and this time, when he meets her eyes, she feels it, the sensation like she’s been put on simmer, like he’s warming her slowly, easing her into her own combustion, sparking like the lyrics to this song, and then you, came to save the day and I must say, you may have done some more. (Read below or on AO3 linked on the chapter title.)

Chapter III: Anything

Chapter IV: Comfortable

Chapter V: The Way

Chapter VI: Can't Take My Eyes Off of You

Chapter VII: I'm in Love with You

Chapter VIII: Blue Dream

It's Cool

My escape from everything

Please say you'll be my nothing

And I will give you everything

Man, you are really something else

On Friday nights, Iris spends time alone. She lives in a relatively small apartment near Central City U’s campus where she makes peanuts as a teaching assistant while she completes her journalism master’s. Her weeks are long and arduous, what with attending her own classes and all but teaching the ones she assists. Her evenings are often spent eating turkey sandwiches with one hand and completing assignments with the other. And when those are done, she logs into her blog, What a Life You’ve Lived, and types up the stories people send to her. That part doesn’t make her tired; no, she likes being able to tell others’ stories, likes that they trust a woman they’ve never seen to tell their lives in a way that they might not ever see.

But it’s still why, on Friday nights, she pours herself an overfull glass of wine, fills a pipe bowl with some of the marijuana she gets from the dispensary by Linda’s place, and orders Thai food while she watches something from her Netflix or Hulu queue or sometimes she listens to music. She’s already showered, wearing a pair of green silk shorts and a matching tank top, pretty cream piping along the top of the tank and the hem of the shorts—she doesn't always dress like this when she’s home alone; she just likes the feeling of the silk on her skin when she’s high—and her hair is already wrapped and tied with her scarf when the doorbell rings. She frowns at the door because she’s only just ordered her pad Thai noodles and those spring rolls she likes, and there’s no way the delivery is there yet because she always sets the order for when she’s sufficiently intoxicated.

She figures that it could be her brother Wally or even Linda because they’ve both been known to drop by without calling. A touch annoyed, she goes to the door and swings it open, ready to go off for interrupting what they know is her self-care night. But then she’s stopped short, the music still playing in the background—you caught me at an awful time; see i just lost my smile—because it’s him.

Iris’s liquor-soaked memories don’t do him much justice because there he is, live and solid. He is tall, even taller than she’d thought as she stands in her bare feet. He’s lean, the dark jeans hanging off his hips and his plain gray shirt showing off the corded muscles in his arms. There’s a tattoo sleeve on his right forearm, a complicated bouquet of flowers that doesn't take away from the masculine energy he exudes standing at her door, his hands stuffed in his pockets. She can tell now that his hair is brown and a little bit messy, as if he constantly runs his hands through it. She does a quick scan of the rest of him: dark moles dotting the skin of his throat, thin pink mouth, the hint of a 5 o’clock shadow covering the cut of his jaw. It’s still his eyes, though, that gets her. It’s not only the color of them—somehow blue with hints of moss and gold or maybe they’re like moss with hints of gold and gray—but it’s the way he’s looking at her too. Like they're always searching, and that is what you helped me find; hadn't seen it in a while, looking for what she won't reveal.

She knows that her night set only just covers the swell of her ass and dips down in her cleavage. She knows that she’s scrubbed head to toe in her rosewater body butter. But he, he looks at her like he knows it too. Like he sees all of the tawny brown skin she’s not showing, like he’s seeing something, something more than the wide set of her full mouth and the whiskey chocolate of her eyes.

“Hey,” he speaks, and there’s nothing particularly memorable about his voice, but the tone of it is low, and it sends an involuntary shiver through her.

“I know this is weird,” he continues, “and you can definitely tell me to leave. But I didn’t have your number or even your name, and I’ve been thinking about you all week and…” He tapers off, and Iris lets her eyes travel up the length of him once more.

“Wanna come in?”

She doesn’t know what possesses her to ask—okay, maybe that bit about thinking of her all week helped—but when he nods, a smile easing on his face, her heart starts doing that seizing thing again.

She steps aside to let him in.

He sees the shoes she’d worn to work sitting by the door so he toes off his own sneakers beside them and Iris has to stop herself from acknowledging what they look like next to hers. Instead, she watches as he takes a look around. She’s proud of what she’s been able to do with a consignment shop and limited funds. The focal point is an overstuffed sofa in a light gray and its matching armchair; a multicolored rug with bold hints of sage and orange lies under the dark circular coffee table which is the same color as the bookshelf against her wall, the six shelves teeming with books, as well as the TV stand. She’s got some early artwork by a few Black local artists on her wall, a couple of her favorite quotes printed and framed next to them.

The room feels smaller with him in it. While Iris is no nun, it’s been months since a man other than her brother or dad has been in her home and it feels...strange. The air seems denser somehow, heavy—heavy with the cloud of tension that hovers around them, heavy with the knowledge that the print of this man is still one that she can feel in her body when she falls asleep at night.

She notes that his eyes track the grinder and pipe in plain view on her coffee table and when she faces him again, his eyebrow is lifted.

“Do you partake?” she wonders.

He shrugs. “Sometimes.”

“Will you tonight?”

His response is to tilt his head to the side and gaze down at her, eyes tracing the length of her legs and the curve of her hips and the dip of her waist. He lingers on her cleavage and this time, when he meets her eyes, she feels it, the sensation like she’s been put on simmer, like he’s warming her slowly, easing her into her own combustion, sparking like the lyrics to this song, and then you, came to save the day and I must say, you may have done some more.

He licks his lips. “Yes.”

He tells her his name is Bartholomew Allen.

First, she goes into the kitchen to grab another of the long-stemmed wine glass that the professor she works for had given her as a housewarming gift. Then she eases down onto the sofa before she spreads her arm in an invitation for him to sit too. She pours from the bottle of wine and hands him the glass; he takes it from her, fingers grazing hers where they’re cupped around the bowl.

“My name is Bartholomew Allen,” he says, sort of abruptly.

She blinks over at him, a corner of her mouth lifting. “Your parents named you Bartholomew?”

“It’s a family name,” he adds, and though there’s no hint of embarrassment in his voice when he says it, Iris sees the way his cheeks flush red.

It makes her smile. All she has are the hazy images of him in her head: the way he’d boldly walked up to ask her to dance, how the kisses he’d pressed into her skin had been sure and all-encompassing. There had been no blush to his cheeks that first night when he’d been whispering into her ear; though Iris does recall how the rest of him had turned this same lovely shade of red, like a tinge of wine under his skin, when she had grabbed his ass to push him deeper into her.

In any case, Iris hadn’t thought of him like this, blushing at something as simple as his name and this dichotomy endears him to her.

“But you can call me Barry,” he says after taking a sip of his wine, almost like an afterthought.

“Well, Barry,” she says, “I’m Iris West.”

He looks at her over the rim of his glass. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Iris.”

It’s atypical of her, she knows, inviting this man back into her house like this. Her police captain father would warn her that this is the way that women die. Wally would tsk at her with only slight disapproval, more specifically concerned with the fact that she hadn’t bothered to learn his name before she’d let him climb into her bed. It isn’t a habit of hers, one-night stands (or two nights, she supposes, after tonight) with pale-skinned men from clubs she rarely frequents. But that day, last Saturday, she had gotten an email from the professor of her Feature Writing course with harsh feedback on one of her assignments, and Wally, only in his junior year of undergrad, had canceled their dinner, and she hadn’t updated her blog in what felt like weeks and…

And she’s been in such a space of discontent lately, with the rigid monotony of her days, the school and work and school and work, and she has spent more time than she realizes alone. Her best (and really, her only) friend is in the stages of a building relationship and her dad is too. She’s got people, she does, but they seem so tangential these days. So on Saturday, she’d put on a dress that had shown too much of her brown skin and shoes that had given her more legs than most men know what to do with. And she’d walked down along the aptly named Bar Street, past the uh, I won't love a ho, after we fuck she can't get near me, only bitch I give a conversation to is Siri and the so when are you gonna tell her, that we did that too? until she’d come to the door of something sultrier calling out to her, as seductive and enticing as a siren, and she had answered.

Then, somewhere between her third tequila and her ninth or tenth song, hope that's cool; ‘cause i'm really not trying to, impose but I suppose that, i'm supposed to be here, with you, Barry had come to dance with her, with the long line of his body following her rhythm and the pleasing smell of the lemongrass on his clothes and—for the first time in longer than she cares to admit—Iris had begun to feel.

It explains why she let him come home with her a week ago. It explains why he’s in her apartment now.

“Iris?” She hears Barry call her name, and by the look on his face, she knows it isn’t the first time he’s tried to get her attention. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she nods. “Sorry about that. I space out sometimes.” She points towards her table. “Shall we?”

He looks at her a little unsure, as if he wants to say more, but he eventually just nods in agreement. “Sure.”

She leans forward and grabs the grinder. The first time she smoked weed, she’d been a freshman in college. As cliche as it sounds, she’d had a roommate from Colorado who’d brought a stash with her and had offered a hit to Iris once at a house party. She’d liked it immediately, had liked how her brain had cleared, as if someone had wiped away all the writing on a chalkboard, erasing the mounting pressure of being the first university college kid in her family, of being the example for her brother who was ten times smarter and twice as reckless; had liked how much lighter her body had felt, as if she was floating, lying upon a cloud or somewhere even lighter, even higher.

She’s not a heavy smoker, the practice delegated to her Friday night routine and only in the couple years since it’s become legal recreationally in Central City. Still, she can’t help but feel a little nervous right now as Barry watches her pull the small canister towards her and open it. She makes quick work of pinching out a couple nuggets of the blue city diesel she prefers and grinding it up before packing the bowl of the pipe. It’s a pretty thing, made of glass in a dark green with blue and orange swirls. There is the flick of the lighter, and Iris brings the pipe to her lips and inhales.

She can all but feel the smoke flowing through her body, unbending her spine and relaxing her legs, curling in her lungs and moving to her head, making the thoughts there—the stress of classes, the constant sting of loneliness, and even the simmering tension she feels with Barry next to her—start to scatter until they’re no longer noticeable.

She passes the pipe over to Barry, who takes it from her gingerly, the tips of his long fingers brushing her again. She shivers, but she doesn’t acknowledge it, instead leaning back onto the couch, her legs crossed in the seat, as she watches him. He flicks the lighter a couple of times before it lights, and then he fires at the weed and takes a hit. His skin shades the faintest hint of pink and then he pulls the pipe away from his mouth and coughs, a deep cough that waters his eyes.

“You okay?” she questions. He nods as he passes it back. They do this, back and forth, until Barry breathes the smoke in easier and Iris falls even deeper into the couch. That’s when the doorbell rings.

“It’s the food,” she says and Barry is on his feet before she can even make sense of it. “Wait, I have money,” she tries, standing, because this is a mom-and-pop sort of pace and they still do their own delivery instead of going through the more expensive, albeit convenient, routes.

By the time Iris has grabbed her wallet from her purse, Barry is grabbing food and saying “Thanks, man” to Tony, the tall bearded college student who normally delivers it to her.

“Oh what’s up, Iris?” he says to her when she peeks around Barry’s shoulder.

“Hi, Tony. Do I owe you the same?”

“Oh, your boy already got it.” He smiles, a dimple winking at her in his bronze skin. “Y’all have a good night,” he adds and then he winks at her for real before disappearing back downstairs. She backs up to let Barry in the door.

“Barry, you didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to. I’m crashing your night and I’m smoking your weed. It’s the least I can do.”

Iris hums, looking up at him. He’s sort of pretty, she thinks absently, with his eyes like gems and his pink mouth, his expression soft and earnest.

“Come on.”

Iris always orders way too much food, usually with the intent to eat off the leftovers for a couple of meals. It’s a spread, with walnut shrimp, a green/ginger salad, pad thai, Bangkok chicken, and several Thai spring rolls, so it's definitely enough to share. She inhales several forkfuls of noodles while Barry attacks the Bangkok chicken. They eat in relative silence, the music still playing in the background, with eyes are sad, i smile, i think you'll find, you need me just like i need you, yeah; but it's cool, we ain't gotta be nothing, it's true, i'd actually prefer it, yeah; it's on you, it's on you, it's on you.

It’s when they’re done eating, when Iris has placed the containers in the refrigerator and they’re both snuggled deeper into the couch, wine glasses close by, that their night really begins. Iris has packed another bowl and takes another hit. And with a lungful of smoke, she asks,

“What sort of music do you like to listen to when you smoke?”

“I don’t think that I smoke enough to know.”

She hands him the bowl and grabs the remote to the smart tv, pulling up the playlist she’d made for nights like this. It gets longer every couple of days, songs that catch her fancy, songs with beats that sing as much as the artists, songs that seep in like the weed does, running through her like the blood in her vein does. The song plays—and i'm not even gonna front, at first i was just tryna fuck, but you have got me so in love, so deep in love, so please be love—and Iris closes her eyes, savoring the mellow sound of the music.

She takes pulls from her wine glass as Barry smokes and then the actions reverse. They take turns, back and forth, until Iris feels her lids drop, sees the slight haze that covers everything in her sight. Barry is sitting at the other end of the chair, but Iris swears that she can feel him, feel the solid heat of him, feel the touch of him like prickles on her skin. When she gazes over at him, positioning herself so that her back is against the arm of the chair and her painted toes just miss Barry’s thighs, she finds that he’s looking at her again.

“What?” she asks.

He shakes his head, indicating nothing, and the movement is slow, stilted. But then he asks,

“How do you feel, about my showing up here?”

She shrugs. “Surprised,” she tells him. “That you wanted to come; that you remembered where I lived.”

Barry chuckles, a low, gentle sound. “I only remembered because of the wreath, the sunflowers.”

She doesn’t add this, though a surprise, is not one she dislikes. She likes his company, even if she can’t name why.

“Barry,” she calls, to grab his attention again, and the way he tilts his head in acknowledgment makes her think more intently on the words of this song—and I'm not even gonna lie, i wouldn't mind if we just lie, together 'til the end of time, if that is fine with you, it's fine with me—and she shakes her head at the thought.

“Hmm?” he hums, eyes never wavering.

“What made you come here tonight?”

She’s sufficiently high now. She’d been careful not to overstuff herself with food and both the wine and diesel have done their job. She feels both languid and like she’s soaring, all at once. The music helps and she’s waiting in anticipation as she waits for his answer.

It’s slow coming, his answer. Before he responds, he touches gingerly at her bare ankles, fingers skimming along the bones of one and then the other. His fingers are warm and Iris feels the light callouses there, shocked at the sensation of the roughened skin on hers, how the touch sends sparks up the lines of her legs. He brings one of her feet up on his lap, and it seems so small in his hands. He presses his thumb into her instep, glides it down to the heel, and back up. Iris lets out a moan, the sound inaudible over the music—definitely love, definitive love—but the tiny uplift of the corner of his mouth suggests he’d heard it, and he grabs her other foot and repeats the action. Then he says,

“I wanted to know if it was as good as my memory.”

He trails his fingers up her left calf, still kneading her right foot. “I kept thinking of you,” he tells her, “about the taste of your mouth and the grip of your slick, and I had to know if I was only drunk and making it up.”

It’s the sensations that make her respond the way she does. It’s the easy purr of keyboards she hears behind Jhene’s dulcet voice; it’s his touch, how it seems to reverberate through her entire body; it the smell of him, of the room: the fainting smell of the smoke and the rosewater butter on her own skin and what she imagines it’ll smell like mixed with the scent of him that she remembers, the notes citrusy and bright.

“Me too,” she tells him. “I woke up on Sunday and I could still feel you. You were gone and much of you was a memory, but the feel of you was still there and…”

(and I wanted you to still be here, wanted to make a lasting memory, a real one, that would keep me warm when school and wavering friendships couldn’t)

But she doesn’t say any of that. Barry has all but mentioned he’s come over to sleep with her again and she can admit that the thought does have immense appeal, even if it’s not the only thing she thinks she wants from him.

She leans up and moves her ankle out of his grasp; he raises an eyebrow at the loss of contact, but then she widens her legs and reaches for him, grabbing at his shirt to pull him on top of her. He comes willingly, hovering above her, holding himself up with one arm on the top of the couch. All Iris can think about is the weight of him on top of her, how guarded it makes her feel, how secure.

“Is this okay?” he asks, voice quiet against the strain of the music from the television set, though she’d been the one to pull him in. He presses his body down, and her legs part automatically, craving him there again. She can tell that he’s high, in the red of his eyes and in the slow ways he’s talking, weighing every word before he lets it out.

