#and then of course all my alphabet beads fell

[dilfoez]

here it is "everytime scotty and bones stood next to each other in an episode" kandi!!!

[lulu2992]

My beaded creations

Have I ever told you about my handcrafted beaded jewelry collection?

Don’t answer that, I know I haven’t.

Well, I’ve been making bracelets, necklaces, rings, and other stuff for years now, most of them inspired by things (such as games or movies) that I like, so I thought it would be nice to finally share and talk about my creations :)

Part 1: Seed beads

One of the first video game series I fell in love with, back when I was 14-15, was The Legend of Zelda. Of course, I had to make Zelda jewelry!

Hyrule Crest bracelet, made with gold and clear beads.

In 2011, I played Skyward Sword and became… a little obsessed with Ghirahim :’)

A bracelet inspired by Ghirahim’s final form, and another with his name (and a reference to his white outfit).

Rings inspired by Ghirahim’s final form (top) and cloak (bottom).

2011-2012 was also the time I fell in love with two pieces of media that are still very dear to my heart and that, in a way, almost changed my life: the movie Sucker Punch and the video game Far Cry 3. They inspired many creations.

BABYDOLL and VAAS sets of rings, made with seed and alphabet beads.

By the way, I made a lot of stuff using alphabet beads, but that will be in Part 2.

Bracelet with Babydoll’s “full” name, M.REEAS, and two orbitoclasts.

BABY and DOLL rings.

A VAAS ring.

Bracelet inspired by Far Cry 3 with the word INSANITY written in symmetry, in turquoise blue and iridescent grey.

In 2013, I played Tomb Raider, the first game of the “Reborn Trilogy”. Years later, I also played (and enjoyed) its two sequels.

Bracelet inspired by Lara Croft’s journey, with the words I SURVIVED and an arrow.

In 2013 and 2014, I discovered two other video game franchises I still love today: Hitman and BioShock. The first titles I played at the time were Hitman: Absolution and BioShock Infinite.

Two rings, one inspired by Agent 47’s iconic suit, and the other by the AD scar on Booker DeWitt’s hand.

A recreation of Elizabeth’s medallions: the cage and the bird.

Later in 2014, I played the rest of the BioShock series.

Bracelets inspired by the tattoos on Jack Ryan’s wrists, made with clear and black beads.

In 2015, I was introduced to the Compilation of Final Fantasy VII and specifically to Advent Children. I’ve never played the games but, to understand the movie, I watched all the Crisis Core cutscenes and read extensively about the story of FFVII and even Before Crisis. Many tears were shed for Zack and Aerith in the process.

Three rings inspired by the Remnants of Sephiroth, Kadaj, Loz, and Yazoo. The letters K, L, and Y are blue because of their eyes and the lifestream. The fourth ring simply has the letter S in clear silver beads surrounded in black for Sephiroth.

Rings for Zack and Aerith. The blue and silver ones were originally pink and blue but accidentally ended up in the washing machine. A “happy” accident, after all, because they look nice too and, considering what their story is, the absence of color creates a new symbolic meaning!

In 2018, Far Cry 5 came out, but I only created these recently:

Top: a ring with three J for the Seed brothers, John (blue), Joseph (yellow), and Jacob (red). On the other side, an attempt at the Eden’s Gate cross.

Bottom: a ring for Faith Seed, and what is supposed to be flowers on the other side (Bliss flower in the center and two pink ones like the ones on her dress). The letter F is green on a clear background, but if you look closely, you may notice three iridescent clear beads too. Combined with the F shape, they form the letter R, for Rachel.

This year, I also made sword bracelets inspired by The Legend of Zelda, Sucker Punch, and Mulan (1998):

The Master Sword, Babydoll’s katana, and Mulan’s sword.

And these are from a while ago, but here are game controllers. The Wiimote + Nunchuk can’t really be worn as jewelry; I just felt like making that.

To be continued in Part 2 :)

[wandanatss]

heart in hand - chapter one;

things haven't been the same since you came into my life

summary: Summer of 1995 finds you in a cafe with a new-to-town Natasha Romanov. Little do you know, this day is going to change your life.

warning(s): swearing, slight mentions of guns & bullying.

word count: 1,087 words

author's note: i don't have access to the app i use to make covers/headers/dividers for my fics, so this canva one i threw together literally five minutes ago looks good enough. the dividers i used are by @cafekitsune. reblogs would help <3 i'm open to constructive criticism! i especially hope that one anon who helped a lot earlier likes it!

It all began in the summer of ‘95, in a little shop north of town. You sat there every day for want of something to do, someone to talk to. Being the friendless nerd was fine during the school year, but in the summer you always shifted from being alone to lonely. 

Your fingers tapped out an errant beat on the countertop, and you hummed a mindless tune. Your eyes droved over the menu as though your were trying to find something you wanted; as though you hadn’t already memorized it in your countless trips to the shop. In the end, though, you picked your usual - a sandwich, a doughnut, and a Coke. Picking the items up off of the counter once you got them, you sat at the only empty table there - a two-seater near the very back, where no one could see you. Figures. Invisible everywhere in the world, it seemed.

As you started to munch on the sandwich, interspersed with sips of your drink, your eyes watched the windows. Maybe you’d have your ‘movie moment’, where someone walked in that you fell in love with. Maybe it would be the person of your dreams. You looked down for a moment to pick up the cup, and within those few seconds, the door opened and a bell jingled. You looked up.

Y/n: I don’t know, it was fate or something. This absolute bombshell of a girl walked in. Her coppery-red hair tumbled over her shoulders, her eyes were bright, and she had the perfect red lip. She wore a thin white shirt, clinging to her with sweat. Her shorts were blue, and truly made her look like she had legs for days. When she ordered and got her food, she just wandered around for a minute before she saw me. Saw the seat in front of me. She smiled, asking if she could sit. Of course, I agreed. Neither of us knew it yet, but it was the start of something truly iconic. The girl, of course, was Natasha Romanov. We were both seventeen at the time.

Excerpt from ‘Mic in Hand, Heart in Throat’ by Kat S. Releasing 1 May 2028.

You introduced yourself, and started to make small talk about the weather – sweat-soaked Natasha’s body was a sight to see, and under the A/C breeze, her hair fluttered around her face. You were flushed, but you could pass it off to the heat, too. As Natasha waved over a waitress and placed her own order (a strawberry milkshake and a sandwich), you took the time to observe her.

She had her bicycle keys in her pocket, and two bracelets hanging from her arm. One was beaded, with the little alphabet charms reading N A T in different colours. The other was a few simple strings wound together and tied, giving the effect of a young child having made it. Now that you were closer to her, you could see the bottom of her hair bleached and cool-toned, showing her having dyed it blue a while back.

“Y/n? Do you want something too?” asked Natasha, a silent smirk in her eyes. She knew what you were doing.

Eventually, once the waitress was gone, you and Natasha struck up an easy flowing conversation. She confessed that she had biked here in the heat to get out of town, have her own ‘summer experience’. She was new. That explained why she hadn’t been in high school with you. You smiled and told her all about the high school she’d likely be joining, and joked about how she should make it a point to stay away from you. It would be social suicide, you explained.

Natasha turned slightly away at the comment, something catching her eyes, but looked back with a frown on her face. 

“I think people should be lucky to know you, Y/n. You’re a good – a good friend.”

Through the chat you have with her, you discover that not only can she play the guitar, but also the drums. She can also sing, insanely well if the competition awards aren’t a lie, and she’s just a fucking dream. She gave you her home-phone number, and her address. Call me, she wrote on the paper napkin, like she was some kind of rogueish flirt and not a schoolgirl still in her teens.

You took the napkin home with you and pinned it onto a little board, fingers moving over the bumps in the paper where she had pressed too hard with the pen. Call me. Come over sometime. You smiled, idling near the telephone. Maybe you would call her later, you thought.

Natasha Romanov: Y/n, they were an interesting person. My first friend who wasn’t my sister. We’d both been adopted, and been the town freaks for a while. Yelena, she was all spite and rage packed into a little spitfire of a ten-year-old child. It didn’t help that she wanted to give her opinions freely. It was my job to protect her, and when that backfired, we had to move. This far into the story, you already know I wouldn’t be too cut up about it. I had my sister and my adoptive parents. End of fuckin’ story, right? And then the chapter turned. After I met Y/n that day, everything changed. I finally had a reason to stay in the new town. I had made a friend.

Excerpt from ‘Mic in Hand, Heart in Throat’ by Kat S. Releasing 1 May 2028.

As you lay in bed that night, all hot and bothered about the day you’ve had, words start to form in your mind. Fragments; not enough to be worth writing, but you can see where you’ve started to... well, you’ve started thinking up a song.

The next morning, you wake up from a rather pleasant dream to hammering on your bedroom door. 

“Wake up, kid! It’s time to go!”

Oh. It was your mother, a staunch stickler for early-birds-get-the-worm. You would’ve far preferred to sleep in, especially in the summer, but the thoughts from the previous night – the song you thought of – had finally almost fully formed in your mind. You were eager to pen it down in case you forgot, but first, to appease your mother, you showered and had some cereal. Then you were back in your room, ready to write.

She’s got blue hair and a pretty pink smile

Looks that can kill and hands in mine

She’s a girl she’s a gun she’s the newest chapter

She’s a dream and what my heart’s been chasin’ after…

lmk if you want to be added to the taglist! | fic tag

[owlsandwich]

Alphabet Superset - Week 4

D - Dubious

Week 4! I wasn’t sure I’d actually be able to get this done, and I don’t think it came out how I wanted, but I had top surgery on the 21st September and I’m still recovering, so doing anything at all was an achievement. The scene isn’t hugely related to the letter, but this is the one I wanted to write, and Dorothea starts with D, so…

___

An eerie quiet had settled over the pub when Dorothea ducked through the low door from the back room. Food smells wafted from the kitchen, mixing with the familiar stale scent of beer and wood polish, and making her stomach growl.

The lunchtime rush was as little as could be expected for a Thursday afternoon; regulars sat in their usual seats, and here and there a couple from the village were talking quietly over a table in the corner, enjoying the dimly lit peace from the gloomy autumn day. Still, the chatter seemed subdued, as though it was a deliberate distraction from their patrons’ true focus.

Margaret was leaning against the bar. Her fine, grey hair was pinned into a bun, from which a handful of strands had worked their way loose. These now stuck wispily up, as if she had sat too close to the balloons at a birthday party. She was peering through her thick glasses into the gloom of a distant corner, apparently unconcerned by the sticky drips left by an errant pint that were soaking up her elbow.

Dorothea picked up a cloth and made her way over.

“Everything okay?”

At her words, Margaret jolted up. An empty bottle tipped over, and Dorothea grabbed it before it rolled off the edge. “You scared the life out of me, my girl!” Margaret clutched at her beaded necklace, and Dorothea grinned. It never got old.

“I’ll be sure to stomp my way up the stairs next time,” she replied. She tossed her hair back over her shoulder in a way that made her black curls bounce.

Margaret smiled and shook her head. “Perhaps we need to get you a little bell.” She took the bottle from Dorothea, her pale skin a stark contrast to Dorothea’s brown, and cast it into the bin behind them with a clatter of glass.

As Margaret busied herself fixing her damp sleeve, Dorothea gazed over at the corner table, which had caught her manager’s attention. It was occupied, though the patrons were unfamiliar to her. Two men; well, just about men, as they hardly looked much older than her own nineteen years, were sitting in a nook formed where one of the ceiling beams met the alcove for a glowing heating orb. The pale, fair-haired one was clutching a glass of wine and seemed to be talking urgently to his companion, a slim, almost scrawny teenager with tan skin and straight black hair that fell over his wide, dark eyes. Both were hunched over, obviously well aware of the scrutiny being cast their way.

“What do you make of it?” Margaret whispered as she gave her a nudge.

Dorothea shrugged. They seemed ordinary enough; their clothes casual and clearly new, compared to the scuffed ease of the teenagers she knew.

“They look young, but then it’s hard to tell here. Did they have ID?”

“Oh, of course, you can’t feel them!” Margaret exclaimed.

Dorothea felt herself flush. Even after two years in Ardveld, it was easy to forget how differently the locals experienced the world. Margaret, like most Ardveldians, was a mage, and in Ardveld, magic was everything, even out here in Couden Cross, where she had been told that most didn’t have much of it. Still, not much was still enough to activate the passive spell for a light, or for a lock to recognise a worker’s familiar energy and let them into their office. When she’d started at the pub, there had been a scramble to find a mage skilled enough in passive spells to imbue a key for her to use. It was lucky she’d been able to get a job at all, and even then, she’d often need to remind her colleagues that many of the tasks they thought nothing of could not be delegated her way.

“They’re strong?” Dorothea hazarded a guess.

Margaret slowly nodded. “I met a noble once. Came for some charity event up at Golebach Court. You could feel him standing out, even if you couldn’t see him in the crowd, and I’ll tell you he looked like he’d just turned thirty when he was probably closer to his fifties! But those two-” She peered back at them over Dorothea’s shoulder. “He’d have nothing on them.”

Dorothea widened her eyes. “You’re saying they could be fifty?”

Margaret coughed. “Well, perhaps not quite so extreme as that. Their documents seemed valid enough and supposedly the blond one is twenty. The aging doesn’t tend to kick in until later, you see, but even so...” She paused and chewed her lip. “I’m just wondering if we should report it.”

The light from the thick windows dimmed as a cloud passed over the weakening sun. Countless newspaper articles flashed through Dorothea’s memory. The murder of Ardveld’s royal family a year ago. Houses left empty as the high magic families who owned them fled or simply disappeared.

“Report it to who?” Dorothea kept her voice low. “Morgan Heliodor hasn’t put out any kind of wanted order.”

“Not in as many words, but I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him,” Margaret dropped once more to a whisper. “How do you think it would be for us if be found out we’d been hiding information about a threat to his new regime?”

The dark-haired boy had shrugged his hoodie high around his ears, but the soft clothes hung oddly on his figure, as though they were more a costume than a comfort. She knew what it was like to stand out without meaning to. To have your very presence give off some affront to those suspicious of difference. Looks and whispers before she’d even opened her mouth to speak. Whatever fearful strength Margaret claimed he exuded seemed ludicrous as he huddled in his corner. Even, she reluctantly acknowledged, if he might secretly be some rich arsehole.

“They don’t look like a threat to me,” Dorothea replied firmly. “I’m going to go talk to them.”

[escapewithbts]

The Best Surprise - All members (Yoongi focus)

-----------------------------------------------

The hot sun of early June beat down on your cap covered head making beads of sweat form at your hairline. You lifted your hair from around the back of your neck, which had made you feel like you were wearing a scarf, to fan it with the program you were holding. It wasn’t even officially summer and already the heat was almost unbearable. However, you figured you also felt this way because you were nervous. It was your graduation from graduate school; after your 3 last years of school ever you were finally going to officially receive your master’s degree. And although that was a big deal, it wasn’t the only thing making you anxious.

 “We aren’t just the class of 2021…” the valedictorian of your school spoke into the microphone at the podium on the stage in front of you and your fellow peers, “…we are the future.”

A classic speech, if not just a tad cheesy.

During the round of applause, you couldn’t help but turn around to get a better view of all the family members sitting behind the students. Through all the heads you couldn’t find your parents, or the one person you hoped would be sitting next to them. You stood up just a little bit, so not to garner too much attention to yourself, but quickly losing your balance and stumbling slightly onto the girl sitting next to you.

 “Sorry, I’m sorry,” you mumbled.

Finally, you spotted your parents in the sea of people, glad to see their faces. But your happiness faded immediately when you noticed the chair next to them was indeed empty. Slumping back down in your seat, a feeling of sadness and disappointment washed over you.

“I’ll really, really try to make it, jagiya, okay? I want to be there. So badly. It’s just awful timing with the release of Butter and everything else, you know?”

You heard your boyfriend’s voice on the other end of the phone call.

“I know it is. It’s okay if you can’t be there, I promise.”

You heard him sigh.

“Still get me a ticket though, alright? To the ceremony.”

You couldn’t help but smile, a tinge of hope searing back into your heart.

“Okay, I will.”

That hope finally completely vanished when your eyes fell upon that seat meant for him. You maybe felt a little foolish for thinking he could make it. After all, he was halfway across the world, in the biggest (and busiest) band in the world right now. You wished so much he could be here. But you also understood why he couldn’t be.

“So, without further ado let us recognize each student from this year’s graduating class from the university’s School of Business!”

You and your fellow classmates began standing up row by row to walk across the stage and accept your diplomas from the dean who was calling out each name individually in alphabetical order.

Sooner or later it was almost your turn. You were standing at the base of the steps to the stage when your full name was called.

“(y/f/n (y/m/n) (y/l/n).”

As you ascended the stairs and shook hands with the professors in a line congratulating all the graduates you suddenly heard a loud yell from the crowd.

“YEAH, (y/n)!!! WOOO!!! YEAH!!”

You turned to find the source of the screaming, and when you saw it, your heart felt like it would burst out of your chest.

For there he was, standing at his seat that had been empty just moments ago, jumping up and down and pumping his fist. A few people stared at how loud he had been, but you were way too happy to feel embarrassed. When you made eye contact, he gave you a double thumbs up and a huge gummy smile. You gave him a little wave and grinned back, ear to ear.

After the ceremony was over you rushed to your feet and scrambled through the crowds of people. Your eyes scanned the grounds, your heart beating fast, your diploma gripped tightly in your hand, your other one holding down your graduation cap so it wouldn’t fall off your head.

Eventually you spotted him leaning against a large sycamore tree, one foot resting on its trunk. He was wearing a classic white button-down shirt, a black skinny tie, his hands in the pockets of his trousers and a black jacket that matched under his arm. You felt your heart skip a beat and you caught your breath in your throat.

He looked even more handsome than you remembered if that were possible. His black hair was tousled messily on his head, his milky white skin glowed in the sun, his eyes narrowed searching for you, too. You practically ran to him.

When he finally noticed you just a few feet away a huge smile appeared on his face, and he outstretched his arms. Without a hint of hesitation, you fell into his embrace, breathing in his familiar scent, feeling his familiar body against yours, running your hand through his soft locks. You felt like crying.

 “Yoongi-ah-,” you breathed out, clutching the back of his shirt as if to make sure he was truly in front of you, and it wasn’t just your imagination.

He held you tightly against him.

 “My (y/n) … I’m here…”

You let go slightly and took him in close up. You forgot how beautiful he was; how kind his eyes were, how cute his rounded nose was, how soft his thin pink lips looked. You pressed them to yours in a long overdue kiss.

 “I’m so glad you made it,” you murmured to him when you broke apart.

He cupped your face in his large vein-y hand and rubbed your cheek with the pad of his thumb.

 “I would never miss my jagiya’s graduation. Just look at you!” he stepped back to take you in as you giggled and twirled in your graduation outfit for him, “My babygirl has her master’s degree!”

He pulled you back to him and wrapped his arm around your lower back.

“I’m so proud of you, jagi.”

He smiled and kissed the tip of your nose.

“Thank you, Yoongi-ah.”

Then he held up his finger.

“Oh wait, one more thing.”

You cocked your head as he took the tassel that was coming out of your cap and moved it to the left side.

“There. Now it’s really official,” he looked at the ground shyly, “At least, I think that’s what you’re supposed to do? I’ve seen it in movies…”

You chuckled and wrapped your arms around the back of his neck.

“Yes, you’re so smart! And I am now officially official.”

You giggled and kissed him once more.

The two of you met back up with your parents (they had figured you wanted the time alone first) and they hugged you and said their congratulations. To your surprise, Yoongi had already asked if it were okay if just the two of you spent the afternoon together since he had something special planned. You promised your parents you both would meet back up with them for dinner. They kindly took your gown and cap for you, told you how proud they were of you and reassured you it was not a problem spending all the time you wanted with Yoongi.

“I hope you don’t mind if we have lunch at this Korean restaurant I found online,” Yoongi asked you as you hopped into the back seat of an uber.

You shook your head.

“Of course not, you know I love Korean food. It’s, like, 80% of the reason I decided to date you, I knew I would have it all the time,” you joked.

He rolled his eyes and poked your side gently making you squeal.

“Oh yeah? And what’s the other 20%?”

You made a look like you were thinking hard.

“Hmm well… I guess you’re kind of cute.”

Then you smiled and quickly pecked his lips before he could respond.

At last, the car pulled up outside the entrance of the restaurant and you and Yoongi walked inside hand and hand.

“Hello,” the host greeted with a smile, “table for two?”

“Um, actually, I have a reser-reservation I think it is called?” Yoongi hesitated with the English word briefly, “yes a reservation. Under ‘Min’, please.”

The host looked over the seating chart before finding his name.

“Ah yes, here we are, Mr. Min. I see you reserved the entire back room, yes?”

You glanced at Yoongi thinking it must be a mistake but he nodded his head.

“That’s right.”

The host smiled and beckoned you with her arm.

“Great! Follow me this way please!”

As you followed closely behind her towards the back of the restaurant you tugged Yoongi’s sleeve.

“Yoongs,” you whispered, “you didn’t have to reserve a whole room for us! I would have been fine at a regular table.”

He grinned back at you and wiggled his eyebrows up and down as you reached two closed sliding doors. He shrugged.

“There weren’t any tables big enough.”

You furrowed your eyebrows.

“Big enough for who exact- “

But with that the doors slid open, and six people jumped up from around the large table in the center of the room and yelled,

“SURPRISE!”

A gasp escaped from your lips and your hand went over your mouth in shock.

There before you were Yoongi’s bandmates, your six best friends: Jin, Namjoon, J-Hope, Jimin, Taehyung and Jungkook, all smiling at you.

Jimin was the first to come towards you.

“Congratulations, our (y/n)-ah!” He wrapped his arms around you in a huge hug, Taehyung soon joining on the other side.

“Congratulations, (y/n)!” Namjoon was next, kissing the top of your head.

Then J-Hope gave you a congratulations dance that made you giggle before embracing you in a hug.

Jungkook wrapped his arms around you and squeezed, making you lose your breath momentarily. Gosh, he was bigger and stronger than you remembered.

“Congratulations, (y/n)-ah.”

You smiled at the youngest.

“Thank you, Kookie.”

Last was the oldest. He strolled up to you and ruffled your hair. You tried to bat his hand away.

“We’re the only ones with two degrees now, (y/n)-ah,” he stated, smoothing down your hair he had messed up and giving it a pat, “Pretty sure that means we’re the smartest of the group.”

You heard Yoongi chuckled and Namjoon snort behind you.

You winked at Jin.

“You’ve always been the smartest of the group, Jinnie.”

It was his turn to snort. Then he smiled and pulled you into a warm hug.

With that, the doors reopened, and multiple waiters brought in plates and plates of food and set them on the table in front of you. Your mouth watered at the sight.

“Aish, what did you guys do, order the whole menu?” Yoongi asked as everyone took a seat.

“We had to, hyung, it’s a special occasion!” Jimin replied, already taking a large bite of the pork ribs.

Before you sat down you took Yoongi’s hand in yours and looked around the table at the seven most important people in your life, feeling happier than you had in while to have them all here together.

 “Thank you, guys, so much for coming. I can’t believe you’re actually here. For me, nonetheless,” you chuckled bashfully, “It means the world to me. Thank you.”

They smiled adoringly up at you.

“Of course,” Namjoon spoke up, “We’d do anything for you, (y/n). And we’re really proud of you.”

Yoongi squeezed your hand gently as happy tears threatened to spill from your eyes.

“Yah, don’t cry, don’t cry!” Jin protested, making a silly face at you.

You giggled and sniffled, wiping under your eyes.

“Yeah, come on (y/n)-ah, you’re going to make everyone cry!” J-hope agreed.

You chuckled softly and muttered a quiet apology.

Jimin stood up and walked over to you. Then he pulled your chair out for you and placed his arm around your shoulders, gently pushing you to sit down.

“Eat,” he commanded with a smile, pointing to the heaps of food in front of you.

Yoongi handed you a bowl of rice and chopsticks before kissing your temple lightly. You quickly started to dig in.

“Now, then,” Namjoon said with a bite of half chewed noodles in his mouth, “let’s here all about the ceremony.”

*

Masterlist

[avengerscompound]

The Contest

The Contest: A WinterFalcon Fanfic

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing:  Bucky Barnes x Sam Wilson x F!Reader

Word Count:  1806

Rating:  E

Square filled:  @buckybarnesbingo - C1 Sam Wilson/Falcon, @star-spangled-bingo Fingering.

Warnings:  Smut (Bi MMF threesome, multiple orgasms, oral sex, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, double vaginal penetration)

Synopsis:  Bucky and Sam want to prove to you who’s the best at sex.

The Contest

You sat on the bed watching Bucky and Sam as they talked quietly in the hall.  They would look in at you from time to time and at one point Sam started laughing loudly and he clapped Bucky one the shoulder.  You wondered what they were planning.  The way they kept looking over at you, you knew it had to be something to do with you.  It wasn’t your birthday or anything though, so you had no idea what they were doing.