“Yes,” she responds, just as quietly.

This seems like a moment here, one Iris can’t make sense of, not knowing what he’s here for. But he’s looking at her like she’s something, like he sees her, and it’s, it’s electrifying.

So when he leans down and kisses her, she leans up and gives it back, letting his mouth work her over. Barry is a good kisser. He starts out easy, slow, just his mouth moving against hers. His lips are soft and he tastes like wine and, somehow, the sex she knows they’re about to have, and the thought makes her close her eyes as she gives herself over to him. He licks at the seam of her lips, bites down her bottom one, and then licks at her again, demanding entry. She opens for him, eyes fluttering closed as he takes full control of her mouth. He sucks on her tongue, and then her lip again, and then he’s back to working her over with his mouth, the kiss wet and sloppy, increasingly erotic.

He is hard between her warm thighs, the solid long length of him, and she has to touch him. She rubs her hands down his back, over his cotton t-shirt, and then up under, along his spine. He shivers on top of her but doesn’t stop kissing her. She keeps one hand running up and down his back, loving the feel of him beneath her palm, and she fingers along his torso with the other, light touches that make his belly clench, that make his hips flex into her. He hums into her mouth, a sound more like a low growl, and it vibrates through her body, moving until it pulses between her legs. She moans in response, and it is that that breaks the kiss. Barry pulls back to look at her, and she likes that he looks a little bit wrecked. He stares down at her, drinking her in, and she knows what he must see: her thighs parted, with the hem of her silk shorts riding high; one strap of her top hanging off her shoulder, her breasts heaving as she tries to catch her breath; her full lips puffy and likely red from his bites; her eyes wide and blown, the dark of her pupils slowly overtaking the brown of her irises. Even her scarf has half-fallen off, and she should care that her hair will be unmanageable tomorrow. But when Barry tilts his head with a question, she lets him take it off and toss it onto her coffee table, and then he leans up, eyes never straying from hers.

“Barry?” she calls but pauses at the look in his eyes.

He fingers at the bottom of her top. “Take it off,” he tells her.

She responds to the slight command in his tone, clenching her stomach muscles as she leans up just enough to pull her tank over her head. He’s kneeling between her legs now, looking down at her breasts sitting heavy on her chest, nipples puckered under his gaze. He hasn’t even touched her yet, and she’s ready. It doesn’t make sense, how responsive she is to him, but she is, even when he’s just there staring.

“Barry?” she calls again, and she thrusts her hips, infinitesimally. It makes him look away from where he’s trying to memorize the weight of her breasts, the smooth tawny brown color of them, the darker areolas, and even darker nipples.

“What are you doing?” she asks, when he doesn’t respond to her.

“Looking at you,” is his too calm answer.

She nods, but huffs out a little breath in annoyance. “Okay, but can you…” fuck me, is the obvious response, but it doesn’t come out as that; instead, it’s another thrust of her hips, her constantly swelling sex rubbing his hard thigh. Barry licks his lips and looks down at her.

“Can I what, Iris?”

“You know,” she says, and squeezes him with her thighs.

“Hmmm,” Barry murmurs. “I don’t know that I do.”

This time, she catches his gaze, noting the glassy look of his eyes, the color grayer in this light. Iris wants to moan at the sight of him.

“Don’t play with me, Barry,” she grumbles, hoping that if she imbues a touch of menace to her words, he’d go ahead and put her out of her misery.

“No?” He lifts an eyebrow. “You don’t want me to play with you, Iris?”

She can’t answer, because then he’s reaching down and parting her thighs wider, enough that Barry can slide the wide leg of one side of her shorts over and expose her pussy to him. She clenches when the air hits her, and then again when Barry slides the tip of his middle finger down the middle of her slit.

She moans, her breath catching at the end of it when she looks down to watch his pale digit disappear inside of her. He dips in and out and in again, and Iris can’t stop watching it. She’s already wet, and his finger is glistening.

“You sure you don’t want me to play with you, Iris?” he asks her, dipping his finger all the way to the knuckle. He brings it back out, and then begins to rub her own wet over her lips. Down the side of her vulva, up the other side. Parting her lips with just that one finger. Sliding in again to gather more of her slick and start his trek over again.

Beneath him, Iris is...a mess. The one finger isn’t enough; she’s too wet for it and she keeps closing around nothing. But her breathing is only growing more labored and she can't. stop. watching. It should be embarrassing; her shorts are soaked through and Barry is still fully clothed, but she can’t be. The look of his long, rough-tipped fingers playing in the pink of her pussy so wholly arousing that she literally thinks that she can come like this.

“No, I,” she tells him, panting. She licks her lips, tries again. “This is…”

“This is what, Iris?” he asks, his cadence still heavy, and honestly, how the fuck does him just saying her name get her off like this. “Use your words, baby.”

“Fuck,” Iris moans.

Barry has the gall to smile. “That’s one.”

“Fuck you,” she moans again.

“Yeah?” Barry questions and he leans down, pulling his dirty little finger out of her and wrapping that same wet hand—wait, how is his whole hand wet—around her waist. He hovers over her, lips just a breath away from hers. “You ready for me to fuck you now?”

She huffs out a surprised laugh. “God, you’re a little bit of a dick.”

“And you’re ready for it now, aren’t you?”

She gives up on trying to be coy. “Yes,” she nods.

Barry has to stand to get out of his clothes, and Iris tries not to whimper at the loss. He pulls his shirt over his head, and Iris sees that his sleeve of flowers extends to his shoulders. He pulls his pants and boxers down, slipping out of his socks too, grabbing his wallet to pull a condom out before tossing it back down on top of his clothes. She watches as he rips open the wrapper and pulls the latex out, pinching its tip and sliding the condom down his length. He’s long and swollen, thicker, maybe, than she remembers, and she finds herself enamored as she watches him touch himself, fingers caressing the thick head and down his shaft.

“Take those off,” he tells her and she didn’t even realize she still has her shorts on. She peels them off, tossing them to the side, and then Barry is between her legs again. He grips her thighs and spreads them, one knee digging into the sofa close to her chest, the other planted high up on his hip.

He rubs himself along her once, making sure she’s still ready for him, and with a hand gripping her waist, he slides into her. She can feel herself opening for him, stretching to make room for him. He pulls out, just to the tip, and then he pushes back in, deeper, harder, and Iris gasps out a long “oohhh.” He rocks up into her, long strokes, slow strokes, like he’s got all the time in the world. She hears herself, she hears them, the wet sound of her pussy taking him in.

“Listen to you,” Barry whispers as he reaches down and thumbs at her clit. “You’re so wet, baby. God,” he groans. “Do you always get like this?” He fucks into her harder, still maddeningly slow, but fuck if it doesn’t make her swell a little more, gush a little more. “Or is it us? Is it me that gets you like this? Dripping out of that pretty little pussy like this?”

“Fuck, Barry, shit.”

He leans down again, until his chest is brushing her. The action plants him deeper, and he fucks into her, steady, persistent. He’s so close that Iris doesn’t know what to do with herself. He’s holding on to her waist, pinning her down on the sofa, and his pelvis brushes her clit with every downward stroke.

“Bar-Barryyyyyy.” Iris throws her head back, eyes clenched tight as she comes with a low, drawn-out moan, her hips bucking frantically as she squeezes wetly around Barry.

He pulls out of her and starts to move the sofa cushions from the back of the chair. It gives them more room and Barry sits down until he’s half laid out, back against the arm of the chair and legs spread on either side of her, one bracing on the floor.

“Lay on your stomach,” he tells her, “and then push your legs under mine.”

She does as he says, still a little sluggish from her unexpected orgasm. This move puts her ass in the air, and Barry grabs at her hips to bring her back to him. She looks back as he’s lining himself up with her again, and then he’s bringing her down on him, opening her up for him again. They both moan at the contact this time, Iris still sensitive from moments before. But he seems even harder now, even deeper when Iris leans forward to grab onto the other end of the couch. He guides her for a stroke, two, three, until she catches onto his rhythm, and begins to fuck herself back on him. He’s so deep she figures she could feel him hitting the bottom of his stomach if she focused hard enough. She bounces on him, keeping up his slow pace, and he gives her a hard squeeze around the waist for her efforts.

“That’s it, Iris,” he murmurs. “Ride me slow just like that.”

She’s always liked dirty talk; there’s something fully stimulating about a man making it known that he’s enjoying being with you. But this, this is different, and Iris can barely stand how much she’s turned on by him talking to her like this.

“You feel so good, Barry,” she tells him.

“Yeah?” He juts up into her, faltering a rhythm, making her fall even deeper into the sofa, making him fall even deeper into her. “Tell me what it feels like.”

She licks her lips, swallows. She’s never…

“It’s just me and you,” he says, sensing her hesitation. He stills her hips and straightens his torso, bringing her up as much as she can. He turns her head so that he can see her eyes. He moves away the hair that’s fallen into her face and gives her a quick peck on the mouth. “It’s just us, okay?”

She nods, and moves back into the comfortable position, back to grinding down on his dick, squeezing around his dick.

“Shit, Iris, that’s it.”

“You feel good,” she tells him again, firmly. “You’re so thick, so hard, I can’t even…” She falls forward again, and Barry gives her one hard slap down her ass cheek. “Barry!”

He soothes the sting with the palm of his hand, rubbing in small circles.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so wet in my life,” she confesses, softly, truthfully. And that must have been what Barry was waiting for. He takes over, holding her hips in a death grip and he pounds into her. The slap-slap of his skin on hers is loud, the squelch of her wet, profane. She can feel her belly tighten again, the tell-tale sign that her orgasm is imminent. Barry’s is too, she can tell. His movements are more erratic, slow and then fast and then slow again until reaches out and presses a thumb to her puckered hole peeking back at him. That’s the end for them both. Iris screams out, her back arching deeply, just as Barry stills and empties into the condom, his dick throbbing against her walls as he does. She falls face forward into the sofa, still sitting on Barry, trying to catch her breath. It’s only then that she notices the music still playing from the television—infinite love, yeah; i've been wrong before, but this time I am for sure; it's you; something you did made me feel it deep in my core—and she asks for Alexa to turn the television off.

That throws the room into stark silence, except for the sound of their heavy breathing. She doesn’t know how long they lie there, but Iris thinks she could be almost asleep when Barry shifts up and out of her. She knows that she’s likely gonna have to deep clean the sofa tomorrow.

“Iris,” Barry calls moments later, and she turns her head to the side to see him standing beside her, his soft sex sitting on his thigh. He must have thrown the condom away already.

“Hmmm.”

He chuckles. “Come on, baby, let’s get you cleaned up and we can go to sleep.”

She nods slowly, and sits up, letting him take her hand to lead her into the bathroom. She tries, though she can’t say how much she succeeds, at telling herself that this, that this is nothing.

And it's cool

Think that we're up to something

But it's on you, it's on you, it's on you

It's on you, it's on you, it's on you

It's on you, it's on you, it's on you

It's on you, 'cause I'm cool with nothing, yeah

'Cause even nothing is something

[littleeyesofpallas]

Was chatting with a coworker the other day and two things crossed my mind...

that I've been at this weeb shit so long that I forget what I just sort of take for granted and what might not be commonly known little factoids, and

that VIZ's attempt at a monthly Shonen Jump magazine has been gone so long most people probably never saw them. (nevermind the old RAIJIN Graphic Novels that tried the same thing)

So, here's some fun little things you might not have known about manga if you've only ever read English publications and/or digital scans...

For one, there's the matter of print formatting... In general, Japan actually uses their own standards for print that tend to differ from those in the US; The JIS(Japanese Industrial Standards) series A and B. Magazines like the typical anthology format manga are printed in JIS B5, which is comparable to the US Letter standard, or the ISO A4.

This was the same format that RAIJIN Comics printed in as well, and although I don't have a copy of the old English Shonen Jump for reference, if memory serves they printed in the same format as well in an attempt to really sell that "authentic" manga feel. Sadly, I don't know that the effort or attention to detail was much appreciated. Neither published a volume comparable to a Japanese weekly or even monthly serial magazine, though --not by a long shot. But this might not be the most practical for comparrison, since there actually just isn't much of an English language equivalent format. (unless you count actual magazines that happen to include comic illustrations or miniscule comic strip segments)

Despite the mammoth size of a serial magazine, Japanese tankoban are actually smaller than the North American equivalent. But notably the Japanese small book format isn't just a matter of contending with nearest print standards... What I believe is the JIS B40(although I could be wrong) tends to be the standard print size of small books in general, not just manga, and it's a print size that is only marginally smaller than VIZ's standard size manga, but with the very particular benefit of being deliberately portable. The small difference in size is the difference between a Japanese manga fitting in my coat pocket where as the English equivalent can't.

(I realize I photographed a copy of Shonen ACE, and not Weekly JUMP, but I measured a copy of Weekly JUMP for the thickness and not the copy of ACE; the copy of JUMP was around 506pg, while the copy of ACE was 570pg. Those are both older though, and the most recent digital copy i have of Weekly JUMP actually had around 520pg)

And I don't think it's always addressed just what a difference there is, culturally, in how Japan approaches the print medium. It's kind of an old cliche by this point, and I don't know how accurate it's remained in the past decade or so, but the quintessential image passed around between comic nerds has always been the Japanese bullet train; A place packed with commuters all passing their transit time with isolated preoccupation with music and/or reading, with manga being the king of this time killing arena. And its not just about sheer popularity driven by interest, American comic vendors have long envied the sheer accessibility of manga in Japan.

Here in the U.S. we used to have a thriving newsstand retail scene for comic books, and a kind of similar ease of grab and go comic purchase, rather than the explicitly niche interest driven "direct market" model that has been slowly but surly strangling the comic market ever since. But in Japan serialized manga has remained in relatively quick, impulse friendly, arm's reach of readers on the go. And what lubricates that business model more than anything is price.

I still remember a time when VIZ dominated the English manga market by offering at $7.95(and am I crazy or am I remembering a time when it got down to $6.99?) but now'days it's settled on a low end of $9.99. You know how much the recent vol.29 of My Hero Academia goes for? ¥484. That's less than $4.50.

You know how much that big ass magazine with 500+ pages and 21 different series goes for? Do you think it's more or less than the little pocket-size tankoban? Did you guess something close to ¥290? That's less than $2.75. But how does something bigger in both page size and page count managed to sell for less???

There are a few secrets to that, but one is that the things are packed to the gills with ads. But that's the boring answer. The other feature contributing to keeping an accessible cost on weekly/monthly manga is something we don't think about much in the U.S.; it's the paper and print quality.

The nice little books are printed in what you might expect as far as starch white paper and clean black inks, but those big honkin' phone book(do people still know what phonebooks look like??) size magazines are printed on cheap recycled pulpy newpaper with typically rough print jobs. This is most noticeable in the quality of solid blacks, and when scanning the texture of "white" space.

(I tried to take individual photos of different series chapters to show off the fact that the paper is differently colored... but my phone's camera seems to be smart enough to auto balance that kind of thing when there's no other context to anchor it to. (It doesn't help that it's night and my lights have a harsh yellowing glow to them.) but on th left you can still kind of see the different paper colors; this particular issue alternated every 3 chapters between pink-ish, green/gray, a kind of off-white/gray, and sepia, but I've also seen blue-ish, oranges, and a different shade of yellow different from the sepia-ish one.)

Back in ye olden days when it came to fan scanlations, more slapdash teams and projects would often stumble over levels in photoshop (too much black and the pulpy paper texture shows up as grainy shadows, but too far white and the edges of lineart get crunchy and ugly) but those who had more robust readership and a regular streamlined flow of work, we'd actually go in and touch up the solid blacks and whites by hand. We'd also redraw art to erase overlaid text so the type setters could lay the new English in over top.

(Weekly Jump: Left, Bleach tankoban: Right)

They do however keep a few coveted color pages in better quality paper and ink. In contrast, the standard quality tankoban actually don't include color pages at all, and just print what had been color pages in grayscale. There are also all kind of irregularities between publishers and special editions and such, but on the most basic level this difference in quality both keeps serial prices down, while also incentivizing tankoban purchase.

In the U.S. we might still have the draw of an ad-free reading experience in our TPB, but the print quality between a biweekly issue and a TPB are basically the same. Incidentally, even though manga are generally drafted at a much larger scale than even the serial magazine proportions anyway, the scaled down size of the tankoban also serves to sharpen the image. When put side by side the nice clean tankoban print looks noticeably better than the serial.

Now'days the English scanlation scene seems to be conducted almost entirely through ripped digital releases (at least as far as I can tell with popular, regular weekly titles) which is great for quality, frankly, but it does kind of lack the charm and personal touch of a band of amateurs finding round about solutions to a convoluted bootlegging pipeline. But obviously I'm a little biased.

[edit]: Oops i posted this without really ending it in any sensible ro conclusive way... I feel like ive lost sight of the point since i first drafted this but I guess its mostly just me pining after if we could just get super cheap, disposable quality, bulk manga in that classic Japanese magazine model to work here in the states. I already tend to sell manga in big runs, even at $9.99+, and frequently I'll have customers put volumes back, or clearly want the next volume but just can't afford it and wait to come back. If I could sell these customers more volumes, and more importantly more titles, at the same price, I would love to. I would love to see these things fly off the shelves. I would love to see people keeping up with multiple series. I would love to see someone look at a 44vol long series and actually feel like that's a number of volumes they can afford.

[infinites-chaser]

dark night fireworks | mlqc | lucien/mc | dreams and memory

spoilers for ch.13 and somewhat inspired by ch.16

warning for drinking and vague + non-explicit sexual content

“Lucien,” you whisper, as if speaking his name aloud will somehow make it real.

It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. The only thing that matters is this moment. This moment a million times over. And what’s a moment in a dream if you make yourself believe it’s true?

‘oh, love, even if I wake up and it all disappears and becomes a mess

oh, love, I’ll wait for this night again’

xii.

Once, when you were young, you caught a butterfly, trapping its delicate wings between your hands. Most of your childhood memories have faded to sepia and tones of grey, but this you remember in vivid color. It comes to you now in fragments, like a painting ripped to shreds: The butterfly's wings, bright yellow blurs that tickle your palms. Your father's horror. The warm wind, his panicked scolding, and the wide blue sky.

You remember him telling you that trapped things, once let go, are never the same after. He told you catching the butterfly crushed its wings, and it would never fly straight again. You cried, you think, as you often did, and opened your hands.

You can't remember the rest. Did the butterfly emerge from your finger prison, its cocoon? Did it fly away? Did it fly straight and true?

Memory is reconstructive. If you reach for the pieces enough times, your mind will build its own answer.

But, now, the truth: the butterfly was already dead. It had been dead since you first snatched it from where it danced in the golden spring sky.

When you laid your palms flat, the butterfly's bright wings had stirred once and then fell still. You cried. To this day, you're still not sure why you don't remember this, your Schrodinger's butterfly. In your hands, it had become a lesson from your father, something with the possibility of being not quite dead. In your memory, it becomes immortal, that butterfly you remember entrapping but can never vividly picture flying free.

i.

The bar is not pink, as its name, The Peony Pavilion, might suggest. Its walls are a deep purple that fades upward to dark blue, then a black which stretches across the ceiling, uninterrupted save by tiny pinpricks of light. The floor, by contrast, is a softly glowing grey, carpeted and plush, muffling even the heaviest of footfalls of more intoxicated customers or louder, untrained personnel.

It is crowded normally, seats filled with patrons, troubled dreamers, and drunks. On busy nights, a spiraling chandelier will descend from the endless ceiling, shimmering with the colors of sunset: yellow, pink, and white. The air will still-- the frequent visitors know what’s coming, they tell their newer compatriots to be quiet, to wait.

A woman will unfold herself from a crouched position in the half-light, hair like unbound midnight, her dress a pure sparkling white. On cue, the patrons will clap and cheer, but she will gaze past them all, her eyes worlds away, caught up in a vision only she can see. She'll sweep a bow. They'll all fall silent.

The clock will strike twelve, and the lights of the chandelier will dim to a shade of purple, a twilight hue a few hours softer than the color of the walls.

The woman will open her mouth and begin to sing.

But not tonight.

Tonight, the bar’s doors are closed. Only the bartender stands behind the counter. All seats sit empty, save two.

xi.

He catches your attention from across the bar. (It’s easy. You’re the only two inside.)

One stolen glance and you're lost in his eyes again, like a moth to a dark flame. You're reminded, briefly, of the sleepless nights you once spent following him through the city, a lonely journey down moonlit alleys, into the cinema, into bars. They're nights from a time you know you can't return to, a time you, even after everything, still hold dear.

You read about the primacy effect one time in a psychology textbook, following along for a few pages over his shoulder before you stifled a yawn. He’d marked the page and closed the book, and turned to caress the top of your head with a gentle smile.

The study those pages had described surfaces in your mind now, as he raises his glass and drinks, dark eyes never leaving yours. The scientists had split their participants into two groups, and given them the same list of traits in different orders, one presenting a fictional man with his flaws first and strengths last, the other, the reverse. They'd then asked each group for their impression of the man.

Despite being given the exact same listed traits, they had opposite responses. The first, remembering most clearly his flaws, thought him a terrible person. The second saw him simply as human, and sympathized with those natural flaws.

At the time, you hadn't understood it. You couldn't think of how it related, out of the study and academia, back to everyday life. Of course now, you do. You're in his experiment. (You're in the second group, presented strengths first, flaws last.)

You can't help but continue to stare, your traitorous heart twisting with endlessly conflicting feelings at the sight of slim fingers you still remember holding, and the elegant panes of his face that you’ll never forget.

ii.

He'd explained primacy again, after you'd watched Memento, a movie he'd called one of his favorites. You don't know anymore if that was true. You don't think you know a single true thing about him. But still, you remember it. His words. The movie. The Polaroid. Don’t believe his lies.

The movie starts centered around the main character, and it’s intensely subjective, he’d said. We see him and his world through his eyes. We learn the details of the plot along with him, even as he forgets, and by the time the movie tells us he’s not as good of a person as we’d like to remember and we finally step out of his head and question his character, it’s too late. We're back at the start. A beginning at the end, an ending at the beginning.

The movie’s a bit like those classic math puzzles, he had said, and had chuckled at your groan. We begin with two trains going in opposite directions towards each other: one from the past, in black-and-white, going forward, one, in color, from the present going back, and they meet somewhere in the grey in between, at the start of the movie. Only, we’re introduced to his positive perception of his present self first.

So we call the movie’s arguable villain hero, up until the movie’s end. Just as you would like to think of him not as Ares, as a villain, up until this dream ends.

xi.

You know you’re dreaming when you blink, and he’s gone from the shadowy corner only to reappear right next to you, your name on his lips with a smile.

“Lucien,” you whisper, as if speaking his name aloud will somehow make the moment real. As if a dream could ever become reality.

It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. The only thing that matters is this moment. This moment a million times over. And what’s a moment in a dream if you make yourself believe it’s true?

He raises his glass to your lips, a silent invitation.

You meet those dark eyes. You drink.

(A different movie, but. You fall. He's your totem, your ever-spinning top. You wait for the kick.)

iii.

The world shifts and swirls around you. Only he stays steady, awash in a sea of sunset colors and midnight starry lights. You take his hand, your anchor, and he lets you.

Your dress is a soft purple now. Now, you say, since you think it used to be pink, and before that, white. (If the bartender would speak, she'd tell you it looks like the chandelier: dripping in crystals, iridescent, reminiscent of the fading day, the coming night.)

x.

There's an invisible glass wall between you and him. (You don't remember Ares. You don't remember why.)

You press up against it, and it shatters.

iv.

He calls your name, and you surface, dizzy, from your daze.

"Why did you come here?" He asks. His hand's hovering, almost reaching, on the verge of taking your glass away or perhaps tucking an escaped strand of hair behind your ear.

"Why do I do things? Why does anyone do anything?"

You're definitely a little drunk.

"What I do isn't meaningless just because there are things I don't remember," you say, and what you mean is things you've made me forget.

"The world doesn't just disappear when you close your eyes, does it?"

"Memento," he notes with that same gentle, enigmatic smile. "Touché."

Then, musing, quieter:

"So, you remember that night."

"I remember everything."

(You both know that's a lie.)

ix.

(a tangent.)

Once, you asked, waking from the middle of a nightmare to a starless night:

"Daddy, why do I forget so many things?"

Your father held you close without a word. (You weren't expecting an answer.)

Now, you think it suits you, being a girl cut loose in time.

v.

Your head hurts.

You'd ask the bartender for a glass of ice water, but the silent, white-clad woman's gone. In her places stands a gleaming door. Behind the door lies silver stairs.

Your temples throb again, and you think, fresh air. He takes your hand, and you let him. You pass through the doorway together.

viii.

(another tangent.)

A question without a proper answer: what does it mean to forget?

You searched it on the internet for Miracle Finder, found Wikipedia pages on the different types of memory and how your brain wires them all. Each article was long, convoluted, and a little pretentious.

(You gave up.)

Spoiler alert: neuroscientists still don't know.

You asked Lucien. He doesn't, either.

(The beginning of the hypothesis of an answer, buried in words about synapse strengthening and weakening: forgetting is just another word for loss.)

A better question, but one you'll never get a proper answer for: when your memory of someone is erased with Evol, which part of the brain is it affecting? What neural connections are lost, overwritten by the unnatural?

After all, Evol goes beyond the explainable, but it'd be wrong to say it doesn't affect those circuits at all.

A quick lesson that Lucien will never teach you: memory loss isn't like what you see in the movies.

There's many types of memory. You already know the first two: short-term and long-term. The temporary. The eroding. (outside these two-- the already lost)

(Memento's different. In it, he's lost the ability to make new long-term memories. Not quite memory loss. More like he can't feel time.)

Within the eroding are two subtypes: explicit, and implicit, or conscious and unconscious.

First, within explicit:

Semantic memory, our memory of general facts. It's how we familiarize ourselves with the world. (The sky is blue. Grass is green. The city the company headquarters are in is Loveland City.) A knock on the head to important bits involved here, and you won't remember the name of the president or how many cents add up to a dollar, but you'll still remember your childhood.

Episodic memory, the memory of our personal experiences. Many people argue this is the memory that makes you you. Say the amnesia-inducing Evol removes this. You forget an important event (a dream, a nightmare where he was Ares and you still called on him for protection, and he came, he saved you).

There, you say. Question answered. Problem solved.

But wait. The lesson's not over yet. There's still implicit. The unconscious part of your memory. (Freud's favorite.)

Implicit memory contains multitudes. (We'll just focus on a few.)

The important bits: implicit memory stores the memories necessary to learn. Procedural memory covers skills.

Then there's association, and key to association are your emotions. (You'll remember things that make you happy, make you angry, make you sad. You just won't remember why.)

Lastly, priming, also known as pattern completion. (If a puzzle was put in front of you, you'd be able to solve it, if you had before.)

Long story short, memory loss by Evol, if scientific, doesn't wipe them all out. Let's say it just wipes episodic. No more memory of the event. No more memory of the event itself. Let's say the emotions remain. Let's say you're still primed. But we digress.

(Lesson over.)

vi.

You race up the stairs, past pipes, through smoke, and burst onto the roof, giddy, flushed, his hand in yours the whole way. In the night air, your dress shimmers and darkens to a midnight blue, just a touch shy of the black of the silk of his suit.

The roof is wide open and empty, save for a delicate floating canopy of fairy lights. Beyond the rosy glow, vivid colors of fireworks shatter bright against the velvet curtain of night.

He pauses at the sight of the fireworks, the city far below, and you stagger back against him, one hand raised to the sky, laughing, drunk. Neither of you notice when the silver stairway disappears.

You loop your arms around his neck and stare up into his eyes. At first, the light doesn’t reflect off of them and you almost freeze, but he clasps a hand to the small of your back and draws you closer. When you blink up at him again, the dark of his gaze is warmed by the shine of the veil of lights.

“Where are the stars?”

“Shall I go and fetch them for you?”

Before you can respond, he leans in and catches the swell of your lips between his, dark eyes closed.

The first kiss is gentle and teasing, like his words. The second kiss is yours when he pulls back for air and you follow him. The third devours you.

His hands move in opposite directions; one floating up to cup your cheek and draw you in further with a caress, the other creeping down your back, leaving a trail of fire, aroused nerves, in its wake. It settles on the back of one of your thighs, and grips rough, possessive, hard and--

you gasp a single word between stolen breaths,

Lucien.

His name burns stronger than any alcohol on your lips, on his, it consumes you both, and you're glad of it, you're content to go up in flames. Your hands move to match his, to mark him as your own. You think this is perhaps what fireworks feel like, the moment before the end.

(You explode. It's not as pretty as a fireworks display.)

You arch your back against him and you suddenly remember the butterfly, those vivid splinters from your childhood so small they could hardly be called memories. You are not certain of much anymore but you are certain of this: You are his Schrodinger's butterfly, dancing futilely, dead in the palms of his hands.

He pulls away, panting, and you want to, but this time you do not follow. You don't move at all. Trapped things, you hear your father say, voice shaking, the butterfly long gone, once let go, are never the same after.

Your mind doesn't remember, but something in your heart does: this has happened before. He's altered your memory so many times, but you still can't remember to forget him.

(Emotional memory, and now. Priming. Some part of you sees the same pattern fall into place.)

His hand, cold against your flushed cheek moves to cover your eyes, and you know: you won't remember the ending of this, either. You don't try to stop him.

"Go back to sleep. Forget this nightmare."

His voice comes, silky smooth and soft. Sad, you want to think, though you know it can't be.

"What if I wake up, and this isn’t a dream? What if that's the nightmare?"

"Then find your way back here. I'll be waiting."

You close your eyes under his cool fingers, and wake to warm sheets.

In your dream, he's still smiling. You're sure of it.

xx.

You're waiting for someone. Someone's waiting for you. (You aren't sure which it is. You aren't sure who.)

The butterfly's wings flutter in your small child hands, light yellow heartbeats tickling your fingers. The sky is grey. A chill wind blows. Your father is silent, frozen and smiling. Gone.

You remember (or at least you tell yourself you do):

When you opened your palms, the butterfly flew straight. It flew true.

[the-omni-princess]

Silver and Gold

Author: @the-omni-princess

Summary: Soulmate!AU, The first words spoken to you by your soulmate are written on your wrist. What happens when two super soldiers say the same thing at the same time?

Word Count: 2.4K

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Warnings: Injuries, blood, a bit of angst, bit of fluff

A/N:

A request by @darknessdaughterr for some soulmate confusion between Steve and Bucky and a “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

-

[Masterlist]

----

Soulmarks. That's what they called the words etched onto your wrists. They first appeared when you officially hit puberty, and they were the lifeline to your soulmate. Your other half, your perfect half. The first words your soulmate would say to you (once you had your mark) would be the words etched onto your skin forever. They would change colors, from the brown-grey they started off as, an ugly dull color, to a beautiful rainbow and array of colors.

Some people found their soulmates right away, your best friend in middle school let out a small gasp when the heartthrob of the school asked her for a pen. Her wrist busted into beautiful shades of green like a forest etched into the writing. Some people got lucky with their marks, and their colors always meant something to their other half.

When your mark first etched into your skin, you were thirteen. Womanhood gave you cramps and a soulmark. Despite how elated your family was that your mark appeared, they always teased you about your soulmate's choice of first words. "What the hell are you doing?" Etched in cursive, dull, brown ink. You used to get excited whenever someone spoke to you for the first time. Now, much older than your friends, you felt left out. You were one of the few people with a boring, lifeless, and haven’t-met-my-soulmate-yet-grey mark. You've been pointedly ignoring it for years.

You became a practiced surgeon. The long shifts at the ER helped ease your mind that you were one of the few people without your soulmate yet. Your family worried about it constantly. Maybe your other half was dead, maybe they aren't even from the same country as you.

Pushing all those thoughts aside, and begging to get away from your overbearing family, you moved to New York, and were approached by a Stark representative to work as the Avengers' personal surgeon. It took months of preparation under Helen Cho and Bruce Banner, learning exactly what ailments and enhancements every Avenger had. Super soldiers, gamma radiation, a telekinetic witch, it was a lot to learn, but you took it in stride.

Now three months into the position came the first challenge, a mission gone sideways. You grabbed your stethoscope, wrapping it around your neck as FRIDAY's voice appeared. "Your presence is requested in OR 2, Agent Barton has deep lacerations and multiple bullet wounds."