Finally, Sam pulled Bucky close and pecked his lips and the two came into the room.

“What are you two up to?”  You asked suspiciously, as Sam pulled off his grey t-shirt.

“Oh, babe, you’re in for it.”  He teased, sitting down on the edge of the bed.  He grabbed your ankle and gave it a squeeze.  “Bucky and I were just discussing which one of us was better at making you come.”

Your eyes went wide and Bucky gave a short nod.   You weren’t even sure why you were surprised.  Bucky and Sam were nothing if not competitive.  There was always little contests on stupid things like who had more followers on twitter to who loved each other most.  Even in the bed if you made a sound for one the other would try and make you make a louder one.

An official orgasm contest though?  It was a little exciting but you weren't one hundred percent sure you could handle that.  Bucky’s super serum alone meant he has stamina for days and almost no recovery time needed.  Add Sam on top of that and you might not be walking for a couple of weeks if they planned to drag it out.

“What?  Why?”  You asked drawing your legs up against you.

Bucky smirked and took off his shirt.  “You better tell her.”  He said.

“Why me?”  Sam argued.

Bucky shrugged and you kicked Sam.  “Tell me.”

“Fine.  Tony and Clint were being a couple of asses.  You know, asking how things worked with us and whatever.  And then they asked who was better at sex and now we have to know.”

“Well, it’s obviously me.”  You teased.

Bucky chuckled.  “Sure you are, darlin’.”

Sam moved to his knees in front of you and walked his fingers up your calf to your knee.  “Come on, babe.  Don’t you want us to see how much you can come?”

“What if it’s too much?”  You asked.

“Then we stop.”  Bucky said.  “You really think we’d force you or do anything to hurt you?”

“I guess not.”  You said.

Sam ran his thumbs on the insides of your knees.  “Just guess?”

You giggled and spread your legs.  “Okay.  Go on then.”

A smile spread over Sam’s face and he dragged his teeth over his bottom lip.  “Well, alright then.  It’s on.  I go first.”  He ran his hands up the inside of your thighs and grabbed the waistband of your panties.  “You won’t be needing these.”  He yanked them down, dragging your with them for a bit so you were flat on your back.

You squealed and kicked them off before spreading your legs wide and grabbing Sam’s wrists and pulling him down on top of you.

He kissed you hungrily.  His lips moving with yours and tongue flicking out as if to taste you.  He ground down on you as he began to run his hands over you.  They grazed over your neck and down to your breasts, teasing and pinching at them.  He skimmed them down your side to your ass, gripping it and massaging it.  His cock began to harden and press against your cunt and you moaned softly.

“Hurry it up, Sam.  This is a contest.”  Bucky teased.

Sam pulled back and licked his fingers before slipping them between your folds.  He began to rub your clit.  The pattern was erratic.  Hard and fast, slow and wide, buzzing quickly back and forth, circling around and making figures of eight.  You couldn’t get used to it and it sent shock waves running up and down your spine.   You came with a sudden cry, bucking your hips up and clutching the sheets in your fits.

Sam chuckled and pulled back looking down at you.  “One - nothing.”

Bucky pushed him.  “My turn.”

Sam moved to the side while Bucky crawled up in between your legs.  He placed a kiss on the apex of your thigh as he looked up at you.  You bit your bottom lip and watch as he licked up your folds.  First circling your entrance and then swirling it over your clit.  He hummed to himself but his blue eyes never left yours.  He began to suck on your clit and he reached up and grabbed your breast.  Kneading it and pinching your nipple.  You keened and bucked up into his mouth.  He focused down, sucking and nipping at your clit.  His tongue flicked back and forth and painted out the alphabet.

Your orgasm came much faster this time due to already being so sensitive and close from your last one.  “Fuck!”  You cried your hips jerking as your orgasm crashed down over you.  Bucky sat up and wiped his mouth.  “One all.”

Sam’s hand was at your cunt before Bucky had even moved away completely.  He thrust two fingers inside of you and curled them.  Bucky moved to your other side and leaned over and kissed Sam.  You watched them kiss as Sam’s fingers moved inside you, dragging over your inner walls again and again until he hit that sweet spot inside you.  It sent a jolt right up your spine and you arched your back.  “Fuck!”  You cried.

“That’s it, honey,”  Sam praised.  “Let it happen.”

You tried to relax but your legs began to tremble.  He thrust his fingers against and again against your g-spot.  Pressure built in your core and with a loud animalist cry you came.

Sam slowed his fingers and took them away  “2-1.”  Sam said.

Bucky’s hand took the place of Sam’s and he thrust two of them in you and started fucking you with them.  His metal fingers went to your clit and he rubbed it as hard as he fucked you with his other hand.  It felt like you were still coming down from the orgasm that Sam gave you when this new one from Bucky tore through you.  You couldn’t even form a coherent word, it was just a garbled scream as you arched up off the bed with it.

Sam stood and took off his pants.  You watched him feeling a little light-headed.  Endorphins coursed through your system making your head fuzzy and your heart racing.

He kneeled on the bed and patted your hip. “Hands and knees.”

You complied, though your arms didn’t seem to want to hold you up.  Sam lined himself up behind you and thrust in.  You fell forward, your head falling in Bucky’s lap.  He stroked your hair as Sam fucked you from behind.  Your swollen and sensitive cunt stretched and filled as he pounded into you.  His hand wrapped around your waist and he rubbed your clit.  “That’s it, god you feel so fucking good.”  He praised.

You moaned and clenched around his cock, pressing your face into Bucky’s thigh and digging your fingers into the thick, corded muscles in his legs.  Sam’s free hand ran down your spine and grabbed you hip. You couldn’t hold yourself together and you came again, you moan muffled into Bucky’s flesh.

Sam pulled back with a grunt and sat down as Bucky guided you onto your back.  He took off his pants and pumped his cock a few times as you watched on panting.  He lifted your legs up onto his shoulders and suck into you.  You moaned and lifted your hips, so he would hit your g-spot with each thrust.

As he began to fuck you, you lost any semblance of control of your body.  Your sounds were primal and slipped from you unintentionally.  You couldn’t hold yourself up, and your muscles clenched and spasmed.  Bucky leaned forward and kissed you hard, pushing your knees up to your ears as he did.  You mewled into his lips and came again, your whole body shuddering as it passed through you.

Bucky pulled out and you shook your head and patted both their legs.  “Don’t know if I can…”  You murmured.

Sam leaned down and pressed a kiss to your head.  “You did so good, baby.”  He praised.   “Buck and I can finish with each other.”

You shook your head again.  “Want you to come inside me.”

They both chuckled and Buck brushed his lips over your forehead.  “Such a greedy gal.”

Sam grabbed the lube and generously coated his cock with it before handing it to Bucky.  As Bucky began to slick his cock, Sam lay back and you climbed up on him.  You could barely even keep yourself up, you were so spent.  Yet, you managed to guide him back into you before settling down against his chest.  He slowly rolled his hips into you and you moaned softly into his neck.  “That’s my girl.”  He whispered, kissing just under your ear.

Bucky moved behind you, his cock pressed on your entrance and he sunk in, stretching and filling you completely.  The sting and dull ache seemed far off compared to the current that ran through your veins, spreading out from your cunt, it was nothing.

Bucky began to thrust slow and deep into you as Sam countered it with a quick, shallow rutting of his hips.  You buried your face in Sam’s neck and panted as they pulled you apart once again.

Bucky leaned over your shoulder as he fucked you from behind and Sam leaned up, kissing him deeply.  The soft moans and smacking of their lips almost drowned out completely by your moans.

Everything was fuzzy, but it was also good.  All you were, all you knew, was the pleasure surging in you.  Sweat beaded on your skin and yet it had erupted in goosebumps.

With a loud cry, you came hard, your whole body clenching between them.  It dragged Sam over and he released with a grunt, thrusting hard up into you.  The pulse of his cock against Bucky’s as it emptied set Bucky off too.

As all three of your orgasms passed and your bodies settled, first Bucky slipped out and then Sam, though he let you stay lying on top of him.

“How are you doing there, darlin’?”  Bucky asked, running the cool metal of his hand down your flushed skin.

You murmured contentedly against Sam’s skin.

“I’ll go run a bath and come get her when it’s ready,”  Bucky said.

Sam nodded.  “Thanks, Buck,”  Sam said.  “So are we calling it a tie?”

Bucky gave Sam the finger as he headed to the bathroom.  “No way, man.  That was my win.”

[maudanouk]

NEW FACE OF LANNY IN VIENNA

ACT I SCENE I

Italy, Rome, the Vatican reception hall. VOIELLO and SOFIA are waiting at the popes desk. The YOUNG POPE enters the stage with a plain plate in his hands.

„This is the sort of merchandise im prepared to authorise.“ He says.

„But it doesn’t have your image on it!“ Sofia answers.

„I do not have an image, my good lady, because I am no one. You understand? No one. Only Christ exists. Only Christ. And I am not worth forty-five, or even five euros. I am worth nothing.“

„I don’t understand, Holy Father.“

„Of Course you don’t, because, as you said earlier, you studied at Harvard. And Harvard is a place in decline where you were taught to lower yourselves. Where as here, in the Vatican, we try to elevate ourselves. Who exactly is in charge of curating the image of the pope?“

„The Secretary of State entrusted that delicate task to me, Holy Father, two years ago.“

„Very good. And now I’m going to tell you what you as curator of the image of the Holy Father, are gonna do. You are gonna fire the Vatican’s official photographer immediately. No photographs of the pope are to be issued. Just as there were none when I was a cardinal or a bishop. Do you know why? I never allowed my picture to be taken. And when someone managed to sneak a photograph of me I always bought them up before they could be published. Now that I think about it. I’ve been training my whole life to be an invisible pope.

And so, for my first adress, you will see to it that the lightning is so dim, no photographer, no TV cameraman, and not even the faithful will see anything of me but a dark shadow, my silhouette. They will not see me because I do not exist.“

„If I may, Holy Father, what you are proposing is nothing short of suicide, media suicide.“

„Media suicide, you say? Fine. Now try to keep up with me, if you can.“

„I’m right with you, Holy Father.“

„Good. OK, so, who is the most important author of the last twenty years? Careful now, not the best, virtuosity is for the arrogant, the most important, the author who has sparked so much morbid curiosity that he became the most important.“

„I wouldn’t know. I’d say… Philip Roth?“

„No. Salinger. The most important film director?“

„Spielberg.“

„No. Kubrick. Contemporary artist?“

„Jeff Koons. Or Marina Abramovic.“

„Banksy. Electronic music group?“

„I don’t know the first thing about electronic music.”

“You say Harvard is a good university! Anyway, Daft Punk!”

„The best Italian Vocalist?“ Voiello interrupts.

„Mina?“ I answer.

„Brava! Now do you know what it is what the invisible red thread is that connects them all, all these most important figures in their respective fields? None of them let themselves be seen. None of them let themselves be photographed.“ The pope answers.

„But you’re not an artist, Holy Father. You are a head of state.“

„Yes, of a city state so small that it doesn’t have an outlet to the sea. And in order to survive it’s leader has to make himself as unreachable as a rock star. The Vatican survives thanks to the hyperbole. So we, we shall generate hyperbole but this time in reverse.“

„I’m beginning to get your point, Holy father. Yes, not only am I beginning to get it. I’m beginning to like it, too.“

„Good. Very good.“ [1]

ACT I SCENE II

The Off. It’s dark. Only the NARRATORS voice can be heard.

The pope [...] was possessed by a veritable rage for acquiring and storing up knowledge.[2] Wanting to know is an offspring of the desire for power, the striving for expansion, existence, sexuality, pleasure, enjoyment of the self, and for anesthetizing the necessity of dying.[3] He is large minded, not through knowledge, but through the power of acquiring it; he is open minded, intelligent, ready for anything, and, as Montaigne says, capable of learning if not learned. [4]  As knowledge and will are attributed to God, so is power. Further, as the power of God is infinite, so is His knowledge.[5]  The young pope is searching for a way to acquire as much knowledge as possible. He thinks about buying Alphabet. In the end, more than in God it is necessary to believe in yourself, Lenny.

God does not shout.

God does not whisper.

God does not write.

God does not hear.

God does not chat.

God's infinite silence...[5]

What if god shouted, whispered, wrote, heard, chatted and broke his silence? What if god had Instagram.

ACT II SCENE I

Austria, Vienna, 3rd district at Parkgasse 18. The WITTGENSTEIN HOUSE enters the stage, surrounded by its garden and neighbourhood.

The house is thinking: How can I help Lanny to reach the eartheners? I need to understand them. But as I cannot move they have to come to me. I need to offer them something they desire so they can not resist. They are the bees and I’m the honey. 

I remember a story an old friend once told me: “There was once a young man who dreamed of reducing the world to pure logic. Because he was a very clever young man, he actually managed to do it. When he’d finished his work, he stood back and admired it. It was beautiful. a world purged of imperfection and indeterminacy, countless acres of gleaming ice stretch into the horizon. So the clever young man looked around the world he’d created and decided to explore it. He took one step forward and fell flat on his back. you see, he’d forgotten about friction. The ice was smooth and level and stainless. But you couldn’t walk there. So the clever young man sat down and wept bitter tears. But as he grew into a wise old man, he came to understand that roughness and ambiguity aren’t imperfections, they’re what make the world turn. He wanted to run and dance. And the words and things scattered upon the ground were all battered and tarnished and ambiguous. The wise old man saw that that was the way things were. But something in him was still homesick for the ice, where everything was radiant and absolute and relentless. Though he had come to like the idea of the rough ground, he couldn’t bring himself to live there. So now he was marooned between earth and ice, at home in neighter.” [6]

I am a contradiction. [7]

A nightclub and a spa,

sin and salvation,

extasy, excess, gambling and baptism,

doubt and hope,

mystery and logic,

ornamented and functional,

hell and heaven,

baroque and modern,

I am dionysos and apollon.

ACT II SCENE II

Austria, Vienna, 1st district. AVA sitting at a desk.

The phone rings. [8] She opens the message.. „My dearest friends there’s one spectacular party in the making! Join us tonight in the Wittgenstein House to another legendary night. Make sure to wear your most luxurious textiles and we take care of your deepest desires.“ 

ACT II SCENE III

Austria, Vienna, 3rd district at Parkgasse 18. It’s night but the garden is enlightened by the colourful lights emerging the windows. The WITTGENSTEIN HOUSE is emitting visual, audible and perceptible vibrations. The air smells of Un Jardin en Méditerranée. A car enters stage right. Inside are AVA, LUX, EMMA and NOVA.

We arrive at the Wittgenstein House. It’s one o’clock, time for some ecstasy. I divide the crystals into four parts and hand them to the others. I take the last one and we step out of our taxi. Instantly we are surrounded by an electric atmosphere. People get chauffeured around in Mercedes Benz with Cristal champagne.[9] On inspecting the entrance facade, you can discover a series of metaphors and symbolic signs.[10] The bass seems to shake the walls. Bright lights in countless colours emerge through the windows. Life is fantastic. It would be too strong to call this fantasy a portal to Hell, but it is surely no entrance to a Heavenly Jerusalem.

The party begins as people are moving in, gathering in the entrance hall and taking a stand up cocktail.[11] There is champagne, caviar and fireworks.[12] Ahead, some distance from the entrance, is a great mural of brilliant color.[13] Opulent Ornaments, heavy textiles, reflecting surfaces. The materials come from the everyday domestic sphere, much having to do with ornamenting the body: copper and brass wire, buttons, beads, baubles, hooks, eyes, straps, false fingernails, makeup, hair, ribbons, lace, thread, shells, feathers, and bones. The amulets are fetishes, beautiful ornamental objects, and they are connected to the fetishism of architectural representation.[14]

following... experience of other chambers: 

sauna is heat, sweat, cleansing, liberation, relief

spa is warm, soft, welcoming, salvation

etc.

[1] The Young Pope

[2] Hugo, Notre Dame de Paris

[3] Sloterdijk, Critique of Cynical Reason

[4] Rousseau, Collected Works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau

[5] Aquinas, Summa Theologica

[6] The Young Pope

[7] The Young Pope

[8] Cixous, Reveries of the Wild Woman

[9] Hovestadt Buehlmann, Quantum City

[10] Hays, Architecture Theory since 1968

[11] Schumacher, The Autopoiesis of Architecture Vol 2

[12] Carter, Anthony Blunt His Lives

[13] Ockmann, Architecture Culture 1943 1968

[14 ]Hays, Architecture Theory since 1968

[novantinuum]

Crack the Paragon, Chapter 7

Fandom: Steven Universe

Rating: General Audiences

Words: 3.4K~

Summary: In another world, he doesn’t have his mother’s sword or shield to hide behind when Bismuth lands her strike. The bubble pops.

Steven falls apart.

Chapter summary: In which actions are louder than words.

First | Last chapter

You can find the AO3 link in the reblogs! (I have to omit it from the original post these days to ensure this will show up in the tags.) If you enjoyed this, I’d greatly appreciate your support over there as well. 

Chapter 7: Silenced

“Are you out of your mind??”

"Pearl, please understand, I’ve been wanting this for so long,” you explain softly, the sunset illuminating the face of the pale Gem before you in shades of pink and orange as the waves crash onto shore behind her. “Human life is simply incredible! Never stagnating, always living, and loving, and learning. I want to pass on my gem, to create something new with Greg, someone who can grow! Someone… who can finally be free.”

“But- but Gems can’t have babies!” she sputters, throwing her arms out. “We don’t have the organs for it, or genetic material, o-or—“

You shake your head, enthusiastically cutting her off.

“That’s no problem, I used shapeshifting like Amethyst always does! And believe me,” you say with a conspiratorial chuckle, “you know better than anyone that I’m fully capable of holding this for the next nine months.”

“That’s not my point!”

“Then… what is?”

“My point—! You always do this, Rose!” she shouts, her pale blue eyes growing damp. “You know I try to support you, but I can’t do that if you never talk with me before leaping headfirst into whatever fanciful desire you please, and- and deciding everyone’s future for them!”

“But isn’t that… what I’m doing now?”

“No! You never even asked me how I’d feel,” she says, voice thick. “And that’s your problem.” Tears stream in rivulets down her cheeks, her lithe body quivering. Roughly, she wipes them away, and turns to escape your presence. “You never do!”

“Where did it go??”

The sound of shrill panic abruptly wakes Steven, the precise details of his peculiar dream already beginning to blur into obscurity as his eyes flutter open. A line of half-dried drool, slimy and still warm, extends from the corner of his mouth. His dad is softly snoring next to him, swaddled in his stolen covers like the very image of a sushi roll.

“No, no, no!” Pearl shouts from the kitchen. There’s a dull clap as her hand swipes across the counter. Something light (cloth?) falls to the floor. “This can’t be happening, not now, not again!!”

Yawning, he presses his fingers against the slight ache at his temple and sits up, blinking in confusion at his surroundings. “Wha—?”

For whatever reason, the beach house has devolved into absolute chaos between the time he fell asleep and now. The couch cushions are all askew, one of them flung halfway across the room. Two of the kitchen stools are overturned, and the bath towel they nestled his gem in last night lays in an abandoned heap between them. Dishes from the open cabinets are strewn everywhere on the counters. Meanwhile, the contents of the game shelf by the window— which Pearl normally keeps meticulously organized in alphabetical order— have exploded across the floor with little to no regard to the walking hazard they pose. If her intent was to blow through the place like a one person wrecking ball, then she’s clearly succeeded. No corner of the house is left untouched by her mania. The Gem roughly swings open the fridge, rattling the condiment bottles in the door. After a brief pause to scan through its contents she huffs, and slams it shut again.

Her arms shaking, she grips tufts of wispy peach hair from either side of her head. “Where is it???” she cries, her voice edging towards borderline hysteria.

“Uh, Pearl?” he asks, uneasiness churning in his gut at the sight of his guardian under so much stress. He swings his feet over the edge of his bed. “Pearl! What’s going on? What’s wrong??”

She freezes momentarily upon noticing he’s awake, her cheeks flushing blue.

“O-oh! Thank goodness you’re finally up,” she says, bounding across the room and up the stairs to him in no more than five steps. Her hands grasp his shoulders, a frantic gleam in her pale eyes. “Steven, where’s your gem?! Have you seen it??”

“My… gem?” he mutters, scrunching his nose as he peers up at her. In the fog of his exhausted, sleep deprived mind, for a second he has no idea what on Earth she’s talking about. Where’s his gem? His gem’s at his navel, inlaid flush with his skin like it’s always been, so what is she—

In a flash, snippets of recent memory eclipse everything else that’s at the forefront of his attention, reasserting their place in his psyche.

“Go ahead!” Bismuth snarls, jamming the tip of the breaking point rough against her concave gemstone. “Just do it!”

A sharp cry, his world standing still as a searing pain tears through him from the gem at his core to the very tip of his extremities.

Too damaged to sustain himself, his hard light form poofs into a cloud of smoke. He remembers this from both perspectives, now. And with the memory of the searing pain his other half was in… he wishes he doesn’t. The cracked gemstone hangs in the air for just a moment, morning sunlight glinting off its facets, before plummeting lifeless to the ground.

“—it’s Pink Diamond,” Garnet whispers in horror.

He swallows hard as the burden of the last few hours quickly rears its ugly head, weighing down once more on his shoulders. Oh, right, he thinks, resting his hand atop his stomach, over the unfamiliar facets of his newly flipped gem. Almost dying. That was a thing.

“Yes, your gem, I’ve been looking everywhere for it!” Pearl says, throwing her arms up. She leaps to the ground floor from the lofted level, and with a skip and a flourish so unbefitting of her current state of panic, jabs her pointer finger towards the kitchen counter. “I clearly remember setting it right here when we put you to bed, but now it’s nowhere to be found!”

Her words degrade to incomprehensible mumbling as she continues her fruitless search, this time localized to the space around the fireplace and the bathroom door. Finally understanding what has her in such a tizzy, Steven leaps to his feet and follows her down the stairs. Of course she’s freaking out, she thinks his gemstone disappeared entirely, or walked off, or got stolen! She has no way of knowing what happened on the beach early this morning. No one does. Someone’s gotta tell her, and that someone can only be him. Rushing to his guardian, he gently tugs at her arm.

“Pearl!”

She forces a laugh, the sound of it neurotic and unhinged, as her fumbling fingers remove a small photo of the four of them off its hook on the wall. “Well at least we can say for certain it’s not hiding behind this framed photograph!” she announces, smile stretched just a bit too wide. “Just one less infinite possibility to check…”

“Pearl, listen, you—“

“And it’s not like it could simply roll off the table without a trace, right? Am I right??”

“Please, you don’t have to freak out, ‘cause I—“

“But it’s okay Steven, there’s no need to panic! I know we’ll find it eventually, yes we will, of course we will, how could we—“

“I have it!” he blurts out, grabbing both of her shaking hands. “I have it.”

Held securely in his, her hands fall silent. The panic drains from her in but a breath as she stops to contextualize what he’s just said and what it means, her mouth slipping slightly ajar. Sensing that he’s firmly caught her attention now, he continues, heart hammering in his chest.

“Last night, the gem reformed as me, a-and… we fused back together.”

“You— you’re back to normal,” she says with glassy eyes, voice softer now.

He tugs at the collar of his pajamas. “Well, more or less. There’s a bit of a catch, and I’m pretty sure none of you are gonna like it.”

Her expression is blank with confusion. “Uhhh— a catch?”

“Y’know, it’s probably easier if I just show you,” he reasons with a nervous chuckle, and— sweat beading on his forehead— lifts his nightshirt to reveal his gem.  

Pearl kneels down to peer at it straight on, hand balled into a fist at her chin. “Oh!” she says first, brows shooting up on her face. Then, her features narrowing the more and more she looks at the newly exposed facets of his diamond: ”Ohhhh...”

“This is what her gem looked like, isn’t it?” he asks. “Pink’s?”

Her eyes shoot wide open at his query. “I—“

Immediately, her palm clamps tight over her mouth, strangling whatever words she had planned to share.

Steven cringes as he watches her struggle against her orders, a seed of guilt churning deep within. “Oh, right. You can’t… sorry, I forgot. We can talk about something else, if you want!”

She’s thankfully able to pull her hand away before too long. A distant part of him wonders how this gag order works, how it knows in advance what Pearl plans to say, if there’s any loopholes they could possibly find to skirt around it...

“I— I’d appreciate that,” she admits, suddenly looking very tired.

A lopsided smile brightening her face despite her exhaustion, she reaches up to affectionately ruffle his hair. He flashes her a boyish grin as her touch flattens some of his wild curls against his head.

“You know,” she says quietly, glancing at him with such a softness reflected in her pale irises that it almost makes him forget all the stress he’s endured, almost makes him believe nothing’s changed since yesterday, “there may be a lot I can’t talk about, but what I can say is that I’m so glad to see your beautiful smile again.”