"On it!" You called out to the AI, already heading in that direction. You rushed in, noticing Dr. Banner already attempting to take a bullet out of the still awake Hawkeye. "Jeez, ever heard of anesthesia Bruce? And stop pulling on that bullet in his leg, it could be lodged in his femoral artery and he'll bleed out before you can toss the bullet into waste." You gloved up, shooing the doctor away who held his hands up in surrender. "Hello, I'm Dr. Y/n L/n, and excuse my forgoing of formalities, Agent Barton, but the bullet in your shoulder looks to have nicked something major and I'd rather make sure you live than introduce myself." He responded with a groan, nodding. You now noticed the redhead he was gripping hands with, who you recognized as Natasha Romanoff before you rushed to help him.

You quickly went to work, asking Bruce for gauze when needed and taking out bullets, green eyes watching you like a hawk, which you found ironic. Four bullets later you sutured the bullet wounds, then the laceration, effectively cleaning up the blood and bandaging him up. You clapped your hands faintly, smiling. "Done!" You grinned up at the two. Clint was out of it, staring up at Natasha who was staring at you. "Make sure he rests, and he should be up and running in a few weeks."

"You're new," Natasha stated, still eyeing you warily.

You nodded, "Still getting the hang of it, but I know what I'm doing, usually at least. But what's a little adventure into the unknown?" You smiled warmly, noticing she loosened up a bit.

"Thanks for patching Clint here up," she sighed softly, still holding onto the Archer.

"Of course, kind of my job to make sure you are all patched up. Tell him to try not to hit anything too major next time though," you teased.

She chuckled, "Will do, till next time."

"Hopefully you guys stay safe enough there aren't too many next times, besides, I have to take Robin Hood here to a room to rest," you cleaned up the station, before transferring Clint to his own room to rest. Natasha and you kept talking, and by the time you had to leave, she had started warming up to you.

You had found out she was so wary since the two were soulmates. Her soulmark was shades of purple, and Clint's was in shades of black and red, you noticed as you worked on him, but you knew not to ask what the words said. She had found out more about you and had seen that you haven't met your soulmate yet.

-

About a month later you had met or patched up most of the Avengers, and Natasha and Clint were the closest to you, as well as Bruce since you saw the most of them. FRIDAY had alerted you that the Avengers were back from another mission gone bad, this time it was Sam Wilson who was hurt, he was unconscious, and his vitals were dropping fast. Steve and Bucky were running in after him, just as you got to work. You patted your scrubs down, the bright orange and pink Ombre was a bold choice but you wanted a splash of color against the white sterile walls of your lab and operating room, as the Avengers tended to let you do what you wanted.

You silently went to work, washing hands, pulling on gloves, and wordlessly grabbing what you need to save his life. You groaned aloud, grabbing the bandages and cauterizing tool, but you weren't able to do your job due to the two towering super-soldiers blocking your way. Unable to push them away from you instead opted to jump on top of the patient. Terrible procedure? Definitely. But you had two super soldiers that wouldn't move, and you had a patient dying.

Both men simultaneously cried out, "What the hell are you doing?"

You were already starting your cauterizing tool, cauterizing the artery that was the cause of the blood loss. "My job, if you don't let me do it, he'll die from blood loss. So, get out of my way!" You pushed one of the soldiers out of the way, Steve you think, grabbing the gauze and patching up Sam. Once you were finally done, you jumped off of him, he stabilized halfway through your work, so you hooked him up to an IV and stood back at your handiwork. You ripped your gloves off, tossing them away as you washed your hands. You froze, your mark was now a splash of color. Navy blue ink etched in silver and gold. That only meant one thing, one of the super-soldiers behind you was your soulmate. But they both said it at the same time, which one was your other half? Could you survive having an Avenger soulmate? You had patched them up enough to know how many close calls they tended to have.

"Are you alright, ma'am?" Of course, one of the very same men you were thinking about was concerned about your sudden shyness.

"I'm not quite sure, Captain Rogers," you turned back around. "Your friend will be alright, just needs to rest and heal, but he'll be fine." You smiled brightly at the two super soldiers looking at you warily.

Captain Roger's mark was already colored in, you could see the peaks of bright red just peeking out of his uniform. Sargent Barnes, however, didn't have any color peeking out of his right hand, and that's when you realized his mark might have been on his left wrist before it was torn off. That meant you had to outright ask the two intimidating men about their marks, something only children did.

"Are you sure you're okay, doll?" Barnes was the one that spoke up this time, both men weren't quite sure what to make of you. You were pushing them out of the way to do your job minutes ago but now seemed shy.

You took a deep breath, "There’s no easy way to say this, so I'll just say it, I think one of you two is my soulmate." You said it quickly, looking absolutely anywhere but them.

"What do you mean?" That time it was the Captain.

You exposed your wrist, the brilliant shades of Navy lined in gold and silver. The silver and gold seemed to shimmer, and even without their enhancements, both men could make out the writing. Both men shared a look, and you noticed you had gained an audience. Natasha, Clint, Bruce, and Tony were now standing at the room, you were too preoccupied panicking to even notice their entrance to check in on the now waking up Falcon beside you.

"You two said those words and my mark gained color, one of you is my soulmate," a groan from beside you diverted your attention. You went to work, making sure Sam was comfortable as he started to become aware of his surroundings.

"I wake up and one of the fossils gets a soulmate? I should get injured more often, maybe they'll both get lives before I die," he joked in a weak voice.

"I have limited patience with someone who tried to get shot, Wilson," you rolled your eyes, checking to make sure he didn't rip his stitches as he sat up. "And you shouldn't be sitting up, you've lost a lot of blood," you tried reasoning, but he just waved you off.

"Na, I've got to see this. Aren't you the new doctor Tony hired? You're cute, too bad I'm not your soulmate, smart and pretty," he rambled on, the medication starting to kick in.

"I've been here for four months, you just manage not to get as many bullets in you like the others," you made sure his IV drip was working before turning to your audience.

Steve spoke up first, "It’s not me," he exposed his mark. "My soulmate was Peggy Carter," his mark was bright red, the color of bright lipstick. He had left his soulmate back in the forties, that had to suck.

His eyes went to Bucky, as did yours. He looked a little stunned. "Repeat what you first said to me," he said it softly, almost hesitant.

"Well, I can't remember! I was trying to make sure Birds of Justice here didn't die!" You gave him a pointed look, Sam laughed at that, and you shot him a glare, "No laughing, you'll rip your stitches and if you do something stupid I'll kick your ass myself."

"Oh, feisty, I like her," a loopy Sam Wilson giggled like a school girl beside you.

"FRIDAY, please repeat the audio of what Dr. Y/l/n said when Sam first came in," Natasha stated, making you roll your eyes.

"Nat, I'm just Y/n to you," you mumbled, but otherwise kept quiet, needing to know the answer to the riddle written in ink around your wrist.

"Certainly, Agent Romanoff," the AI replied before the audio played.

The two super soldiers’ voices rung out first, "What the hell are you doing?"

Before your voice replied in the audio, "My job, if you don't let me do it, he'll die from blood loss. So, get out of my way!"

You looked towards the former Winter Soldier. "Does Navy Blue, Silver and Gold mean anything to you, Sargent Barnes?" You held up your wrist, and he gently grabbed it with his right hand. His thumb brushed across the ink etched deep into your skin.

"Navy Blue was my uniform color when I was a Howling Commando, silver was the color of my first metal arm, and gold is currently in my metal arm. And call me Bucky," he held up the black and gold vibranium arm for you to inspect. "I always thought my soulmate would be a nurse during the war, one I flirted to at the wrong time, or got in the way one too many times. I guess I was partially right," he kept his voice soft, the two of you locking eyes.

"You're my soulmate? I never thought I'd find you," you mumbled softly, getting lost in his blue eyes.

"My left wrist had those words, and I lost it in the fall of the train, and I'm actually glad I did because Hydra couldn't find you that way, and I'm sorry you have me as a soulmate, and I'm sorry you can't even get to see the colors my mark would have, and-" he rambled on, making you smile, gently taking his hand and interlacing your hands together, promptly shutting him up.

"I'm not sad you’re my soulmate, Bucky. I was just confused is all. I had basically accepted I'd never find mine, I've had dull brown ink on me since I was thirteen. But it's you. I found you," you couldn't stop smiling up at him.

He gave you a bashful smile, "I'd like to think my mark would be the colors of your scrubs. Orange and pinks like a sunset," he explained.

"Or a sunrise," you spoke up, "New beginnings and all."

Natasha made a retching sound behind the two of you. "Absolutely adorable and disgusting. We'll watch over him, y/n, he's already falling asleep, and we'll have FRIDAY update you if needed. Go on break," she shooed you out of the room, Steve already tossing Bucky out with you, Sam making cooing noises behind you as he fell asleep. They shut the door, effectively giving you not much choice.

"Well, I guess that settles it," you turned to Bucky, who looked towards you a little skeptical. "Let me formally introduce myself, soulmate. I'm Dr. Y/n y/m/n y/l/n, but you can call me y/n/n." You put your hand out, your mark on full display.

He gave you a goofy smile in response, taking your hand and kissing your knuckles before kissing your wrist right over your mark. "Why hello, soulmate. I'm Sargent James Buchanan Barnes, but you can call me Bucky."

-

Bucky Tags:

@cassandras-musings

-

For a tag, just reply/comment, if I don’t see it, just message me. Tell me what you think! Literally, any comment makes me happy! Like, comment, reblog, interact <3

[maraudererasmut]

Black and White (Part II)

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV

Part V

Part VI

Part VII

Part VIII

Part IX

Part II:

Remus stood in front of a piece of art, plate in hand, filled with cubes of cheese and assorted crackers. He stared intently at the brushstrokes, the way they danced across the canvas, the texture of the paint. There was intention to every stroke, every line, every point where the brush kissed the canvas. It was purposeful.

"What do you think of it?"

Remus glanced to the side, where a young man in an expensive looking suit had sidled in beside him. Remus raised an eyebrow and smiled politely, taking in the man's appearance. He had rich mahogany skin, almost a burnt umber. It took a cool tone in the stark gallery lighting, but had a hint of redness just beneath the surface. The man had dark hair, a warm black, just a shade lighter than his suit. He was wearing a burgundy tie with yellow ochre stripes, matching his completion perfectly. He had red-framed glasses that sat on the bridge of his nose, ever so slightly askew. When he grinned, the man flashed a set of ivory teeth, perfectly straight and sparkling in the light.

"It's nice. You didn't paint it, did you?" Remus responded with a grin. It was Remus' own little joke, funny only to a particular few who had the same odd sense of humour as himself; nice was never used as a compliment.

The man returned the smile, russet eyes gleaming with something akin to excitement.

"If I said yes?"

"Then I'd tell you that your work is lovely and congratulations on the gallery show." Remus nodded, keeping his feigned confidence.

"And if I said no?" The man asked, a twinkle in his eyes and a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Then I'd tell you the work is adequate… for a contemporary piece of abstract painting. It's a pity that it's been done a thousand times before." Remus finished his thought with a grin of his own.

The man let out a sharp laugh, garnering the attention and glares of other patrons of the arts. Remus chuckled along, happy to have met someone who didn't take the art world so seriously. 

The man thrust his hand forward, grinning from ear to ear.

"James," he said, beaming.

Remus smiled and grasped the man's hand, giving a firm handshake. 

"Remus."

"Pleasure to meet you, Remus."

"Are you an artist?" Remus asked, trying to glean more information from his newfound acquaintance. James laughed again, running a hand through his already messy hair. 

"Me? No. Not even a little bit. I couldn't paint to save my life!"

Remus gave a casual shrug, glancing around at the other pieces of art on display in the gallery. 

"You don't have to paint to be an artist."

James shook his head with a playful sigh.

"Alas, I was born without a creative bone in my body. My wife, on the other hand…" James nodded towards the artist statement located next to the painting.

Remus felt the colour drain completely from his face as he realized James' implication, immediately regretting his decision of engaging the stranger.

"Oh, I am so sorry— " Remus began.

"Don't be!" James laughed, giving Remus a playful nudge with his elbow. "She hates this one, too."

"But I— "

"Honestly! She was gonna toss this one, but Sirius insisted on using it for his exhibition. Matched his aesthetic, apparently."

Oh.

James and his wife knew Sirius. Sirius Black. Owner of the gallery and curator of the show. Perhaps if Remus asked, he would be able to convince James to facilitate a meeting for him. 

"Oh!" James' exclamation interrupted Remus' thoughts. "I have to go. Sorry for cutting this short. It was a pleasure meeting you, Remus. I hope to see you around." 

Remus flashed James a well-practiced smile as he shook the man's hand, internally regretting not asking more about Sirius. As James disappeared into the crowd, it dawned on Remus that he had forgotten to exchange business cards with the other man. He groaned as he popped a cube of cheese into his mouth, mentally berating himself for his terrible networking skills.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a voice called from across the room, and Remus glanced up from his plate. "And everyone in between... I would like to welcome you here tonight, to the opening of Black and White."

The man who was speaking was unlike any person Remus had ever seen. He had alabaster skin that looked like it could have been carved from marble for all its perfection. A chiseled jawline, cheekbones so sharp, they could cut steel. His eyes were a shade of silvery blue, the exact colour of the sky on a perfectly stormy day, deep and expressive and frustratingly unreadable. He was wearing a navy blue suit with fabric that shimmered slightly in the light, paired with a tie that matched his irises. The man had long, dark hair, tied back in a slick ponytail, a brush expertly dipped in a bottle of ink. Remus couldn't help but admire this man who captured the attention of the entire room, his presence captivating the audience, radiating remarkable power and grandeur.

"As many of you know, this project has been in the works for some time now. Our exhibit, Foreshadow, is a perfect representation of things to come, of what you can expect to see from the gallery in the future. So, without further ado, enjoy the wine and the food and most importantly, the art!"

A round of applause broke out amongst the audience as the dapper man gave a dramatic little bow before turning away and greeting some of the gallery patrons. Remus couldn't help but stare as the man clasped James' shoulder, a bright smile flashing across his face. He shook the hand of a woman who wove her arm through James', presumably his wife. 

All three of them radiated light and joy, a warm glow surrounding them as they talked and laughed, greeting one another with broad smiles and kisses on the cheek. Standing alone by the edge of the room, Remus couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy. He longed for the types of interactions that these people had, the types of lives that they led. Living in the lap of luxury, these upper-class people had no worries, not a care in the world; they were able to follow their passions and have the security blanket of financial stability to catch them if their plans failed. 

Remus finished his plate of appetizers and turned towards the door. Today had been long enough, he didn't need to make it harder on himself by dwelling on things that could never be. 

"Remus!" A voice called out, right before he had reached the exit. He turned around to find James waving to him, a gregarious smile spread wide across his face. He beckoned Remus over and after a moment's hesitation, Remus decided to join the trio.

"Remus, this is my wife, Lily. She's the one who did that painting you were admiring." James gave a playful wink as Remus felt his chest tighten from embarrassment. 

Lily was tall and slender, with auburn hair that cascaded down past her shoulders. Her pale skin was dusted with freckles, Pollock-esque and surprisingly alluring. She had emerald green eyes, shining with the same depth that a real gemstone would, sparkling facets each releasing a different shade of brilliant green. Ruby read lips were parted in a genuine smile as a flush of pink spread across her cheeks.

Lily groaned and rolled her eyes before offering her hand for Remus to shake. 

"Please tell me he's not referring to the one near the entrance," she said, her smile never wavering.

Remus grasped her hand and shook it before responding.

"I had been looking at it earlier—" Remus began, unsure of where that sentence was headed.

"I can't believe Sirius put that one on display! It's wretched! It's so… derivative. It's been done a million times before. I think this idiot just liked the colours."

Remus smiled, grateful for Lily's honesty and humility. She was the type of artist that Remus could see himself working with.

"Speaking of this idiot," James said, turning to the person that Remus assumed was the illustrious gallerist. "Remus, this is Sirius Black. Sirius, this is Remus. We met while discussing art."

Remus extended his hand to Sirius, keeping his smile polite and professional, despite the sense of awe and terror threatening to bubble out. Sirius shook his hand, a confident smirk playing at his lips.

"A pleasure," Sirius said in his posh accent, his stormy grey eyes endless pools that Remus found himself sinking into. 

"The pleasure is all mine," Remus offered before tearing his gaze away.

"What is it that you do, Remus?" Sirius' question made Remus' heart skip a beat. This was his chance. The opportunity fell right into his lap, presenting itself on a silver platter. 

"I'm an artist, actually." Remus' cheeks were beginning to ache from his forced smile, but he kept it up. "I've been looking for the right gallery to show in for some time now."