“Pearl,” he responds, blushing with half-hearted embarrassment.

“Now let’s clean up this mess before your father wakes up, shall we?” the pale Gem chuckles nervously as she rubs her hands together, glancing between the trashed ground floor of the beach house and the middle aged man miraculously still snoozing away in the loft above.

“Nose-goes on kitchen!” he says hurriedly, tapping his finger against the tip of his nose.

She feeds him a mock gasp, already crossing behind the counter to start returning the plates and glasses to their rightful homes in the cabinet. “Oh, you rascal! How ever will I organize all this by myself?”

Steven gives a soft laugh at this, and then promptly sets himself on tidying duty. First priority is the board games strewn across the floorboards in the corner. He kneels and begins arranging the boxes into piles. From there, he stacks each pile nice and near on the shelf by the window. After straightening the stacks so the box corners line up, he moves to pull open the blinds to let more sunlight in the house. A blissful smile stretches across his face as he pauses his work to bask in the morning glow.

Already feeling a good deal more content about everything in the reminder of daybreak, he turns to Pearl. “Not gonna lie, I’m kinda surprised Dad was able to stay asleep through all our racket.”

“Greg?” she scoffs and rolls her eyes, piling a stack of plates on one of the shelves. “That man sleeps like a rock. Which,” she continues, resting her freed hand against her chin in contemplation, “as an idiom, is actually rather ironic considering that ‘rock’ is common slang for ‘Gem,’ and Gemkind as a whole doesn’t have a biological need for sleep.”

“Well, I think you can blame humans for that one,” he laughs, picking the missing couch cushion off the floor and returning it to its home. “For anyone outside Beach City, rocks don’t actually move!”

Ever so slightly, the edge of her lips turn up. “I suppose that’s true, yes…”

They fall into a fairly comfortable silence for a while after that, as they put the finishing touches on the last nooks and crannies of the beach house that needed attention. Steven makes sure the floor is spotless, every stray pillow, toy, or decorative item returned to its rightful place. Pearl finishes tidying the kitchen, re-organizing the cups on the shelves by color and type. By the end of it he can proudly say the place looks leagues cleaner than it did yesterday. For good measure, Pearl pulls a broom out of her gemstone and sweeps up any debris littering the floor. He helps out by holding the dustpan steady as she brushes the sand and dust bunnies in.

“There!” she proclaims once they’re finished, proudly surveying her roost as she solidly holds the broom with the same level of decorum with which one might hold a rebellion era rampart. “That’s much better, don’t you think?”

The ground nearly shimmers in its cleanliness. Heartily, he gives her a thumbs-up.

“Yeah, looks great!”

With a big yawn, he glances up at his father’s slumbering figure in the loft above, for a moment jealous that he’s not still snoozing away too. Four or five hours (or however long it’s been since he crawled back into bed, he hasn’t checked the clock yet) simply isn’t enough rest for a growing boy. He always tries to aim for eight or nine. Maybe he can bridge that gap now, though? Would it help, he wonders, if he falls back asleep a good twenty minutes after he woke? As he ponders this mystery, he ambles past Pearl, heading directly to the couch.

“Steven,” she says with poorly disguised concern, as she watches him abruptly flop over onto the cushions in his sheer exhaustion. “If you need to talk about what happened, then I—“

“I’m just a little tired, don’t worry about me,” he says, eyes drooping shut as he curls up tighter.

“Don’t wor—“ Pearl cuts herself off suddenly, choked up. She’s at his side in a flash, and he feels the cushion adjust for her weight as she sits herself adjacent. “How can I not worry about you? You went through something no child… no Gem should ever have to experience!”

“But I’m alive,” he points out, eyes cracking open a smidge. “I’m alive, and you guys dealt with Bismuth, a-and we fixed it like we always do, so- so there’s no point in fixating on what could’ve happened, right?”

She rests her hand on his shoulder, her fingers hesitantly shifting over the seam of his pajamas as if she’s suddenly a complete stranger to the art of comforting. Normally he lives for her shows of affection— her occasional head pats, loose side hugs, a hand clasped tight on his arm as she gently leads him through hazardous terrain on missions— but in his mounting desire to be left alone in peace to rest, he bristles under her touch. She doesn’t seem to catch onto the hint, though. Still hidden behind his neutral expression, he grits his teeth.

“I-it’s not a matter of fixation,” she continues, “it’s a matter of unpacking difficult emotions. You have to understand, the state of being cracked, it’s not one that most full Gems are easily able to bounce back from, and I just want to ensure that you’re not—“

“I’m fine, really, I am!” he snaps. “You don’t have to keep fussing about it! And anyways, it’s all over now, isn’t it? So can’t we at least try to move on from this and let things be halfway normal again?!”

Pearl reacts like she’s been physically struck. She yanks her hand back, resting her palms on her knees as she turns her head away. A cautious glance at her face (or at least the half she hasn’t intentionally obscured from his sight) shows one muddled with a blend of melancholy and that sort of silent displeasure he’s long since grown to associate with disappointed parents. He swallows hard, shame settling heavy like the diamond at the pit of his stomach. He went too far.

“Sorry,” he mumbles as he sits upright, cheeks heating up. He stares at his fingers, rhythmically flexing them.

She doesn’t vocally respond to his apology, but her form does grow visibly less tense. It’s a start.

Fully audible through the walls of the house, the tides crash onto shore, gently pulsing in and out. It doesn’t take long before the pace of his heart matches the ocean’s unwavering drumbeat. His naive young mind twitchy under the throes of the unnatural silence, he yearns for some concrete image to latch onto, anything to spirit him away from the present. Not before long, distant threads of memory from the strange dream he woke up from this morning rise to meet his pleas.

Most of the details are fuzzy, indistinct and abstract as one might expect from a dream, but nevertheless just enough specificity remains that he can’t help but wonder if this was more than your run-of-the-mill moonlight fantasy. Frowning pensively, he balls his hand against his chin. The sky was streaked with lines of pink and orange, he remembers. The tides swelled with the same unwavering prowess as they do this morning. He knows he was standing somewhere near the temple, because he clearly saw one of the stone hands half-buried on the sandy shore. A familiar ivory and peach figure stood defiant and distraught before him— no, not him!— before his…

“You always do this, Rose!”

His hands. They were wide, pale, free of the familiar calluses built up from years of plucking strings on his ukulele, they… they weren’t his. This body wasn’t his.

Mom. He was dreaming about his mom. But why, and how? He’s had dreams with her in them before, but they were always different, they were always from his perspective. They were always fluid and nonsensical. This, however… this one felt different, somehow. More tangible.

Almost… real.

“You never even asked me how I’d feel,” Pearl said, voice thick. “And that’s your problem. You never do!”

Realization dawns over him like the glow of the morning sun rising above the horizon. A sudden sickness churns in his stomach. He’s almost horrified, disgusted with his past actions in rudely brushing Pearl off like that.

She just… wants to know how I feel about all this, he thinks, throat constricting as he swallows hard. She wanted to know if I’m okay! But- is she even okay??

Is there more to this dream of his than meets the eye? Is his subconscious trying to tell him something, trying to lead him to take some sort of action? Have they really not asked her that enough?

His fingers drum against his leg as he gathers the nerve to speak again.

“Hey...”

“Yes?” Pearl says quietly, tone clipped. She’s still glancing out the window, turned away from him.

“How are you handling all this? Everything’s suddenly so different, and…” He grips the fabric of his pajama bottoms, his eyes burning hot. “I know you can’t say much about it, but I just wanna make sure you’re doin’ okay too.”

She finally meets his glance, her gaze glassy and wet. Her bottom lip quivers, so subtle he almost doesn’t pick up on it. In all the time he’s lived with her, he's not sure he’s ever seen her so vulnerable, and the sight of it drives a razor sharp point right through his heart. He takes a deep, grounding breath, and continues.

“And I want you to know I don’t blame you for this,” he reassures. “Even if you couldn’t tell us anything, that’s not your fault.”

“Thank you,” she says, her voice breaking.

“If there’s stuff I can do to make things easier, let me know?”

Her ice blue irises skate upwards as she deliberates, desperately grasping for an answer to his open ended question. Steven clasps his hands together in his lap, and simply waits in silent patience. His legs dangle back and forth over the edge of the couch.

Pearl sighs, her long suffering exhaustion evident. “If, in the future, you could avoid asking probing questions about your mother or abo- about my past on Homeworld, that would be a great help.” She presses her thumb and forefinger firm against her forehead, right under her gem. “It’s… painful, suffice it to say, when programming kicks in. And to answer your first question, I’m honestly trying not to think about any of it too much. Like you, it would seem,” she adds with a bit of a mirthful chuckle. “I can’t claim it’s good advice, but that’s where I’m at.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats with a sniffle, leaning into her shoulder.

Tenderly, she wraps her arms around him and nestles her cheek against his mop of curly hair. It’s a blissful comfort, a wordless promise that more than anything else makes him feel safe. Secure.

“So am I,” she whispers, a tear slipping down her cheek.

__

Notes: 

I have a headcanon that Rose took ages to reform after Pearl staged her "shattering," and in the midst of that Pearl had to go into hiding with her gem so the Crystal Gems didn't learn their secret. During that, I imagine she probably lost Rose's gem at least once, and almost had the Gem equivalent of a heart attack. Which is why she's flipping out so much about it happening again, with Steven.

I also hc that Steven doesn't actually upset Pearl too often, out of the three main CGs. When she does get especially upset though, she's the type to give the icy silent treatment.

[magpiefngrl]

Drarry Aus: Medieval

@annalimirlsblog asked: “...  First of all I want to tell you that I really like your stories and I hope I can help you. What do you think about medieval AU? There are so many possibilities...”

Thank you for your prompt! I was trying to figure out a premise, but then I thought of a Medieval D.A. :)) Hope you enjoy it! 

Many thanks to @theblowfishdiaries for the beta! ❤ ❤ 

The Rightful Heir      

(Mature, 3.2k) Here’s the start:

**

Harry gazed at the small crowd that had gathered at the back room of the Hog’s Head, separated by the main inn where the fire burned merrily and a drunken blacksmith had paid the bard to sing bawdy songs about naughty maidens and crafty stable boys. Lascivious lyrics, laughter and lute melodies drifted through the heavy door mingling with the solemn atmosphere in the stone-walled room where the people loyal to Harry sat in grim silence and waited.

With a nod from Hermione, Harry stood and addressed them. ‘I want to thank you for being here. Ever since the usurper, Queen Dolores, assassinated my uncle and took the throne from me, the rightful Heir, I’ve been hunted. Being seen with me is an offence punishable by imprisonment — or worse.’

Every face in his audience indicated they were aware they were risking their lives.

‘Her schemes, her laws, are destroying our land. The poor are getting poorer. The ill are left untreated. Taxes have been raised…’ ‘Harry continued, his voice rising, as everyone nodded or murmured in agreement. ‘I won’t stand by and watch as she ruins the kingdom. My kingdom.’

‘Here, here,’ Ron said, raising his tankard.

‘But how can we fight her?’ Seamus asked, pointing at the group. ‘She’s unstoppable. Her Inquisitorial Squad is everywhere. She has most of the knights at her disposal and you’ve only four; the rest of us here are palace staff, servants, carpenters and—’ No one mentioned his name, but he was there, insolently leaning against the stone wall.

‘And me,’ Draco drawled, examining his fingernails. ‘The Queen’s trusted advisor. It must make you quiver in your boots, doesn’t it, Finnigan?’

‘Yes, Harry — how can we trust a spoiled brat who’s—’

‘Stand down, Ronald, before you hurt yourself,’ Draco said with derision, but Harry interrupted. He knew their quarrels could escalate to the point where they reached for their swords. He also knew that Draco, although not better than Ron at duelling, was willing to cheat in order to win, which is why Harry ensured they never got to exchange blows.

‘Enough. If we start fighting amongst ourselves we’re doomed.’ He exchanged a pointed glance with Ron, who sat back in his chair. Harry addressed the others. ‘A lot of you don’t trust the son of Lord Malfoy because of his connection to the usurper. But I promise you, his offer to assist our endeavour is genuine.’ He turned and glanced directly at Draco. ‘And if he betrays us, I’ll kill him myself.’

The resolve in his words seemed to reassure everyone.

‘Seamus asked a good question,’ Harry said. ‘How can we fight back? There are two ways…’ He glanced at his two best friends, who both spoke at the same time:

‘Sword fighting!’ said Ron.

‘Reading,’ said Hermione, the palace’s librarian.

‘Both.’ Harry looked around. ‘Some of you need to learn to handle weapons; others need to learn to read and write. Knowledge is as important as fighting. The way we will arrange it is thus: I’ll take the sword fighting class. Draco will teach the rest of you reading.’

Groans.

‘Why not Hermione? She’s the scholar,’ Seamus protested.

‘I’m no good with weapons. And,’ she coughed, ‘Ron has promised to teach me how to use a sword.’

‘Yeah, he’ll show you how to hold his sword alright,’ Seamus murmured audibly and some people chuckled until Hermione glared at all of them, and the laughter trailed off.

‘We’ll meet in the woods near the Wolf’s Peak in three days’ time,’ Harry said, signalling the end of their meeting, when Ron’s sister interrupted them.

‘Do we have a name? Our group of fighters, the resistance — we need an identity.’

‘Ehm, OK? Any ideas?’

‘Harry Potter Rightful King to the Throne’s Fighting Group,’ Colin said.

‘That’s a mouthful,’ Seamus laughed.

‘That’s what she said,’ Ron piped and everyone laughed — even Draco struggled to keep a straight face.

‘Death to Dolores Faction?’ Dean offered.

‘It might be a good idea,’ Luna said from the back, ‘not to advertise what we’re doing. In case we ever need to talk about it in public.’

I’ve a cool one,’ Ernie said. ‘The Death Eaters.’

Ron snorted. ‘What‘ve you been reading?’

Ernie scowled but Harry agreed with Ron. ‘Too occult. Sounds like a group prancing around in masks, doing dark deeds in exchange for immortality.’  

Draco spoke then. ‘How about the Defiant Association?’

Everyone mulled over it, but no objections came. Harry said, ‘Perfect. We can call it D.A. for short.’

 *

As everyone took their leave and shut the door behind them, Harry rubbed his temples. ‘Do you think it’s madness?’

‘I do,’ Draco’s voice came from beside him, ‘but madness might be the only way out of this mess.’ He stroked Harry’s back, and Harry wrapped his arm around him and drew him close.

‘Thank you,’ he whispered. ‘Thank you for helping me.’

‘Of course,’ Draco said and kissed him. He brushed a lock of Harry’s hair back from his forehead and sighed. ‘Although I have to say it’s too revolutionary… teaching chambermaids and the gardener’s kid to read and write. Useless.’

‘Hermione insists,’ Harry said. He lowered his head to leave a trail of kisses on Draco’s neck. ‘We could’ve told them, you know. That we’re together.’

‘And have everyone doubt you because they assume your decision-making is guided by your dick? Bad idea. Besides, Ginevra harbours some affection for you, still.’

Harry sighed. ‘I told you it was before we met—’

‘You mean before you saw me relaxing in the baths and molested me?’

Harry smiled and gave Draco’s neck a gentle bite. ‘I seem to remember you enjoying it. Oh yes, Harry… faster, Harry…’

Draco poked him in mock indignation, and Harry laughed. He buried his face in Draco’s hair and inhaled his citrus-and-cedar scent. ‘We’d better leave. Separately.’

Draco kissed Harry. ‘See you in the forest in three days.’

**

The clearing at the Caves at the foot of Wolf’s Peak was the perfect location for their illicit activities. In a grove by the stream, Draco had sat down with those who needed to learn their letters: among others was Neville, the gardener’s son; Colin, Harry’s servant; Lavender, the chambermaid; and, to his distress, Seamus, who as a man-at-arms’ apprentice was well-versed in the art of holding a sword, but not in the art of holding a quill.

Harry had shown the rest of them the first basic rule of sword fighting, which was to parry an advance. He and Dean demonstrated types of advances and how to deflect them, and then the group split in twos or threes while Harry and his knights (Ernie, Dean, Ron, Susan) supervised and assisted.

An hour later, pleased with the progress of his students, Harry allowed himself a moment to gaze at Draco as he corrected Seamus’s wrong answer with ill-concealed glee. Draco’s hair shone in the slanting light, creating a halo around his head. He must have sensed Harry watching, because he turned and sent Harry a small smile; secret, just for the two of them.

Harry smiled back, holding his gaze for a moment before returning to the practice duels. Ron and Hermione stood at the edge of the clearing where Ron demonstrated a front guard — as always Hermione was the most advanced of the group — and she copied his movements in the precise, meticulous way she applied to everything. Next to them, Dean was showing one of the textile merchant’s daughters how to use her feet for balance, while her twin observed closely. Ginny, handy with a sword since she was young, dueled with Cho, the Ambassador’s daughter, and Cho fought back, her long hair tied in a high bun, her forehead gathering beads of sweat.

‘Take it easy, Ginny,’ Harry called. ‘Even wooden practice swords can cause damage.’

‘She can take it,’ Ginny smiled at Cho, her cheeks flushing as she spoke. ‘She’s a fast learner. But I’ll be careful.’

Cho beamed. ‘Do your worst, Ginevra.’

Ginny smiled wickedly and raised her sword. Harry left them to it and corrected Luna’s hold. ‘This isn’t a scalpel,’ he reminded her of her healer training. ‘Put some thrust in it.’

Harry watched Luna sparring with her partner, a wine merchant’s daughter if memory served, who seemed particularly reluctant to fight back. Harry switched them up with Ron and Hermione — ignoring Ron’s scowls — and had Luna partner with him, feeling Hermione would be a better match for this girl...  Marion? Morgana? His memory failed him. He’d ask Draco for her name later.

After two long hours, as dusk fell creating long shadows on the grass and the birds called the night in, it was time to leave. The women changed in the cave out of their fighting gear and into their normal dresses, and everyone left in twos or threes. Harry sat in the cave mouth with Ron and Hermione, discussing the first day’s training, while Draco disappeared down the back of the caves.

‘I can bring some more parchment tomorrow,’ Hermione said. ‘And books so they can practice reading at home. No one’s going to miss some of the old tomes.’ She glanced at the shadows in the cave behind them and lowered her voice. ‘Despite his personal shortcomings, I’m impressed that Draco taught them half the alphabet in one lesson.’

Ron snorted. ‘Difficult job.’

Harry ignored his taunt. ‘Intelligence says that Queen Dolores has got wind of our project. Do we know if anyone talked?’

Ron’s eyes widened. ‘Queen Dolores knows?’

‘Suspects,’ Harry corrected.

‘And you wonder who talked? Are you being stupid on purpose?’ Ron raised his voice. He pointed a finger at the back of the cave. ‘He could bring an army here to capture you and your “project”!’

‘He won’t. Draco won’t.’ Harry stood, indicating the conversation was over, but Ron wouldn’t let it go.

‘You’re playing with fire and endangering all of us by trusting him.’

‘Ron’s right,’ Hermione said. ‘If there’s a reason you trust him, we should know.’

Harry stared at the forest ahead. It’d gone dark now, emptying of colour but filling with sound. Bugs and critters chirped in the undergrowth and birds cawed to one another. ‘I can’t tell you yet. But he’s the one who brought me the news that Queen Dolores is aware that something is brewing. Draco spies for us.’

Ron didn’t seem convinced. ‘If he’s playing you, Harry, we’ll all end up dead.’ Hermione tugged him away and they disappeared through the trees.

‘They’ll never trust me, you know,’ a silky voice said behind Harry. Two arms circled Harry’s waist and Harry felt Draco’s breath on his cheek as he tugged Harry close. ‘They’ll always suspect.’ He kissed Harry’s neck and whispered in his ear, ‘Come. I found something.’

Draco took Harry’s hand, a torch in the other, and led him to the back. The narrow cave led to what seemed like a dead end, but Draco slid inside an opening that barely fit one person. If Harry hadn’t seen Draco slip inside the crack in the wall, he’d have no idea a passage existed behind it.

Ten steps later, the narrow passage opened to a cathedral-tall cave. ‘It’s dry,’ Draco said, ‘and airy. Hard to find. We can store things: weapons, dry food, clothing. There might come a time when the Queen discovers who the renegades are. We need a hideout.’

The torch light played on Draco’s face, illuminating his cheekbones and the soft curve of his mouth. Harry’s longing for Draco sometimes made it hard to breathe, a fist squeezing his lungs. He kissed him, letting his mouth linger on Draco’s as he spoke. ‘You think of everything. But let’s not share it with anyone else yet — not until we figure out who spoke to her.’

Draco placed the torch down, cupped Harry’s face and kissed him. He rubbed his hardening cock against Harry’s thigh in slow, circular movements, spreading wildfire through Harry’s veins. ‘For now the cave can be used for different purposes,’ Draco murmured.

Harry smiled and threw his cloak on the ground as a blanket before pulling Draco on it. He slipped a hand inside Draco’s breeches, palming his hot pulsing cock. ‘What different purposes?’

Draco grinned and proceeded to show him in excruciating detail.

Read More on AO3 Deleted! My apologies!

**

Mermaid AU

Dare Dating (8th year)

Pirate AU

Durmstrang!Harry and Beauxbatons!Draco AU

Royalty/Arranged Marriage AU

Musicians AU

Fae AU

Adventure AU

Firefly/Space AU

Magical Flower Shop AU (canon universe)

Buy me a kofi

AU Series on AO3

[gaypasta]

Do You Want Fries With That?

Chapter 4/?  Read on Ao3 Previous Chapter | First Chapter

Stan checked the red illuminated numbers of his watch, the bright LED lights hurt his tired eyes. 

[01:40].

Stan groaned as he shifted slightly in Richie’s bed, trying not to wake the sleeping figure next to him - who was currently splayed out like a starfish, forcing Stan to grapple onto the edge of the bed before he was pushed into the mountain of dirty clothes and comic books which was Richie Tozier’s bedroom floor. Stan couldn’t sleep. Normally he was asleep in his pristine white bed by ten o’clock, but not tonight, because tonight he wasn’t sleeping in his familiar abode - he was bunking with a hoarder.

Stan was exhausted - the soft glow of the stars peering through Richie’s half-closed curtains were burning his eyes, feeling as though the moon is mocking him for the restless night. Stan had never had difficulty sleeping with one of the Loser’s before. Eddie’s room was always fairly clean anyway but Bill always spent the day before hosting a sleepover cleaning the house if he knew Stan was attending. Stan wasn’t as bad anymore, he takes his medication and he can deal with small things like Bill’s posters being slightly lopsided, or Eddie’s pill bottles being arranged alphabetically instead of by size, or even the way Richie’s glasses were never quite sitting on his face right. Stan suspected he had sat on them and never bothered to get them fixed.

But this situation, even with the medication - was driving Stan crazy. He was itching to clean Richie’s room just so he could sleep. Stan tried to take his eyes off the glass of soda Richie had left teetering on the edge of the desk, or the open closet door, which showed clothes thrown in, with no hangers and Stan thinks he can make an outline of a shoe sitting on top of all Richie’s clothes. Stan could feel his hands were beginning to fidget, picking at the pair of ugly Christmas pyjamas Richie had given him to sleep in.

No, he’s fine. Stan is fine. He just needs to wash his face and he’ll be fine to go back to bed. He just needs a minute out of this… hellhole.

Stan lifted the duvet off his body tenderly, trying to keep it as motionless as possible to avoid waking Richie - the duvet which didn’t have a cover - and he stepped onto the floor. Well, onto a notebook which had been permanently crinkled beyond usability. Stan tried to navigate Richie’s horde of junk - not junk, Stan knew that some of this stuff was probably of great importance to Richie, which is why he was being so delicate with his footwork - only to step on an upturned plug from Richie’s stupid fucking lava lamp, which didn’t even fucking work. Stan made an agonized noise in the back of his throat as he rubbed the sole of his foot. He hobbled out of Richie’s room and into the bathroom to wash his face.

Stan pulled on the shaving light to examine his face in the mirror. His eyes were already beginning to form bags and he had a pimple developing under his lip - the joys of puberty. Stan splashed the arctic cold water onto his face, the shock of the cold water lifted his mind from Richie’s room for a moment, and he felt cleaner. Stan rubbed his face dry with his shirt and went to switch off the light before he noticed something in the corner of his eye.