"Well then," Sirius responded, his eyebrow raised ever so slightly, the corner of his mouth turned up. "You'll have to stop by with your portfolio at some point. I'd be remiss if I didn't give James' friend an opportunity to show me his work." He put a particular emphasis on the word friend, as if he was entirely aware of the fact that Remus and James had only just met a few moments before.

"That would be amazing, thank you!" Remus had to strain to keep the excitement from his voice and remain calm in front of the gallery owner. 

"Excellent. In that case, I'll see you around, Remus." Sirius turned, gave Lily a kiss on the cheek, patted James on the shoulder, and went about mingling with his other guests. Sirius' lips wrapped around Remus' name hung precariously in the air, filling Remus up with a sense of— something— he didn't quite know what.

"Thank you," Remus sighed, feeling eternally grateful to James and his kindness.

"It was all Lily's idea," he said, flashing his wife a look of admiration. "She's the mastermind in this family."

Remus turned to thank Lily, but she cut him off before he could even begin.

"You're welcome, Remus. It was a pleasure meeting you. I hope to see you again soon."

As the couple walked away, Remus couldn't help but stare at their backs in disbelief. 

Did that really just happen? Had Remus actually just connected with one of the most influential names in the London art scene after a happenstance conversation with a stranger? As he walked back to his flat, the memories of the night replayed through his mind, over and over again, wondering how on earth he got so lucky. 

[fortunemars]

Also more art

I love the centrepiece of the green one but its too small to see like this so I'm gonna get a zoomed in piece for this post hehe hopefully tumblr let's you click on them so you can see everything djjdjsjs

I did these all super late last night bc I was having a time and wanted to draw psps I like these a lot tho I didnt like the alt version of the red that had the diamonds. I wanted to keep the vibe of the purple one with the swirls (tho that wasnt my favourite one either hense the plain background of it too djdjbshs) but it just didnt sit well. Maybe it was the shade of the body. Also notice the blue accents on the red 💕

Ps I hope none of the lines are actually symbols!! I wasnt thinking about that when I made these, I just drew lines that looked nice to me. I really hope I'm not doing something bad here :(

The purple ones???? So cool looking???? The purple parts that are detached from the main body were meant to be wings at first but lowkey this could be seen as smthn about body image (bc they arent connected but they are the same colour so it seems like someone who thinks their body is bigger than it is which is smthn I sort of deal with) but that wasnt the intent lol.

They were inspired by this

(Tiktok @/vonex20)

It gave me vibes (while also reminding me of the demons I see when I open doors at night).

Also when drawing these I was reminded of the "drawing my fears as ---" trend and like... its definitely vibes. The only good thing about the diamond red is that the over stimulation that it causes is exactly what I get when I move around at night.

Its very tempting to try to draw things more related to my paranoia psps it would be fun.

Heres one I forgot about but I drew it a bit ago 💕

This one is actually kinda related to my paranoia bc some of the images that flash through my mind are bloody teeth biting into chunks of flesh, but the blood is like neon red/pink/yellow/blue/whatever (it's different colours but they're always neon). I dont actually see images in my head when I try but when I sleep I dream very vividly. I can see some random flashes of pictures sometimes (thus that drawing). Idk why but they're always dark and neon. Like black background and just bright aggressive neon accents nd highlights.

Fun fact I have a hard time differentiating dreams and reality because my dreams are so vivid, but also bc my funky maybe sleeping disorder. I fall in and out of sleep ~10 times per chunk of sleep so my brain has a hard time figuring out if I'm still in my dream or if I'm awake. This affects my memory (the fact that ive forgotten 99% of my childhood doesnt help) and makes me think things that happened in realistic dreams are actual things that happen. Lmao it also isnt helped that I've been taking character's personalities and saying made up cool things about me my whole life so people would like me since I'm an army brat.

In conclusion bc this is long and no one actually cares bc i went way off point and probably lost some trains of thought.

Jdndbshsh hope yall enjoyed the art.

[angstalottle]

Lana On The Case

Part 3

Lana knew she shouldn’t have been expecting much, especially after spending the last week lying in bed stewing in her own filth and misery.

That didn’t change the fact that her current appearance still shocked her.

Her skin had gained an ashen quality about it and dark circles under her eyes.

She was sure is Red hadn’t practically force fed her she was have lost much more weight then she already had.

She felt drained and heavy, like her life was sucked out from her when Hannah left her…

Keith showing up had given her a small glimmer of excitement perhaps even hope but as soon as he was gone and she was left alone to her thoughts they turned right back to the fact that her best friend was gone from her life forever.

That thought hurt even more than knowing her sweet wonderful Hannah killed people.

Job offer or not Lana likely would have spent the rest of her life lying in her bed if her aunties hadn’t decided to do something about it.

One moment she's dozing staring into space, the next Blue has pulled her covers away while Re dumped a bucket of warm soapy water over her.

The two manhandled her out of bed and into some clean clothes before giving her two options.

One was to stay cooped up inside and suffer through them inviting every nosey friend they could think of over to omard her with questions and pinched cheeks followed by of course the dreaded relationship advice that everyone over a certain age believed they knew.

Or go down to the police station and actually do something with her life/

Though neither option was particularly fun in the end Lana chose to go out mainly because Red had also made a swinging joke which of course practically sent her bolting through the door.

The police station like everything else in the village was only a short walk away from the Altea estate, you could get pretty much anywhere by cutting through the large gardens that have unfortunately fallen into a state of disrepair.

The lady of the manor had died when Lana was away and since then the place hadn’t been the same, like some of the beauty of the world left when she did.

As far as she knew the only daughter of the family Allura was away for school or something while her father worked in London.

Lana had fond memories of Allura, being a few years younger then the girl and quite a bit poorer, she always seemed like this fairy princess that could have anything or do anything.

Looks like not even princesses could escape tragedy.

Lana hiked up her skirt as she climbed over the thick mess of weeds and flowers careful not to disturb anything as she passed through.

Even if everyone took the shortcut it was an unsaid rule that you were not to disturb the gardens or ever go close to the house.

Of course when Lance got her foot caught in a bramble and fell face first into the ground she broke that rule by flattening at least a dozen flowers beneath her.

“Oh dear are you alright?” A woman wearing a veil and long white gloves asked as she hurried over from the main house.

Odd appearance aside what really caught Lana’s attention was her snow white hair. A characteristic that was common amongst the Altean family.

Going off her build she could have been anywhere between 20-30 but without the face or hands it really was impossible to tell.

Lana felt her cheeks burn as she pulled herself up and dusted herself down frowning at the rip that now worked its way up her blue skirt.

The woman put her hands on her dress and examined the rip tutting softly “we really must get the gardener back in this place really has fallen to ruin.”

Now that she was closer Lana could smell the sweet scent of roses coming off her in such a large volume it would almost be suffocating if they weren't outside.

“Do you work here?” Lana asked trying to swallow her embarrassment while this strange woman kept hold of her skirt.

One strong breeze and she would see next weeks washing.

The woman chuckled “not exactly. I used to live here I never actually planned on returning but in light of my father's disappearance I suppose I didn’t have much choice.”

Lana couldn’t help but flinch, since what Hannah did came to light any case of men running off in the middle of the night or simply not returning after a day out is now considered suspect.

Their still digging up all the bodies and people have been flocking from all over in search of their missing husbands, fathers and brothers.

Lana then realised something very important.

Mainly that if Alfor was missing and this woman was his daughter then it must have been Allura!

“Allura?”

Lana couldn’t see her face but she imagined a smile on those pretty pink painted lips she used to know very well.

“That’s me, im sorry but who are you?”

Lana had her suspicions of course that this was all a scam, someone swooping in to steal the Altean family fortune, but she wasn’t really in the mood for any other mysteries right now.

That and according to Keith she was pretty forgettable.

“Oh im Lana… I used to play with you in the garden as a kid.”

“Oh my i'm so sorry Lana, im afraid my memory hasn’t been that good since the accident. She gestured to her veil and gloves “I got caught up in the Blitz and i'm afraid my appearance paid a higher price then by mind.”

Lana felt guilt crawl into her stomach, well at least she didn’t outright accuse  her of being a con artist. Besides Coran was a dear friend of the family, there's no way someone would be able to just take over Allura’s life without him noticing.

“Im sorry, I didn’t realise.”

Allura waved her off finally letting go of her skirt “don’t worry about it, ive made my peace with my situation, it is a tad lonely though, people aren't exactly eager to visit the manor these days.” She sounded so sincerely sad that Lana couldn’t help but feel for her.

She knew what it was like to lose everything because of a situation out of her control, the war had stolen many things from them, Lana was lucky to keep her beauty at least.

“Well then I suppose I have no choice but to come round for tea, I would invite you to my aunts cottage but they tend to get too excited around anyone they used to know.”

Lana gave her the best smile she could manage and was rewarded by Allura taking her hands and kissing them.

Once again her face turned an interesting shade of red.

“That sounds simply wonderful Lana, how about Thursday at 8 o'clock?”

Lana had lost her ability to form words so simply nodded earning her a small chuckle in response.

“I don’t want to keep you if your busy so ill just see you Thursday?” Allura asked startling Lana out of her stupor.

“Yes I should go, but i'll erm see you then I promise.”

Lana stuttered deciding it was best to continue on her way before she made an even bigger fool of herself so mustered up what grace she had to give an awkward curtsy realising that was dumb halfway through and instead turned and hurried on her way hitting herself muttering “stupid stupid stupid” over and over again until she finally arrived at the police station.

As expected of a small town the police station was fairly quiet this time of day home only to the drunks that were picked up the night before and only now being released to go back to their family or in some cases the church.

Of course one would expect it to be much busier with the number of bodies being dug up but unfortunately since Hannah left and it became national news the investigation had been taken over by some fancy out of state law enforcement that walk around in nice suits and a stuck up attitude to match their overall pompous appearance.

Going off the sour atmosphere in the station no one was too pleased to have the villages first ever big case stolen from under them.

Lana did her best to smile politely as she made her way to reception preparing herself for awkward small talk with someone she really hoped wouldn't recognise her.

“Hello im here-”

“If you got a crime to report fill out the form if not get lost.”

The woman behind the desk looked too young to be working, her slight frame and big doe eyes making her seem like she couldn't be much older than 15 but then again looks can be deceiving. Like the fact that despite wearing big round glasses and squinting at a book in front of her the glass within the frame appeared to be purely decorative and not actually serve any function.

Lana cleared her throat “no actually i'm here about the job. Im expected.”

This time she at least bothered to look up from her book and glanced Lana up and down “what they replacing me with some tramp, i've worked here ten years and they bring in some totty to take my job”

Lana quickly held up her hands feeling actually pretty threatened by this tiny angry lady “no! No i'm the new consultant im supposed to be working with Keith and-”

“Oi Keith! Some broad here says shes your new partner!” She yelled and just like that, all eyes were on her.

Lana smiled awkwardly at them really wishing a hole would appear beneath her and swallow her up whole so she could escape this situation.

However the only thing the universe sent her was a very flustered keith running in from the back.

He was carrying a stack of papers and had that god awful mullet tied back in a ponytail that honestly didn't look half bad on him.

“Thanks Katie i can take her from here.” Keith dropped the papers on her desk “Also Griffin needs you to file these for him.”

“He could do it himself” Katie grumbled grabbing the papers and flicking through them “he didn't even bother filling some of these out!”

Keith quietly grabbed Lana’s arm and pulled her towards him as Katie got distracted with her angry mutterings “Sorry about her, she's just pissed that her dad lost his job to a hot shot whos dad just happens to be a governor.”

“Ah where would be be without nepotism” Lana chuckled letting Keith led her back into a small office where five other people were sat. She assumed the cells were behind one of the closed doors and perhaps the archive room behind another.

It had been a long time since she had been back here, it was certainly before the war was even a possibility and she had broken the wrong persons window and ended up having to wait for her mother by Corans desk.

People tend to say that places from your youth always seem so much smaller when you visit them again. Until now Lana wasn't really sure she bought into that nostalgia fueled nonsense.

But seeing the row of chairs her feet used to dangel off while she prepared an excuse for her behaviour for her furious mother now looked like they would fall apart if she just got too close let alone sat on one.

At least not all the changes were bad. Coran really did deserve that nice office and the title Detective neatly painted above his name.

“You know I was starting to think you wouldn't be coming” Keith said as they came to what Lana assumed was his desk. It was a little away from the others and scattered with paper work in various states of finished. It lacked much personality beyond a couple of knives and oh boy keith standing next to an incredibly attractive man that Lana realised fairly quickly must have been his older brother.

“To be honest i wasn't sure either, my life kinda went to hell but Aunt Blue and Red practically shoved me out of the door.”

Keith chuckled in response as her perched on the edge of his desk “that sounds about right. Though I hate to say it but you've kind of come on boring day. Everyones so desperate for something to do that their even taking the grunt work from me.”

“So what your just sitting around all day?” Lana asked right as a hand collided with her behind.

Lana likes to think herself an understanding woman. Or at least she tries to ever since the instadent where what she thought was a gropper on a train turned out to be a blind man having dropped his cain. So rather then turning around and grabbing the arm of whoever just did that to break over her knee she calmly turned to them.

She came face to face with a tall man that she unfortunately recognised.

James Griffin top of the class when they went to school together and by far the most arrogant man she ever met. And that was before he got a cushy job thanks to his dad.

Lana glared up at him giving him a chance to apologize or say he had mistaken her for his girlfriend that was into that kind of thing.

Instead he just smirked “wow Keith how did you find yourself this hot piece of ass.”

Ok she was going to break his nose now.

Unfortunately before she got the chance keith stepped in front of her “don't talk to her like that Griffin, Coran hired her himself as a consultant and i'm sure he wouldn't take that kind of behaviour.’

James rolled his eyes but did visibly tense as he shot a glance at the closed office door. “Whatever. This whole thing is just for press, whoever heard of a woman police officer. Their far too emotional.”

“Last I checked you were the one that cried when i kicked you in the nuts as kids.” Lana huffed crossing her arms.

“Ah buck teeth Lana! My my you did fill out nicely. How about after work I take you out?” Jame smiled looking her up and down in a way that made her skin crawl.

“How about I tell your mother that you slap my ass, if i remember right she was a reasonable woman.”

Oh how quickly his attitude changed. He swallowed whatever response he had ready and scurried off to his office next to Corans.

“What a creep.”

“Yeah but a rich one.” Keith sighed “you ok?”

“Yeah just kinda pissed i didn't get to make that jerk squeal like in highschool.” Lana noticed a small smirk appear at the corner of keiths lips at that and decided to take it as a win even if she could still feel his disgusting hand on her.

Unfortunately the next few hours were not as exciting.

Lana pulled up a chair across from Keith and kept herself busy by flicking pieces of paper at him, an activity that he avoided joining in with for exactly ten minutes.

They were so wrapped up in their game that they didn't notice coran standing next to the desk until after Keith made the winning shot and jumped up to let out a victory cry.

“It's nice to see you've found a way to keep miss Mclain here entertained during our slow day.” Coran chuckled as Keith startled and quickly cleared his throat trying to hide the blush quickly creeping up his face.

“Detective i can explain”

Coran held his hand up quickly cutting him off “no need, I understand the importance of a bit of fun to avoid dying of boredom. The time for that has now sadly passed im sending you to look into a missing persons cases.”

Keith and lana exchanged a look, while lana’s was excitement Keiths was confusion.

“Sir while im happy for a case why not give it to someone else? Im sure all the others would kill for a case right now.”

Coran simply chuckled to himself handing over a case file “because Kogane your the only officer here I trust not to get side tracked while investigating. That and i'm sure Lana here will make sure your eyes don't wander too far.”

Lana wasn't really sure what he meant by that until they got to the scene of the crime.

Or as everyone else calls it the ‘Galra Gentlemens Club’.

When the club first opened it was met with outcry from the church and the school boards and well anyone with too much time on their hands.

Now after being open for more than a decade, those same people have become the most lucrative clientele, who know stuck up prudes could have such deep pockets for the sinful arts.

Keith had kindly offered to give Lana a ride on the handlebars of his bike since the club was located uphill from the station and there was no way the poor old police car would make it up the whole way. Apparently a replacement was on its way but they had been promising it since before the war.

Lana had of course told Keith that while she appreciate the offer she would find the very idea outlandishly improper, so of course made him ride the handle bars while she put her years of missing the bus and not wanting to be late training to good use.