Reflected in the mirror, was a framed photo of Richie from when he was probably around six. Stan turned around and picked it off the shelf, bring it towards the light to get a better look. Richie looked much the same - a pair of buck teeth, glasses and a mess of black hair, Stan felt warm. He remembered this day, this was the first day where him, Bill, Richie and Eddie were all in the same class. Stan wonders what would’ve happened if one of them had been in the other class, what if Stan was put in the other class and never met his friends? Stan decided to focus back to the picture. Richie was sitting beside a thin, pale boy with such rounded cheeks that he looked almost like he was having an allergy attack. The boy reminded Stan of Georgie, they looked almost identical. Almost as if they were … brothers. Stan closed his eyes and took a patient breath, it’s Bill. Of course it’s Bill - who else would it be?!  Bill’s arms were wrapped tightly around Richie’s neck, and Richie’s head was leaning against the mop of Bill’s hair. Stan snorted, such children. Stan, even at such a young age wouldn’t have taken such a photo, he would’ve stood up straight with a modest smile - nowadays wasn't much different, but his smile wasn’t painted anymore.

Stan traces the edge of the frame softly with his finger as he tries to recount how many photos exist of just him and Richie. He puts the photo back where it was. He couldn’t think of any. He made his way back to the room, feeling slightly calmed.

Stan watched the floor with concentration as he avoided stepping on any other rogue items, he hastily stepped over a pair of Richie’s tighty-whities. Stan’s hands ghosted over the duvet to find the corner - only to trace into a cloud of tangled hair. For some reason, Stan’s hand stopped in its place, maybe because he hadn’t been this close to his lifelong friend in years, or maybe it was because it felt exactly how Stan imagined - coarse, thick and most definitely unbrushed. Or maybe it was because a pair of half-lidded eyes were staring back at him. Yes, that was probably it.

“Stanley?” Richie’s voice was deep and gravelly. Stan almost had to look around him to make sure that the voice had, in fact, been Richie’s. “What’s wrong?” Richie had begun to move back over to his own side of the bed. Stan’s hand fell to the mattress.

“Nothing, Richie. I just went to the bathroom.”

“If you wanted to jerk off-” Richie yawned “you could’ve just woken me up.”

Stan huffed a laugh. “Why? Just to watch?”

“Never seen a jew dick before. Wonder what it looks like without all that foreskin.”

Stan shoved Richie farther over the bed and softly got under the blankets. Richie’s socked foot was softly kicking against Stan’s as Richie closed his eyes. Stan’s eyes were fixated on Richie’s hair. It needs to be brushed so badly that it hurts.

Stan laid on his back for what felt like hours, with Richie breathing practically into his armpit, but the red glowing lights on his watch told him that it had only been eight minutes. The only sound in the room was Richie’s heavy breathing, he was a mouth breather - Stan recalled with contempt - and the soft buzzing of Richie’s digital alarm clock on his bedside locker. The buzzing was loud and the moon was far too bright.

Richie shifted in his sleep, turning more to lie on his stomach, Richie’s arm moved and found a place over Stan’s abdomen. Richie’s fingers were twitching beside his nipple. That wasn’t bothering Stan, what was bothering Stan was that he could feel Richie’s mane of hair against his arm. His unkempt, unbrushed, peninsula of hair. Stan’s disorder hasn’t been this bad in years, but Richie hadn’t expected Stan to stay over, so Stan can’t fault Richie for the state of his room. Stan could hear the kitchen clock ticking like a countdown. The light from the moon twisted around Richie’s floor, showing off all of the socks and candy wrappers and crumpled up pages of homework, presenting them to Stan like a cat showing off its kill.

Richie rubbed his head against Stan’s tensed arm and Stan has had it. Stan jerked his arm away and resumed his earlier position of teetering off the edge of the bed in an attempt to get as far away from Richie as he could. The sharp motion of Stan moving away must’ve stirred Richie from his attempt to fall back asleep as Richie groaned.

“What’s wrong? Go to sleep.” Richie grumbled from the pillow.

It would be so easy, just press his head into the pillow. Stan’s stronger than Richie, he could keep him there, hold him down until he passes out. Richie has no idea how infuriating his hair is. How offensive it is. Stan could feel the straw-like texture all over his body. The knots of Richie’s hair wrapped around his Adam’s apple and threatened to squeeze. Stan couldn’t get it off.

“Your hair, Richie.”

Richie turned to look up at Stan. “My hair.”

“Yes, Richie. Your fucking hair!” Stan sat up straight in the bed, hands clenched. “Your hair is so messy and you obviously haven’t brushed it in ages. Years probably. Do you even use conditioner?! No, of course you don’t I’d be shocked if you even used shampoo. Your hair is so coarse with knots and I can feel them on me, rubbing up against my neck and my arms and my legs and your room is so fucking messy and your lava lamp-”  Stan began finding it very difficult to get oxygen into his lungs, he was breathing shallow breaths and he could feel perspiration beading in his armpits.

“Oh - oh fuck, okay Stan, it’s ok.” Richie kicked the blankets off his legs as soon as he noticed Stan’s voice begin to break in a close encounter with hysteria. He pushed the blankets off Stan too, letting the cool air soothe him.

“-and your homework, it’s everywhere and I can’t see the floor and there’s - a shoe, Richie there’s a shoe in your closet, on the clothes. That’s not where it goes and the tacks in your posters are all red except the bottom right one on Freddy Krueger it’s green, it’s green, green isn’t your favourite colour yours is red, but your walls are blue and it doesn’t match your carpet but I can’t see your carpet because your room is too fucking messy.”

Stan could feel his heart racing and he couldn’t breathe, the knots of Richie’s hair were squeezing his lungs now and constricting his chest. The moonlight pierced his eyes like daggers and Richie’s hands rubbing circles on his back felt so soft, so distant that it might’ve been a dream.

“Okay, Stan come on. Move, we’re going, you’re fine I promise.” Stan could feel Richie grabbing his forearms and pulling him off the bed. Stan wasn’t sure what was happening, all he could focus on was his lungs. His other senses were a distant memory. He wonders if this is how Eddie feels every time he has an asthma or an anxiety attack, does he spiral into this dream world too? Richie’s hands were like fire on Stan’s icy arms and it burned. Where is Richie going? Is he leaving? No, of course he’s not. He’s holding onto the clammy forearm and dragging Stan out of the room. No, we’re not in the room, we’re in the hallway. Stan didn’t remember Richie leading him down the stairs. Stan faintly heard the grandfather clock in the living room chime, it echoed around his head like the beat of a drum. Stan could feel Richie’s hair squeezing his face, suffocating him even more. Stan tried to get it off, clawing at his face with his perfectly manicured nails.

“Stan! Stan stop it! Please, don’t you’re going to hurt yourself.” Richie had grabbed Stan’s hands and held them tight. Stan’s hands were in Richie’s hands. There was no hair on his face it had faded from existence when Richie’s voiced had pierced into it. “Hey, you’re fine, Stan. You’re fine. You’re in the living room it’s ok.” Richie gently pushed Stan into a sitting position on the sofa.

Stan tried to focus his eyes onto Richie, who was crouched on the floor in front of him, but he couldn’t move them. There was a stain on the coffee table. It was glaring at him, threatening him. “The coffee… the table. Richie it’s got a stain, you need - you need- a cloth. No… I don’t know what gets out…stains on varnished…wood.” Stan didn’t speak. Or at least it didn’t feel like he did. He heard the words on the inside of his ear, but he didn’t feel them leave his throat.

Richie took off his shirt and folded it as neatly and as quickly as he could over the stain, Stan’s eyes slowly met his. Richie’s glasses weren’t wonky. Richie’s hair was… gone? No, not gone, Richie was wearing a hat. It looked like one of Bill’s baseball team caps.  

“Yeah, see. No hair, okay? Now you need to breathe, Stan. You know how to do the exercise, the one you make Eddie do?” Stan nodded. He remembers.

“Okay, that’s good. You’re going to do that, okay?”

Stan did it. He breathed. Richie was rubbing circles into Stan’s thighs with his thumbs. It was warm, it didn’t burn.

Stan breathed for several moments as his lungs slowly filled with oxygen, and he slowly tip-toed back into lucidity. (The red LED lights on Stan’s watch had said that it had been twelve minutes).

“Okay, you’re okay Stan. You good?” Richie moved his head to catch Stan’s eyes, which were flickering around the room to take in his surroundings. Stan’s eyes stood to a halt when he saw Richie, crouched in front of him with hands gently rubbing his thighs. He just nodded, he wasn’t sure he could trust his voice. “Do you want me to bring you home?” Richie’s voice was soft, Stan didn’t like it. He shook his head. “Okay, do you want me to make the bed in the spare room?” Stan shook his head again.

Richie sighed and took Stan’s wrists into the palm of his hands. “What do you need me to do? I’m not good at this shit, Stan. I need you to tell me what you need.”

Stan stared blankly at Richie for several moments. The words escaped his mouth without permission. “Brush your hair, please.”

Stan’s voice was so brittle that Richie had almost missed it, but he didn’t. Just because his sight is gone to shit doesn’t mean his hearing is. He nodded and patted the pad of his pointer finger softly against Stan’s hand. “Okay.”

He left Stan. Stan was exhausted now, but mostly he was embarrassed. He hadn’t had an attack like that in years, he had almost ruled out the possibility of having one ever again. He was such a nuisance, Richie had invited him over to help and he just ended up causing a scene over what? His hair? Stan put his head in his hands and groaned. He felt like he was eight all over again, crying and sobbing over his peas touching his carrots. The tone Richie had used, he was so soft and gentle, as if Stan would just shatter under his tongue, and Stan loathed it. He wasn’t fragile or weak, he had been brought up for so long being treated like a porcelain doll by his family, he didn’t need his friends treating him like that too.

Stan always appreciated Richie for that reason, he never went easy on Stan. When Stan was struggling with his faith, Richie went even harder with the ‘jew-jokes’. When Stan had failed his first ever class (physics), Richie poked and prodded at his intellect with jokes. Stan had told him to fuck off the majority of the time, but the contrast Richie gave to everyone else’s reaction was like nicotine. Stan needed Richie’s bite when everyone else was cooing him. Richie always took it too far, and sure - sometimes it annoyed Stan, and sometimes Richie’s jokes actually hurt people’s feelings. But Stan appreciated that Richie wasn’t worried about treating people softly. He wasn’t afraid of crossing boundaries, he tackled boundaries to the ground and spat in its mouth.

Stan heard the soft padded footsteps of Richie coming down the hall, and not shortly after did Richie appear in front of him with -  holy hell. “Is that better?” Richie asked, modelling his hair.

Stan, uncharacteristically - burst out laughing. He laughed so hard his sides ached and his throat was raw. Richie stood, not knowing whether to be deeply concerned because his friend may have just lost his mind, or to be overjoyed that Stan is laughing at something he’s done. Richie’s contradicting emotions were plastered on his face and that only made Stan laugh harder. “You - you look like you stuck your f-finger in a fucking electrical socket.”

Stan was entirely correct, Richie’s hair had gone frizzy after it had been brushed, it stuck out in hundreds of directions, it looked as though his hair was trying to get as far away from Richie as it possibly could while still being attached.

Richie tilted his head at him. “Isn’t that what you’re meant to do?”

Stan’s laughter broke into sharp broken squeals as his vocal cords began to fail. Richie laughed with him, but not nearly as much.

It took a few moments for Stan to settle down, he was red-faced and had a dopey smile on his face that he couldn’t wipe off. Richie sat beside him, their shoulders brushing against each other anytime they fidgeted.

Richie turned his head to look at Stan, and the movement caught Stan’s eyes. Stan didn’t like the sad look on Richie’s face. He knew that this was going to be a thing. It didn’t need to be a thing. It’s happened before, it just so happened that it happened again.

“Stan, what were you thinking about?” Richie bit his lip, not just bit. Gnawed, like biting through his lip would make this conversation less painful.

Stan sat back into the sofa. Richie had shared his dirty laundry with him, so it’s only fair. “I just- your hair was so messy, Richie. I was tired and it was just too much-”

“No not that.” Richie waved his hand dismissively.

“Then what?”

“What were you thinking of when you jerked off earlier?”

Stan rolled his eyes, but a smile painted his entire face. “Thought about drowning you, watching the life leave your eyes.”

A smile danced dangerously across Richie’s lips. “Wow, didn’t take you as the kinky kind, Stan. Want to cut off my head and fuck my corpse?”

Stan got off the sofa. “I’m sleeping outside. Bye Richie.” He waved as he left the living room, making a motion for the front door, waiting for Richie’s reaction. He didn’t get one he was expecting.

Richie grabbed Stan’s arm and pulled him into a hug. It was painful as Richie had twisted his arm in the process, but it was tight. Richie held onto Stan’s form so tight, Stan wondered if Richie thought he would try to wriggle out. He didn’t. He let Richie hold him, and he ran his fingers through Richie’s combed hair.

“What is it, Richie?” Stan spoke softly.