After a quick check with her compact and a nod to Keith they entered the club.

Lana was no stranger to Gentlemens clubs, she had been to more than a few during the war to meet with people who were usually a lot more willing to give up information when they had a few drinks in them.

This club was no different, everything was a sickening deep purple as if the colour alone could make it classy or hide the disturbingly prominent wet patches on the couches.

Lana tried her very best not to stare at the men already here this early on a weekday morning and instead focused on following Keith back to see the manger.

“Just let me do the talking, guys like this aren't always that nice to women” Keith whispered as he knocked on the door and it swung open to not show a greasy man but instead a very tall muscular woman with short black hair wearing a suit.

Lana felt her mouth go dry just looking at her.

“A-are you the manager here?” Keith asked clearly feeling equally intimidated and aroused as Lana was.

“Yeah i am, who wants to know?” She asked leaning against the doorway and looking down at him. Her gaze however moved quickly from keith to Lana and a smile spread across her face.

“Usually we don't hire new talent outside of auditions but for  a beautiful girl like you im willing to make an exception.”

“I” Lana squeaked finding herself speechless for the first time in a long time.

Thankfully Keith came to her rescue before she could actually contemplate working for this greek god of a woman.

“Actually we came from the police station. You called about one of the dancers going missing?”

The woman nodded and stepped back into the room hurrying them inside before closing the door.

“Yeah my best girl Ezor, she was seen leaving the club last week but no one has seen her since.”

“Does she often disappear like this? Perhaps to visit a gentleman caller miss...?” Keith asked pulling out a notebook while Lana looked around the office.

“Zethrid…. And trust me she's not the sorts to make house calls.”

It was fairly empty save for a punching bag in the corner and a few pictures on the walls. Most of them were group shots of all the dancers in costumes. But those actually on the desk seemed only to contain Zethrid and a slim woman with pink hair tied in a high ponytail. It was just the two of them over and over again smiling like they didn't have a care in the world.

“Is this Ezor here?” Lana asked picking up one picture showing the two in the park, judging from the bunting and celebrating in the background it was the day the allie ‘won’ the war.

Zethrid nodded “yeah that's her… we actually live together and yeah she disappears sometimes but never for this long and never without contacting me.”

“Is it possible she ran off with a sweetheart?” Keith asked taking the picture.

“She wouldn't. I know she's been taken its the only explanation.”

Something told Lana that this relationship was deeper than friendship “The last night she was seen, was there anything unusual happening?”

Zethrid thought for a moment “now that you mention it there was a black car parked outside the club all day. I didn't give it much mind incase it was a customer trying to work up the nerve to come in but it left right after she did.”

“Did you happen to catch the plates?” Keith asked hopefully only to let out a disappointed sigh when she shook her head no.

“But the car was old looking with a dent in the drivers side door.”

Keith noted it down “thanks we will be in touch.”

He led the way out but Zethrid grabbed Lana by the arm before she could leave “please i can't imagine life without her… she's my best friend.”

Lana knew what it was like to lose one of those. So she smiled and put a hand over hers “I promise ill do everything I can to find her.”

Once they were safely outside keith let out a groan “you should promise people anything, it just means you'll get attached to the case.”

“Isn't that the job of a detective though? How can i love a case if i don't care about it?” Lana huffed hitching up her skirt and getting on the bike.

“I'm just saying that it will end up hurting you more if we find her dead in a ditch somewhere.”

Lana rolled her eyes “ever the optimist huh Mullet. Besides we have a lead how many people in town have old black cars?”

“Excluding the police cruiser i'd say seven.” Keith noticed the sceptical look Lana was giving him and rolled his eyes.

“My brother owns the mechanics remember, i help out sometimes and not many people really have cars round here.”

Lana sighed “maybe we should get a second opinion from your dreamy brother.” she batted her eyelashes playfully at him as he climbed onto the handle bars.

“Shut up and pedal we've got a lot of groundwork to do.”

Five hours!

It took five hours to find all the cars, to check for dents and alibis.

In that time Lana fell into two ditches, got attacked by a chicken and the rip in her dress traveled up to past her knee.

As her mother would say she's only some red lipstick away from looking like a whore.

Lana wished she could say that time was well spent and while watching Keith getting chased by an angry family of pigeons that had taken resident in one of the old cars they ultimately ended up on a dead end.

So while the light began to fade and the two slowly walked up to the station the mood was sour.

“It could always have been someone from out of town?” Lana suggested holding the split in her dress to try and keep it from travelling any higher.

“No they would have been too noticeable. If someone from out of town drove through here everyone would know about it by now. We must have missed something.”

Lana shivered in the cool air and was surprised when Keith handed over his jacket without taking his eyes off the path.

The red really did suit him better but the warmth from his body made her feel better.

“We should check surrounding houses tomorrow, maybe one of the cars was taken without the owner realising.”

“And what they dented it and then undented it?’ Keith snorted “no if the dent was fixed it would have had to come through the shop. Shiro may be able to help.”

“I'll try to hide my disappointment” Lana laughed earning her a playful push from Keith which she returned.

The two were laughing and having a moment of fun that when cold hard reality finally came crashing down Lana felt like she had been punched in the face.

Just as they walked in the car they were looking for pulled in behind them.

Old, black and with a large dent on the side.

The only problem was that it was Coran driving it.

[living-on-the-virge]

Delphiniums & Desire [CH 1]

Summary: Remy Savidge is just a broke 22 year old guy. His life is going terribly wrong and at this point he has nothing to lose, so with encouragement from his best friend Roman... He finds a sugar daddy. Except falling in love wasn't quite part of the plan. Pairing: Remile (Remy x Emile) Warnings: Sugar Daddy stuff. Note: Nope. [AO3 LINK]

Remy’s grip on the letter tightened, crumpling the sheets between his fingers. He groaned and threw the letter down onto his small kitchen table before turning to kick his wall. His neighbour’s dog barked, and he glared at the peeling wallpaper as if that would shut the dog up. It didn’t. Obviously. His stomach growled and he opened his fridge, finding nothing but a half empty bottle of some weird smoothie (Something Remus had left behind. Remy hated the stuff.).

Remy grabbed his jacket – Black leather, a gift he’d gotten from Roman – and headed out the door, pushing up his sunglasses as he moved. It wasn’t warm out, the crisp October air bit at his skin and orange leaves crunched under his boots, but the glasses were more of a comfort item than protection from the sun anyway. He made his way to the closest Starbucks and pulled out his wallet groaning when he only managed to pull out a few coins. He replaced his wallet and took out his phone instead.

It didn’t take long for Roman to pick up the call.

“Roman, honey, so you know I’m like, the bestest friend ever-“

Roman laughed. “Want a coffee?”

Remy looked around, squinting through his glasses. “Yeah, of course. How’d you-“

“I’m inside of Starbucks and I can see you, idiot. Come inside.”

Remy chuckled quietly as he hung up the phone, walking inside and seeing a flash of red in the corner. Roman. Perfect. He walked over and fell, rather dramatically, into the seat opposite Roman.

“Alright, spill,” Roman demanded, sitting forward in his seat. He cupped his face with his own hands, watching Remy.

Remy raised an eyebrow. “Spill what?”

“Something’s bothering you. My best friend senses are tingling. What’s up?”

Remy’s face dropped and his entire body seemed to mirror that. He crossed his arms on the table and rested his head on them. “My landlord is threatening to kick me out. Work is barely getting me any decent money. I have no food at my house and I’m broke.”

Roman’s expression softened and he reached over the table, taking hold of the hand closest to him. “Hey, Rems?” He said quietly.

“Mm.”

“You know you can stay with me and Remus, yeah? I know Remus is a lot to deal with-“

“He ate my fish.”

“Yeah, ok, ok. I know, trust me. He’s wild and it can be tiring, but he cares about you just as much as I do. The couch isn’t super comfortable but you’re free to crash with us for as long as you need.”

The corners of Remy’s lips twitched up into a smile. He sat back up and Roman squeezed his hand before pulling back.

“Or you could get a sugar daddy,” Roman shrugged as he took a sip of his drink.

Remy laughed, but the idea stayed in his mind for the rest of the meeting.

The two sat in the Starbucks for another hour, talking about whatever came to mind. Remy’s worries, while still definitely tugging at him, were pushed back in his head for a while as Roman talked about some new chaotic mixture Remus had created at home. When they finally parted Remy felt better. Not great, but anything was an improvement from his earlier mood.

‘Or you could get a sugar daddy.’

Remy took out his phone and scrolled through the app store, trying to find an app that didn’t seem so shady. He found one with good reviews and ratings and sighed. It’s not like he had anything to lose. Maybe if his ‘sugar daddy’ tried to rob him they’d feel bad at how shitty his living situation was and they’d leave him alone. He chuckled at the thought as he downloaded the app and set up a profile.

He spent the next hour looking through profiles, sending his favourites to Roman for his opinions. Some of the bios made him laugh. His eyes caught a flash of pink and blue and he clicked.

‘Emile Picani, 32’

Fun, Remy thought. That was only a ten-year difference. Much smaller than the difference between some of his other options. The profile looked a lot more casual than the others – A softer tone, multiple cartoon references. Remy smiled as he screenshotted the profile and sent it to Roman. He got an immediate reply.

‘Princey: look if you don’t fuck him, I will :P’

He took that as a good sign and clicked the ‘Start Talking’ button. His fingers froze over the keyboard as it opened. What was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to act? How did sugar babies do this?

“Just be like, casual. Be calm. What do you have to lose?” He muttered to himself as he started typing.

‘Remy Savidge: uhhhHHHH’

‘Remy Savidge: damn, you’re so pretty I forgot what I wanted to say’

Remy groaned to himself and threw himself down onto his bed. There was no way this would work, this was stupid. He couldn’t even send a normal, human sounding message to the guy. How was he going to convince a stranger to pay his bills? How-

His phone buzzed in his hand.

‘Emile Picani: Cute first move, sugar. You made me blush! Nobody on this app has managed that yet.’

Remy instantly messaged Roman. How the fuck was he supposed to reply? How the fuck did he actually get a response. What the fuck was happening. He was going to kill Roman for ever suggesting this-

Bzzz.

‘Emile Picani: Your profile says you’re new to this. I’d be glad to help you out. If you wanna keep talking, here’s my number!’

Remy saved the number without thinking and instantly texted it.

‘Remy: is it usually this easy to get a number? damn, ive been doing it wrong all these years’

‘Emile: Aww, sugar. You caught my eye more than everyone else. You wouldn’t believe the amount of people that start conversations with ‘Give me money’. It’s crazy.’

Remy smiled and instantly found himself sucked into the conversation. The two talked back and forth for the remainder of the night, and Remy found himself laughing multiple times. It was nearing 1am when Emile finally said goodnight.

‘Emile: Sorry to end things here. I need to get to sleep, I have work tomorrow morning. Maybe we could arrange a meeting on Wednesday? There’s a nice little café not too far from my office and I’m friends with the owner.’

Remy stared down at his screen. Already meeting? Did Emile want to talk about Remy actually being a sugar baby?

‘Emile: Unless I’m being too fast, or I misunderstood your mood. We could wait a little longer?’

‘Remy: no, no, just didn’t expect things to work like this. wednesday works. Some time in the afternoon? i like to sleep in’

‘Emile: Of course, sugar. I’ll see you then.’

Remy smiled as he turned off his phone and lay down. Now he just had to hope that this Emile guy was as friendly as he seemed. He closed his eyes and sighed. Now he just had to wait for Wednesday to roll around.

The café that Emile had chosen was nice. Not quite as busy as the Starbucks that Remy had gotten used to, but he appreciated the change. A friendly guy had greeted him as he walked in, all warm smiles and round-framed glasses and soft words. After learning he was waiting for Emile, the guy lead Remy to a table near a window and sat him down.

“Now, what can I getcha? Anythin’ catching your eye?” He asked, motioning towards the menu on the table.

Remy shook his head. “I don’t have any like, money right now. I’m good.”

The grinning man just laughed. “Oh, honey no. You’re waiting for Emmie, aren’t ya? You can order anything you’d like, that man is a softie and he’d’ve brought you something anyway.”

Remy felt his face grow slightly warmer as he looked down at the menu. “Uh- Black coffee and a blueberry muffin, please?”

He received a nod in return. “Of course. I’ll be right back!”

Remy felt the need to shrink back in his seat. Or run. What if this Emile guy didn’t actually arrive, or what if he did but he wasn’t nice, or what if Remy had to pay for himself, or what if this was all just some trap to harvest his organs for pie-

He hid his face in his hands. He’d been around Remus too much.

He heard footsteps and looked up, expecting to see a bright smile and a coffee, instead being greeted by one Emile Picani. Remy’s eyes widened behind his glasses. Emile was tall – Roughly somewhere around 6 feet tall if Remy had to guess, but either way he towered over the table. His hair was light brown and slightly curled at the ends, light freckles dotted over his cheeks and nose, and his eyes behind his glasses looked to be roughly the same light brown as his hair. He smiled and sat down opposite Remy.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting for too long,” He said. “Traffic was terrible today.”

Remy shook his head and shifted in his seat, kinda glad that his shades mostly hid his staring. “I haven’t like, been here for too long.”

It was then that the friendly man from before walked back out, carrying a tray with coffee and a muffin. His eyes lit up when he saw Emile, but he held back his excitement until after he’d given Remy his items.

“Emmie!”

Emile grinned. “Hey Patton! Hope you didn’t scare Remy too much while I was gone.”

Patton pulled a face of mock-offence hand over his chest. “I would never. Dee would for sure, but he’s not in today. Family emergency.”

“Shame,” Emile said, frowning slightly. “I was hoping to set up another session with him. Oh, well- I’ll take the usual please?”

Patton nodded and walked off again. Emile turned his attention back to Remy. “Sorry about all of that, I haven’t been in here for a couple of weeks.”

Remy shrugged and took a sip of his coffee. “It’s fine. I get it. I like, do that with my friends too.”

Emile sat back in his seat and rested his arms on the table. “So, lets talk about this. Since you showed up, I’m assuming you haven’t changed your mind about being a sugar baby?”

“No.”

“Good,” Emile smiled, and Remy felt Emile’s eyes burn through his shades. “So, lets set up a few ground rules before we discuss allowances. Is that ok?”

Remy nodded.

“Alright! So, since this isn’t a fully committed romantic relationship, I’m not going to be bothered if you… Hook up with other people when we aren’t together, or even find a partner. That isn’t any of my business and I won’t stop you from doing that.” Emile nodded his head in thanks as Patton put down a plate with a sandwich and a cup of tea. “I don’t work on Wednesdays or most Sundays, so I’m available to meet with you at least once and sometimes twice a week, and if you decide you want to meet more, you’re allowed to ask.”

Remy nodded along quietly as Emile spoke. Sure, he was listening, but he couldn’t help but pay attention to the small details in the older man. The way his hands twitched slightly as he picked up his cup, or the light freckles that ran down his neck.

“Anyway, for your allowance – Is there an amount you’d like to offer up before I say what I was thinking?”

Remy was pulled back out of his thoughts. He blinked a few times as he tried to come up with a number. “Uhhh. $300?”

“A week?”

“Y…Yeah? Is that too much?” Remy asked.

Emile paused for a second before laughing. “Oh, sugar… You really are new to this, huh? You’re precious. Alright, alright, my offer is $800 a week, as well as some gifts when I find something, I think you’ll like.”

Remy’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Of course. Is that ok? We can discuss raising it once we’re both more comfortable with everything and if both of our wants in the relationship change.”

Remy nodded and grinned as he finished his muffin. “Yeah, yeah, that sounds great.”

Emile’s phone buzzed in his pocket and he checked it. “Oh dear.”

He stood up, dropping a few notes onto the table. “Sorry, sugar. I’m needed back at the office for something. I’ll text you later? We’ll finish up all the final details of the arrangement and hopefully I’ll see you soon.”

Remy made a noise of agreement and Emile rushed out of the door. He let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. This was definitely a story to tell Roman.

[honeysuckleharrison]

Run For Your Life - Part IV

pairing- George Harrison x Reader

warnings- So much fluff

year- 1964

Word count- 1.7k

Summary- You're falling hard for George.  There's just a few problems. John Lennon is your protective older brother, and their band, The Beatles are leaving for their first tour in America.  

Disclaimer/ AN-  So hi, this is the first fic I've published.  This is FICTION. So the timeline may not match up with reality.  For example, Julians not in it. So ignore that, and just enjoy the story for what it's worth.  Anyways, I'm so excited to release my first fic. If you guys have any questions, or comments or anything, please comment or as, don't be afraid to talk to me. Huge shutout to @iimplicitt she helped me edit, and such. Thanks so much girl!

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You go straight to the studio after breakfast with John.  John, and the other boys were caught up in the music, making sure everything was perfect.  But George's attention was on you. You would look at John to make sure he wasn't watching, then you would look George and let all your feelings out, blushing, and giggling.  He did the same back. It did result in you making awkward eye contact with John a few times.  You prayed that he didn't notice how flustered you were. It didn't last the whole time though, Geroge got caught up in a melody he was working on.  You didn't mind. Watching him working and concentrating on something was so precious. The way he smiled when he finally got it right was so charming.  

      After they were done recording, John was too busy, fighting with Paul, again, so you went to George.  

      "Hi love" he said in the same quiet manner that most of you conversations had to be in.

      "Hi, I really enjoyed watching you play" you said, complimenting him, "You're really good" you made your voice even quieter, "and you look really cute when you're focusing."  You watched his expression changed from casual to a redder more flustered look.

      "Y/n!" he whispered little louder, "not here. Strawberry Fields, in an hour ok?"

      "Ok, Geo" you agreed, "I'll see you then"

      "I can't wait, flower" he said smirking at you.  He called you flower. That was by far the most charming thing anyone has ever said to you.  Despite his dark appearance, and sarcastic tone, he can be so sweet. He was so hard to understand but you felt like you were starting to get to know his personality.  

      The hour passed fast.  You took your time getting ready, putting on a red lipstick to show him something different.  You slipped out the door when John wasn't looking, and headed out.

       When you reached Strawberry Fields, you were amazed.  The backyard was closed in by a tall black fence. In the cracks of the fence grew huge vines, and a variety of flora.  The building was abandoned, and unkempt. Nature had claimed the building as its own. Humankind can spend so long building something up from the ground, putting all their best resources and knowledge forward.  But as soon as they stop maintaining their creation, the natural world claims it as their own.

      You slipped through a space in the fence.  You had known it was there, and so did every kid who grew up in Liverpool.  This was everyone's safe place. Despite the dark, gothic architecture, and the rubble that surrounded it, it was a safe place.  As you stepped in, you saw George sitting on a picnic blanket in the middle of the overgrown lawn. Inside the dark fence, the grass was shades of bright green and yellow.  He smiled at the sight of you and stood up. His hair moved in the wind, and his happy eyes were looking into yours. He opened his arms for you, and you ran into them. You were once again in one of George's hugs.  They were your favorite thing. His skinny frame was so nice to fall into.

       "I brought you Strawberries and wine, Love." George said through a smile.  

      "How fitting" you joke, "Can we eat hun."

       "Of course flower, take a seat."

       You and George sat next to each other cross legged on the blanket.  He sparked a conversation about the recording session from earlier. He asked if you liked what they were working on.  You answered honestly and explained that you were so proud of them. It was crazy to see your own brother rising to fame.

      It didn't take long before George poured you a glass of wine, and started feeding you strawberries.  He was being so sweet to you, but the sweetness soon melted into something more. George laid you down on the blanket and started kissing you.  You didn't realize your dark red lipstick would soon cover his face and neck. You were both so caught up in each others touch that you didn't notice the sun beginning to set, or the crimson color that littered George's face.

      George brought his hands up right below your neck and wrapped them around you.  He was choking you without actually hurting you. His hands felt so good on your bare skin, and you let out a moan.  He pulled his face off of yours.

      "You good love" George asked, panting.  

      "Yes, I'm amazing." You said, taking a moment to appreciate the fact that you were being pinned down by George's sizable hands, and slim frame.  Your body was limp and you were totally defenseless under George. And you loved it.

      You looked at George's face.  He was still panting and his face was red.  His face was also covered in your lipstick. He looked ridiculous, you couldn't help but giggle.  He laughed back. You looked down and noticed the bulge in his pants. You looked back up at his face and said "But are you good?"  George laughed.

      "Yeah I'm better than ever." he answered.  "Why, is there something wrong?" he asked looking around himself, and brushing off his shoulders.

       "No," you giggled, "Your face is just covered in lipstick." He quickly started wiping his mouth with his hand.  He had no luck in trying to get the crimson off his lips, it had stained.

      "I don't think it's gonna come off Geo." you said.  "And it looks like you got a little excited." You pointed down and his gaze followed.  As soon as he noticed what you were referring too, he gave you a toothy smile, and his cheeks somehow became even redder.  Geo let out a small laugh, and seemed a little embarrassed. He rolled off of you and laid next to your warm body. He let out a big sigh, before looking at you.  You looked at each other for a while. Your eyes traced all the lipstick you had left on his face, and you noticed how messy his hair had gotten. You leaned in and kissed each other sweetly.  His mouth tasted of strawberries, and his eyes closed so gently.

      Pulling away, he looked into your eyes and said "Your beautiful, truly."  He reached a hand up and stroked your cheek. You grabbed his wrist in response and rubbed his smooth skin with your thumb.  

      You rolled over and looked at the sky.  The sky was becoming darker, but you had time before John would start to worry.

       "Please," George said, "tell me about yourself some more."

        "Well, I dunno," you said, trying to decide what to say, "I just finished my first year of university."  You turned back towards George, and looking into his sweet eyes.

      "What are you studying again?" he asked.

        "English.  I'm hoping to become a writer." you answered.

         "Why do you like writing" he wondered.

        "Well, I suppose it's because I like being in A world where everything happens for a reason.  When you write, every single sentence has a purpose, a reason. It's nice to think all the pain, all the hard times you've been through were for a reason." you said, gesticulating your words.  You really did like to write, it let you escape your world, and become part of your character's world.

          "Who's to say that everything doesn't happen for a reason in real life too?" George asked.

         "I don't know, I've just never believed that they do.  I've never really been spiritual like that before, y'know?  I just think were just here, living, not for any reason." you explained.  

       "I think things do happen for a reason.  To me, the universe isn't all an accident, y'know?  I guess I just think more 'spiritually' than other people.  Maybe people get resurrected. Who's to say? It's just a nice way to think, and there's no reason not to think like that."

        "You're right, thank you for enlightening me"  you joked

       George giggled, then proceeded, "Think about it, things do happen for a reason, the earth is billions of years old, yet we managed to exist in this form at the same time."

         "You flatter me, Harrison."

        "Maybe that's my purpose."

        "You're too good to me" you said.

       He leaned in and kissed you softer than ever.  You could feel every crease on his lips. It was such a loving embrace that you felt strong feelings for him in that moment.  Not love. Love would come later. After you spend more time with him. But nonetheless, this feeling was strong, and had really made you fall for him.  

      As the night went on, you and George continued your deep conversation.  He was so smart. He had obviously spent a lot of time thinking about life, and its purpose.  Overall, he seemed relaxed about it all. George thought that life wasn't very serious. He believed that we're all here to have a good time.  He didn't think much of tragedies. They were sad, of course, but pain is simply a part of life

       Some of his ideas were nieve, but so were yours.  You were young; it was only natural.

       The day started ending.  The sky became a darker shade of blue, and shades of pink and orange littered the heavens.                       

       "I should be going now, i don't want John to worry." you explained

      "You sure you have to leave, Love" George whimpered, "I'd love to see you again, maybe tonight?"

      "I don't want to leave you either, Harrison, but it's getting late.  Maybe I will stop by again tonight." you said, turning to him and winking.  

      "Yes please." he begged.

        You both stood up, and wiped the grass off your clothes.  George picked up the basket he had brought with him. You both reached down to grab two corners of the blanket, and folded it together.  

      " Should I walk you home, y/n?" he asked.

      "I don't think that's a good idea, what if John sees your face covered in lipstick?" you answered.  

      "Ah, I forgot about that," George admitted.

      Before you parted ways, You leaned into each other for one last embrace.  As George stepped away you called him back.

      "Wait" you cried.

       "Yes, Love?" George said, turning around to face you again.  

      "So, are we.. ya'know," you hesitated, "Dating now?"

       "If you want to, Flower." he answered lovingly, "I'd be honored to date such a pretty girl."

      As the words left his lips you walked back to him and held him tight.  You kissed George softly before speaking.

      "Then we're dating." you said softly.  You broke away from each other, and squeezed through the fence.  

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AN- If you wanna be added to my taglist for this fic PLEASE tell me. If you liked it let me know, and if you didn't, tell me why. This part makes me blush so hard. I loved writing it. I hope you enjoyed it. Do you have any predictions yet? Cause let me tell you it gets crazy.

[feminarrie]

Niall, a bottle of whiskey, and a drill. use that and write what you will. I want to see what you come up with!! (also you can take your time with this)

kate! once again, thank you for challenging me with this! it was fun to figure out just how i wanted to go about this, but i’m happy with what i’ve come up with!

i’m putting it below a cut bc it’s just 3k+ of smut (it is also unedited sorry!)

As she looks out at Niall, Y/N can’t help but think how utterly domestic the scene is.

It’s midsummer and the California heat was approaching a dry 100 degrees. She had ditched her shirt in favor of a bikini top and a pair of light wash shorts atop her bottoms. She’d even spent the better half of the morning in the pool with Niall. But, as it neared one in the afternoon and the peak temperature of the day, she had gone back inside to cool down and to prepare lunch for the both of them. While Niall had slipped out of the pool and wandered to the patio, where a new patio set is still sat in pieces.

She looks outside at him now, through the kitchen window, as she washes and peels a carrot. His back glistens with sweat as he attempts to line up a metal pole with another piece of the bar that they had bought just a few days ago. They’d offered to assemble it upon delivery, but Niall had insisted that he would be able to put it together. She hadn’t argued it, either. Especially considering that they were on their way out for a scheduled date night.

She’s glad Niall had decided to put the furniture together. Especially when she see the way his broad back tenses when he moves this way or that. Droplets of sweat drip down it and highlight every movement.

The way his arms look now, as he uses a drill to join to pieces together, surpass sinful. With every movement, his biceps flex and Y/N can’t help, but think about how they feel when he’s fucking up into her. Like they had this morning, in the comfort of their air conditioned bedroom. When her back was pressed to his chest and the backs of her thighs and ass bounced in his lap. His arm had wrapped around her middle while his other hand was wound around her throat. Hitting her at angles that she didn’t think were possible.

There’s a different heat that’s building, now. An internal heat that still has sweat developing on the back of her neck and at her hairline despite the heavily air conditioned kitchen. It settles into the apples of her cheeks as continues to prepare their lunch. 

Which, it really is a miracle that she’s capable of finishing all the preparation and plating it by the time Niall walks in. She’s even managed to grab the bottle of whiskey from the top of the fridge without asking Niall to retrieve it for her. She pours it over the ice in a short glass, watching as it melts the cubes just slightly. She hopes he’ll like all of it, too. Niall is usually one to drink beer or water in this kind of heat, but she figures that a small glass of whiskey is a treat for all the hard work he’s doing. Plus, it forces him to slow down enough to enjoy the liquor and cool off for awhile. 

Y/N can see the sunburn that has begun its assault on his shoulders. The already tan skin has turned a shade of pink that holds a future of promise of blossoming into a shade of red if he’s outside for any longer. “Whatever you’ve made smells delicious, love.” Niall hums, pushing his sunglasses to the top of his head as rounds the corner of the island.

“Thank you.” She grins, leaning upward to receive the peck that Niall has stopped to give her. “Go clean up and I’ll have the table all set when you come back.”

Niall nods and leaves after another peck to her lips.

Y/N busies herself with setting up the table. She places a smaller bowl of salad between two plates of greek wraps. It’s nothing too fancy, but she hardly thinks that Niall is keen on having a hot meal after he’s come inside. Even if he was, she absolutely did not want to be overheating while cooking up a warm meal for him. So, she figures it is more likely a win/win situation for the both of them. Niall returns shortly after she’s set herself down to eat. He’s in a pair of deep blue gym shorts and nothing on top. As he comes to sit down next to her, she can see the freckles that have begun to develop along the expanse of his shoulder and back. Unlike his sunburn, they will likely fade within the next few days. 

“Thanks for lunch, Y/N.” Niall says before his eyes land on the chilled glass of whiskey. “And for this. How’d ya know I was cravin’ something stronger?”

“Figured you would after being outside for most of the day.” Y/N shrugs as she answers. Their conversation dies down after that, both of them being too busy with eating to speak. Especially Niall, who goes back in for a second helping of salad. And Y/N lets him because she knows he’s probably built up an appetite.

“I’ve just got to put a few more pieces together and then I’ll be done.” Niall says after Y/N asks him how much longer he’ll be.

“We’ll stay inside after that then, yeah?” She suggests, hopeful that Niall will want to stay in for the remainder of the evening. “I’ll order takeout for us, if you’d like.”

Niall nods, drying off his hands after having finished washing his dish. Y/N lets the rest sit in the sink for now, her mind having drifted to the idea of having a cool shower while Niall finishes up outside.

He kisses her once more on the cheek before stepping out into the yard once again. Y/N paces herself in heading upstairs into the master bathroom. Grabbing her phone from the coffee table so that she can listen to music while she’s showering. She’s even more eager because she’s got a killer playlist that she’d been adding to for the past few weeks.

But, she’s also got other things on her mind as she makes her way upstairs after turning the temperature down just a little bit more. 

The images of Niall were shoved aside as they ate. She was starving and in that moment, her appetite had far outweighed her desire for Niall. But, now that she had a clearer head and a shower awaiting her, she couldn’t help but to conjure up those images again. 

She’s sure he would be too tired to do much of anything anyway. So, she sees no harm in getting herself off while he put the final touches on their patio furniture. Especially seeing as she doesn’t know how long he will be and Y/N has never been one to be patient about these types of things. 

Before long, she’s come to stand in their shared master bathroom. The heated floors don’t feel quite so warm beneath her feet, but she is still aware of the heat that they exude. Their toothbrushes occupy one marbled cup set between two sinks and white, plush hand towel hangs just slightly over the edge of the dark countertop. Two more navy blue towels hang over separate bars that sit next to the shower. There’s still droplets of condensation against the glass, likely from Niall’s shower earlier that morning. 

Y/N strips after she’s turned the shower on and found a happy medium between too warm and too cold. She kicks her shorts and bottoms to the corner of the room, closer to the laundry basket. Her top is flung in the same direction moments later. All the while, the sounds of her playlist bounce off the walls of the spacious bathroom. 

A soft sigh leaves her lips when the water hits her front. It’s enough of a temperature difference that her nipples pearl and to give her some relief from the high temperatures outside. Her sun kissed skin drinks the moisture as she allows it to wash over her for a prolonged period of time before she turns around. 

She reaches for the bottle of cherry blossom and citrus scented soap that lives on the middle left shelf of the tiled shower. Her other hand reaches for her own loofa that hangs from the shower handle. Once she’s put more than enough of the soap on it, it’s only a matter of seconds before it has begun to lather. Y/N hums along to Postpone by Catfish and the Bottlemen and she nods her head along with the beat. And she’s fully enraptured by the song until she’s reached between her thighs, the soap leaving a soapy lather that drips down her thighs as the water drips down from her back. Where she simply can’t help herself from switching the loofa from her dominant hand to the other.

The pads of her fingers dance over her already slick folds, gliding with ease as she teases herself. She reaches down to slide her middle finger from her entrance to her clit, letting it stay there and adding just a slight amount of pressure. Enough to heighten the stirring in her tummy, but that’s it. She teases herself for awhile. Eventually letting the loofa fall to the floor so that her other hand is free to roam her body. It eventually settles at the base of her throat and she applies just a slight amount of pressure. Her small hands aren’t as good as Niall’s, but they’ll do in the moment. Especially when she’s pushed two fingers inside herself after the images of Niall and her own teasing had become too much to bear.

Y/N is chasing her orgasm when Niall enters the bathroom after having called out for her just a few minutes before. He doesn’t need to see her form to know that either. Instead, her whimpers and occasional pants of his name can be heard loud and clear with the acoustics of the space. When he does look at her, though, it has his cock hardening in his shorts. Enough so that if she looked now, she could see the outline of it with only so much as a glance. But, she doesn’t. Her eyes are squeezed shut as one hand drops to cup her breast, a sure sign that she is close to the edge. Niall watches her as she continues to chase it, too. Her shoulders slouching forward slightly and his name like a mantra as it falls from her lips. She falls apart right before his eyes, unraveling at the seams as she cums. A final yelp of his name as her body quakes with her orgasm and her head lulls backward.

He allows her a moment to recoup and steady herself before he clears his throat. It still makes her jump, though. Which, Niall knew it would but it still pulls a strained chuckle from him.

“Fuck,” she mumbles, “You scared the shit out of me.”

It’s muffled by the sound of the shower and music, but Niall can still (just barely) make out what she is saying. “Sorry, love.” He replies, genuinely sorry that he had scared her so much.

Y/N takes in his half naked form from where she stands. Even with steam rising from the shower and blurring her vision slightly, she can see the outline of his cock. It only serves to make her even wetter. Something that she didn’t think was possible considering she can feel herself dripping down her thigh before it’s washed away by the water. “Got off thinking of you.” Y/N begins and she hopes Niall had been in the room to see what an absolute mess she was at the mere thought of him. A groan sounds from deep within Niall’s chest. Because even after all this time, the idea of her getting off to the thought of him was a nice ego boost. Plus, that thought alone was enough to have him muffling his own cries as he cums in the bunk of his tour bus when he’s been away from her for too long. Again, Y/N has hardly ever been good at being patient. So, when Niall is taking too long and absentmindedly palming at himself, she lets out a huff. She’d like to get her mouth around him, if he’d let her. Swallow all that he had to offer before they toweled off and settled in for the night. (Although, Y/N wouldn’t be opposed to another round once they’ve received their takeout). “Niall,” she whines, a pout setting on her lower lip.

“What is it that you want, love?” Niall raises a brow, his hand stroking across the length of himself as he looks at her.

And normally, Y/N is all about niceties. Even when Niall is nipping and sucking at her clit with three fingers buried inside her. Bringing her closer and closer to her climax, but not allowing her to cum just yet. When she’s frustrated to the point of tears because he could be so cruel and dominating when he wanted to be. She still repeats a series of thank you’s as she comes down from her orgasm. Too blissed and utterly fucked out to form any other words. “For you to let me suck you off.”

The statement is so simple and abrupt that it surprises Niall. His eyebrows shoot toward his hairline and he’s becoming almost painfully hard now. After that, he is quick to peel his only item of clothing off and step into the shower. The water alone could have him close to his own orgasm because it feels so damn good against his sunburnt skin. He can feel the heat radiate from his shoulders as he steps closer to Y/N, effectively putting them both beneath the large shower head.

Y/N glances up at him before trailing her eyes down to where the head of Niall’s cock is tinged pink and a light shade of purple. She bites her lip at the sight of him, eager to get her hands and mouth on him. So, she tears her eyes away to lock her gaze with him once again. He’s smirking at her when she does and takes a step closer until she can feel him pressing into her tummy. She isn’t sure if it’s the precum that has dribbled out of the slightly exposed tip or the moisture that has trapezed down both of their bodies to join together. It only takes a moment after that, that she is lowering herself to the ground. The tiles feel cool and hard against her knees, but she doesn’t mind. Not when she is eye level to Niall’s cock. From here, she can see the vein that travels up the side of it and just how much precum as bubbled up at the head. She looks up at Niall with a question and desperate look in her eyes. The doe-eyed expression makes her look too innocent to be doing such a thing, but it only excites Niall more. Especially knowing that she is more than capable of taking him in until he’s bottoming out and she’s gagging around him. “Go ahead.” Niall nods alongside his affirmation.

Y/N relinquishes her lip from the space between her teeth before parting them. He notices that it is plump and slick before it’s gone from his vision as she wraps her lips around him. His head falls back and his jaw slackens as she swirls her tongue over the tip before taking more of him into her mouth. Her small hand makes up for what her mouth can’t currently cover. And between her mouth on him and how her hand glides so easily across him, Niall can’t help but to let out a long fuck.

His eyes have fallen shut, so Y/N takes it as an opportunity to peek up at him from behind her lashes. And she’s glad she does because Niall looks like an absolute dream above her. Chocolate brown hair matted to his forehead, lashes just barely touching the apples of his cheeks, and body glistening with the water that is running down his body. She keeps watching him as she pulls off of him with a wet pop, allowing herself a moment to breathe. Her hand continues to pump up and down his length, twisting her wrist at the tip like she know he likes. He has one fist clenched at his side while his other hand is pressed to the wall beside her. His tongue darts out to lick over his lower lip and his chest has started to rise and fall with his quickening breaths.

With slight reluctance, she tears her gaze away from him. But, the feeling doesn’t stick once her lips are around him and she can feel the heavy weight of him on her tongue. Her hand holds him at the base, this time, as she slowly begins to build up a rhythm. She allows herself time to enjoy the taste of Niall on her tongue. It’s heady and salty, a familiar and somewhat pleasant taste to her. She alternates between self indulgent licks when she needs a moment to breathe and taking all of him until the tip of him touches the spongey back of her throat.

And it’s not long until Niall is ready to cum. The hand at his side is clenching and unclenching as if searching for purchase. Y/N notices it after Niall’s bucking his hips forward slightly, although he’s trying to control himself. And she knows he is teetering off the edge and into oblivion. So, she wraps her fingers around his wrist and brings it to the back of her head before placing them on his hips. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Niall repeats, each reiteration gaining volume. “I’m gonna cum, Y/N. I’m gonna cum.”

Y/N tightens her grip on his hips, keeping him in place as she takes him as deep as she can go. And that’s all Niall needed before he’s painting the back of her throat with his cum. Y/N swallows all of it with ease and pulls off of him. Though, she’s sure to run her tongue along his slit to collect any remaining cum before she glances up at Niall. Who, like her this morning, looks entirely fucked out. And she prides herself with being the reason that he looks as fucked out as he does. It’s from her position on the floor, as she drinks in his form, that she decides Niall doesn’t just look like an absolute dream. Because a dream isn’t accurate enough to describe the vision above her. She thinks fantasy might be a better way to describe him, but she can’t be sure. Because nothing seems accurate enough.

[lopships]

hypnic jerk - ch. 1

ive been wanting to write this since i rewatched Who Killed Markiplier/Warfstache, and now that DAMIEN is under my belt, i finally had the motivation to get it out there!

now if only i can find the motivation to write the rest ;w;

chapter: 1/4

pairing: bambi (me)/da(mien)rk/wilford

word count: 2,232

warnings: drowning, hypothermia, guns, corpse mention, death implied

You considered yourself a fairly normal person. You were partial to pastel colors, desserts with too many edible decorations, glittery acryllics, and combat boots. You worked, pet cats, sweated and bled just like everyone else. And when you slept, you normally dreamt.

As of late, those dreams were becoming increasingly… abnormal.

In your reoccuring dream, you woke up in the middle of a snowy forest. There was nothing but barren, dead trees as far as the eye could see, creaking in the shrill winter wind. The cold bit through your thin t-shirt and underwear like teeth through flesh, and immediately you’d double over and clutch at yourself for warmth.

The snow drove like tiny nails through the soles of your feet and you had no choice but to walk. Flakes of ice whistled through the wind, fingers through your hair as you trudged onward and onward, nothing but the darkening grey sky to provide the illusion of time passing.

By the time you heard his voice, you were near to collapse from exhaustion. From the trees came the loud shout of a man, echoing off of each trunk and bouncing through the forest back to you.

He sounded panicked, his shout peppered with pants of effort.

“Celine!”

You froze (nearly literally and metaphorically), your eyes instinctively scanning the trees for the source of this voice, fruitless. For a moment, there was only creaking from the branches, and you were left to your own theories. Then, again, this time with genuine fear edged in his desperate tone:

“Celine!! Can you hear me?”

You moved forward without real reason, and began to run deeper into the woods, trailing after the voice with desperate compulsion. The snow crunched with every footfall as you pounded through it, numb to the knees.

Bony fingers of trees slapped your face and you knocked them aside with a pumping arm as you looked around, desperately trying to find the voice to call out to the caller. But it was though the cold had frozen your vocal cords, too.

You ran, ahead and ahead, until your aching muscles strained in your legs and you could barely breathe. Sweat beaded and instantly froze on your brow, and you collapsed forward onto your knees at the bank of a wide, frozen lake.

The world had yawned and ice had wedged itself between its teeth, cracking in some places to make way for the black slush. The water went down and down, no sign of life under the thick mask.

For a moment, it looked like there was nothing under the ice.

Normally, in your dream, you reached forward as if to crawl onto the ice. The moment your hand touched it, it cracked beneath your weight, and you pitched forward into the black water to the sound of someone crying out your name, a voice that didn’t at all sound like the man from before.

The world yawned, and this time, you fell between its teeth.

But last night’s dream was different. The scenario had changed, and you’d woken up more puzzled and intrigued than ever. Everything was the same up until the moment you collapsed at the bank of the frozen lake.

Staring down into the dizzying nothingness, you pondered turning around rather than falling in, before a man burst from the treeline just opposite you. You looked up, seeing him on the embankment, scanning the width. He was scruffy, with a heavy, black, fur lined coat, and shaggy hair. His eyes fell upon you, and then moved on, as if you weren’t even there.

You blinked, rising to your weak feet and immediately collapsing back into the snow. You struggled to catch yourself, looking up only to find a large crack in the middle of the lake. The man gasped, and then pitched forward onto the ice.

“Celine! Celine, I’m coming, just hold on!” He shouted, his boots pounding as he closed the distance. You watched the cracks in the ice spread and spread under his footfalls, near gracefully like a spider forms its web, like a broken mirror.

He looked into the hole in the lake, reached between the teeth of the world and grasped something. You watched in abject horror as he pulled a corpse from the lake, frozen in your spot.

Then, the ground caved in beneath his feet, and he was plunged into the icy water. On instinct, you rocketed forward and cried out as if to help him, and you met the same fate.

The water stung all over as you collapsed into it, a thousand pricking needles all over your body that tensed every muscle without mercy. You drifted down and down, further and further, struggling to find purchase but to no avail.

The grey light from above the surface grew dimmer, darker, farther away. There were muffled voices, as if you were listening to a conversation from the bottom of a pool. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, slower and slower.

You couldn’t hold your breath any longer.

The moment you sucked in air, an icy rush of cold hit your chest and you felt like dying. The arc of pain was enough to wake you, cresting into what you thought was consciousness, but only cresting… something else entirely.

You found yourself in a warm pool at a mansion you didn’t recognize, staring into the face of a man you didn’t know. He was broad shouldered and dark haired, wearing strange multi-lensed glasses, with a large moustache and yellow button up.

When you blinked, however, for an instant, he seemed much… brighter.

“Who are you?” You asked him, and he only grinned at you.

“Funny. I was about to ask you the same thing.” His arm extended for you to take, and you declined, sinking back into the pool. “Come, now. You’re going to catch your death if you stay there.”

You watched him for a long moment before linking your arm with his, letting him pull you from the water. You shivered as the cold hit you, the tips of your fingers and toes turning a deep blue. The man frowned as he observed the pale of your lips.

“Was the water so cold as to create these effects?” He was already removing his outermost layer for you, throwing it over your shoulders with a flourish and leading you towards the house. “I take it you didn’t come here on purpose, my dear?”

“I don’t know where I am… I thought I was asleep.” You shiver, hugging his jacket around your arms. The man chuckles and leads you a flight of stairs to the deck. You begin to understand how weak your legs are with each passing step.

“Yes, that is the case more often than not.” The man opens a door for you, gently leading you inside. The moment you cross the threshold, you end up in a large bedroom rather than an open den. You blink in shock the moment your stinging feet (coming out of numbness was worse than coming into it, you found) hit the shag carpeting.

You whirl around to find the man had changed appearance, now sporting a pink mustache, and satin shirt of a similar shade. You began to stammer, questioning this before he laid a finger over your lips and shushed you.

“Ah, ah, ah.” He simply shook his head and moved to the dresser, pulling it to and producing a large nightshirt and wool socks. You watched him, more confused than ever.

“But--”

“Shh.” He shushed you again, closing the drawer and approaching the bed. He laid the clothes and turned to the open bathroom door, stepping inside. You hopelessly followed, hovering in the doorway and gaping.

“How--”

“Shhhhh.” He shushed you more insistently, warming a towel with hot water in the tub. When he looked at you, you could have sworn you caught a glint of pink in his eyes. “Now, then.” He said as he rung out the towel, stepping forward and holding it out to you. “Use that on your extremities first. I’ll provide a warm drink to raise your core temperature.”

“I…” You turned away to face the rest of the room, only finding him suddenly sitting on the bed, holding out a steaming mug.

“I’m sorry that took so long, I couldn’t find my cocoa powder.” He simply smiles, as if reality weren’t warping around you. You felt dizzy, like you were dreaming within a dream. You ignored his offer, simply collapsing onto the bed and staring into space.

“What is going on…” You breathed.

“That is the question!” He bounces to your side, staring at your profile with a friendly smile. “Here, take this.” You automatically take the mug from him, the warmth burning your numb fingers. “Oh, and this.” You do the same with the pistol he hands you, not processing what it is.

“Who are you…” You look up at his face, eyebrows knitting together. The man stops mid-breath, looking at you for a moment and frowning.

“You don’t remember me?” He asks, and you shake your head stiffly. His frown only deepens, as well as the notch in his brow, confusion evident on his face. Then, it washes away in a wave of calm. “Of course you don’t… Silly me.” He chuckles, then tilts the mug back with the tip of his finger, pushing it closer to your lips. You automatically sip it. “I’m confusing the timeline again… We haven’t met yet, have we? Present, future… It’s all the same.”

“What are you talking about…?” Your confusion is edged with frustration. He sighs deeply, taking the towel in his hands and leaning down to wrap it around your feet. You’re grateful for the warmth, but you want these icy clothes off of you. As if on cue, he stands and turns away.

“Go ahead and change, I won’t watch you!” He folds his arms behind himself, turning instead to the framed photos on the cherrywood nightstand. “I am a lot of things, but I am not a peeping tom.”

You stand, your knees still a bit wobbly, and slowly pull your freezing shirt over your head. You feel warmer somehow without it than when you wore it, and are now eager to do the same with your panties. After, you slip the satin nightshirt he’d given you over your shoulders, noting how it drapes around your thighs, practically a dress. As you button it up, the man picks up a photo of himself and two other men who look… strikingly similar to him.

“Those were the good ol’ days…” He mumbles to himself, his eyes filled with stars as he scans the frame. You look at him over your shoulder, more curious than anything, before taking the socks to pull onto your cold feet.

“I’m decent.” You say as you sit back on the bed, burrowing your toes under the warm towel and burying your face in the mug. He turns back to you with a friendly smile, placing the photograph back down on the dressertop.

“Wonderful. I’m sure you feel much better now, don’t you?” He’s at your side in an instant, taking a sip of a hot drink himself, produced as if from thin air. “Oh!” He picks up the pistol from the bed, laughing and putting it back in a gun holster you didn’t realize was there. “Silly me, I’m sorry. I realized I never introduced myself. I’m called Warfstache, that is, Wilford.”

“I… see.” His peculiar name raises more questions than answers and you look up at him through your damp lashes. “And I’m Bambi. Thank you for the help, though you haven’t answered a single one of my questions.”

Wilford smiles, and it nearly reads as… sad. He sits aside the mug he held, turning on his heel. You watch him as he approaches the door to his bedroom, waving you after him.

“Where are you going?” You stand, sitting aside your own mug and watching as it disappears without your touch. The bed does the same, crumbling away into nothing, as if it never existed. The space it took up simply… isn’t there. You blink, somehow processing this as normality, and turn back to him.

Everything is blinking away, everything but Wilford, and the door. He opens it for you, holding it like that and looking back at you expectantly.

“I will be here again, soon.” He extends his arm for you to take. “And I may answer your questions then, but for now, it’s time for you to wake up.”

“I was asleep?” Your voice is strangely distant, but you link your arm with his, allowing him to pull you forward. You can’t explain what is beyond the door in simple words, but somehow you know that it is your bedroom.

“Suffice to say.” He chuckles. “I’ll see you soon. Stay warm.”

Wilford gives you a strong push, and you pitch forward through the door and straight into consciousness with a hypnic jerk. A gasp leaves your throat and you twitch, staring up at the brightened ceiling of your daylit room with weary grogginess.

You’re barely aware of your fan blowing, static in the background, and the crunch of your cat eating her breakfast. You roll over onto your side and find a familiar looking mug on your bedside table, wisps of steam curling from the rim.