Richie’s head moved into Stan’s hands. “I haven’t seen that happen in so long, it freaked me out. I thought you were gonna explode or something.”

“I don’t think I would explode.”

“I thought you would, all because you can’t handle a bit of dirty underwear, you queer.”

Stan slapped Richie’s head. “You’re not one to be calling people queer, Richard.”

Richie moved his mouth beside Stan’s ear. Stan’s entire body shuddered as he could feel Richie’s breath coast his earlobe. “Call me Richard again and see what happens, tiger.” Then Richie licked Stan’s entire ear and Stan pushed him off.

“You’re disgusting.” He used his pyjama shirt to clean his ear of Richie’s saliva. “I’m going to sleep, you better put a shirt on before coming to bed.”

“Why, can’t handle all of this?” Richie flexed. Nothing else flexed with him.

“I think Georgie has more muscles than you.”  Richie huffed and retreated to the living room to get his t-shirt. Stan made his way back into Richie’s bedroom. Stan noticed that there was less junk on the floor that there was earlier.

Stan crawled into bed and shortly after he felt Richie flop ungracefully beside him. They both sat in silence to get some well-needed rest before work. Out of the corner of Stan’s eye, just before his heavy eyelids fell shut for the night, he noticed all the tacks on the Freddy Krueger poster were red.

Stan and Richie were fast asleep when Richie wrapped his arm around Stan’s waist, and Stan wriggled closer.

[topsyturvyturners-blog]

Turnadette Family Fanfiction - The Alphabetical Turners

J is for Julienne!

Ever since Shelagh had arrived at Nonnatus House on her first day as a postulant on July 1st 1948 she had seen Sister Julienne as more of a motherly figure than that of a superior one, considering the Sister had taken her immediately under her wing and made sure that she felt safe and content with the other residents of the house. It hadn't taken Shelagh and Sister Julienne long to build a strong bond with one another, the two of them confiding in and comforting one another as a mother and daughter would. That was why nobody, aside from Nurse Crane, was shocked when Shelagh had asked Sister Julienne to be her midwife when the time came for her baby to arrive. Sister Julienne knew more about Shelagh than anybody else ever could, aside from Patrick, perhaps, which was why Shelagh felt so safe and secure as she was held protectively in the arms of the woman that used to be one of her fellow Sisters. 'That's it, Shelagh, breathe your way through it.' Sister Julienne's voice was warm and comforting as she held her waist in her hands, Shelagh bracing herself upon her shoulders as she breathed deeply through the agonizing contraction that felt as though it was tearing her insides open. 'You're doing brilliantly, good girl.'

Shelagh's warm brown hair was clinging to the perimeters of her face where the sweat was beading upon her skin as she trembled through the agony, her eyes tightly closed as she sucked softly on her lower lip and her nails dug into Sister Julienne's shoulders. She wasn't scared, of course, because she knew exactly what her body was trying to tell her through the pain, knowing that it wouldn't be long until she'd be a Mummy and would be able to cradle her baby in her arms. The thought of being able to kiss her newborn's tiny face and hands was her motivation to keep pressing on. 'I can't believe I used to dream of this!' She groaned as she fell against Sister Julienne's shoulder and the elder woman rubbed her spine soothingly as she nuzzled into her hair, Shelagh feeling her warm breath against her skin as she sighed. 'It's like a nightmare!' The ache of the contraction soon began to wear off as she nuzzled into the side of Sister Julienne's neck and felt her begin to stroke her hair soothingly, her eyes fluttering closed as she felt the sister begin to sway slowly with her in her arms. 'I always dreamed I'd have my mother beside me if I were to have a child.' She admitted. 'Having her rub my back and tell me that things were okay.'

Sister Julienne remained quiet for a moment as she felt Shelagh snuggle further against her and she tightened her arms around her waist as she pressed her cheek to the sweaty skin of her forehead. 'You do have a mother beside you.' She spoke softly into her ear as she stroked her cheek warmly and a small smile formed upon her lips, her thumb brushing against the soft skin that rested below her thumb. 'Ever since you arrived as a postulant all those years ago, I knew that there was something different about you. I felt more of an urge to keep you safe than I did with the other postulants and you always had such a sunny disposition that it was impossible for anyone not to love you.' Shelagh giggled sleepily as she cuddled further against the Sister and smiled when she felt her nuzzle the tip of her nose against the soft skin of her hairline. 'When you told me that you were leaving to marry Doctor Turner, I was selfish towards you and I know it hurt you when I became distant, and for that I am so sorry. I shouldn't have had such a selfish attitude; it was just because I felt as though I was losing you. I was losing one of the most important people in my life.' Shelagh pulled away slowly from her shoulder, then, furrowing her brow.

A pain traveled up the length of her spine and she whimpered softly as her eyes fell closed, her breath slow and controlled until the deep throbbing passed by. 'You could never lose me, Sister, not after you'd gone to so much trouble to shape me into the woman I am today. Choosing between the religious life and my desire to marry Patrick was the hardest decision I had ever made, because I loved being a Sister and I loved the family that I was a part of. My love for Patrick proved to be stronger than my desire to remain a Sister, though, and I knew that I couldn't fight the feelings that I was experiencing toward him any longer. I never intended to hurt you or anybody else by leaving, and I was in the wrong for avoiding you and the Sisters for so long after I and Patrick became engaged, so I feel like I should apologize to you.' Sister Julienne tucked a strand of sweat-soaked hair back behind Shelagh's ear, hearing the laboured breathing coming from her as she continued on. 'It was wrong of me to be that way, and I'm sorry.' Shelagh's hold tightened upon her shoulders as another contraction began to build up, her legs almost giving way below her from the intensity of the pain as she gasped gently. 'I'll be glad when this is over.'

'You're doing better than you think you are.' Sister Julienne sighed as she reached for the gas and air when Shelagh cried out gently and she held it over her nose and mouth, protectively cradling the back of her head as she encouraged her to take deep and slow breaths as she groaned loudly into the mask. 'I think it'll be time for you to push soon, so as soon as this pain's over I'll give you a dose of pethidine so that we can get you settled on the bed. If your waters haven't broken by then, I'll have to do it myself.' Shelagh nodded through deep and long groans of discomfort as she continued to take in the gas, a soft whimper escaping her as she leaned into the comfort of Sister Julienne's chest. 'That's a good girl, use all of the contraction.' The Sister praised as Shelagh finally let out a loud groan and rested her forehead upon her shoulder, her nails biting into the warm skin at the back of Sister Julienne's hand as she continued to hold it. 'There we go.' Julienne soothed as she brought Shelagh's head to lay upon her shoulder, Shelagh keeping hold of the mask as she breathed with it and allowed her eyes to flutter closed as she settled into Sister Julienne's warmth. 'We're getting there now, Shelagh, I promise.' She soothed softly.

It was a short time later when Shelagh was settled against the pillows of her bed and Sister Julienne was sat in front of her after she had managed to break her waters, the newspaper now in the waste paper bin beside her vanity as the contractions came much closer together. 'I want Patrick.' Shelagh whimpered as her head fell back against the pillows after another long contraction had come and gone, the tears falling quickly down her cheeks as her chest rose and fell heavily. 'I need him to hold my hand, Sister, please.' The pain and fear was clear in Shelagh's eyes when Sister Julienne looked into them with a kind smile, the elder woman standing from the bed in order to make her way over to the door and allow Patrick to enter with a tender smile towards the woman that had completely stolen his heart. Shelagh burst into tears as he got onto the bed beside her and pulled her to his chest for a cuddle, her face burying into his shirt as she sobbed through the discomfort. 'I'm sorry.' She whimpered. 'I tried.'

'Don't you dare apologize to me.' He growled gently into her ear as he held her close and Sister Julienne sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, Shelagh trembling in his arms as he left warm kisses across her cheeks and over her face. 'You have been so brave all afternoon, and I'm here now. You can do this, my darling, I promise.' She nodded shakily as she pulled away from his chest and gripped the warm fabric of his shirt in her hand, his hand settled upon her hip. 'Do you have any idea how much I want to kiss you, right now?' His voice was rough and gentle so that only Shelagh would be able to hear him. 'How much I want to brush my fingers through your hair as I press my lips to yours?' She gasped softly as she pressed her forehead into his chest, allowing him to bring her gaze back up to his with a sigh. 'Come here, beautiful.' He drew her close by the chin until he was able to take her lower lip into his mouth and kiss her warmly, not even caring that Sister Julienne was sat on the end of the bed, her hand resting upon his torso through his shirt as they kissed slowly and he ran his hand along the curve of her back. 'Are you ready now?' Shelagh nodded before sitting up and allowing him to settle behind her.

'Alright.' Sister Julienne smiled as she carefully moved Shelagh into the position that she required. 'Let's have this baby.'

She couldn't stop her own tears from falling down her cheeks as she watched Shelagh cradle her son close to her chest later that evening, the young woman sobbing gently as her husband nuzzled into her hair with a beaming smile upon his lips. Sister Julienne knew how deeply Shelagh had longed for a baby of her own since leaving the order to become Patrick's wife, and she had prayed for a miracle for the two of them every evening, her heart swelling with love for Shelagh when she had announced that she was expecting a baby after she had returned from South Africa. She felt extremely honoured that she had been the one to deliver Edward Patrick Turner that evening, knowing that Shelagh was going to make an incredible mother with all of the love inside her, and she knew that she'd never adored Shelagh more than she did in that moment. Seeing her sob with happiness as her husband held she and their son in his arms, made Sister Julienne's emotions run wild. She had never seen her so joyful and happy.

Shelagh drew her eyes away from her son a few moments later and gazed over at the elder woman with tears sparkling in her gentle blue irises, a tearful smile upon her lips. 'Thank you.' She whispered as she felt Patrick nuzzle his face against her neck, Edward grizzling softly in her arms from the cold before she covered him slightly further with the soft blanket he was wrapped up in. 'I wouldn't have gotten through all of that without you by my side, and I'll never be able to thank you enough for being so patient with me.' Sister Julienne reached out to stroke Shelagh's cheek lovingly, smiling when she nuzzled into her palm. Shelagh turned to her husband with a small smile upon her lips a few moments later, Patrick nodding silently with a kiss to her warm temple. 'We were wondering...' Shelagh began while she settled back against her husband's chest, her gaze meeting with that of Sister Julienne's once again. 'Hoping,' She giggled sweetly. 'That you would do us the honour of being Godmother to Edward, Sister.'

Sister Julienne's mouth almost fell open as she processed Shelagh's words.

'You've always been like a mother to me, and Patrick and I couldn't imagine having another woman as Godmother to Edward.' Shelagh admitted as she stroked her thumb against the warm skin of his arm.

'What...' Sister Julienne began as her heart pounded slightly. 'What about Granny Parker?'

'She's already Angela's Godmother, Sister, and we wanted to do something to show you how thankful we are for all the help you've provided us with.' Patrick smiled as he stroked Shelagh's hair soothingly.

'Please, Sister?' Shelagh smiled. 'It would mean the world to us.'

'If you really mean it, then of course I will.' Sister Julienne's voice was choked with tears. 'It would be an honour.'

And oh, what an honour it was.

Author's Note: Thank you all for being so patient whilst I went through writer's block, and thank you all for reading this chapter! It may not be the best, but at least it's now complete! I would be so grateful if you would leave me a review and tell me what you thought! Next Chapter: K is for Kiss! (Pure Turnadette fluffiness to come!)

[fortheloveofpearlet]

Shea phoning a phone sex line, hearing Sasha's voice, and falling for Sasha instantly! 😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍 (PS I can't ship Shea and Sasha without including Sasha's amazing voice!!!))

Leanne I think you’ve hit your prompt limit now 😂 obvs I’m kidding, send me as many as you like (preferably more of these Sashea prompts cos I am LIVING for them!)

Send me sentence prompts and drag race pairings and I’ll write you a little drabble!

Jaren was lonely. There was no way two ways about it. He’d been single for several months now after his ex had cheated on him and shattered his heart into a million pieces. He’d been out a few times trying to hook up but he didn’t seem to get the attention he used to. He swore to god the whole time he was with his ex men were hanging off him; he practically had them queuing out the door. But since the break up he’d had no attention what so ever. And as a result, he was lonely.

His friends had told him to try online dating which he had and it had gone horribly. He seemed to only attract trade, all men so painfully far in the closet they may as well have been in Narnia and Jaren wasn’t here for that. Then his friends told him to get a hooker, jokingly at first but over time they became more adamant about him getting laid. Of course he hadn’t stooped that low, but he was getting desperate.

One of his friends told him about this sex line he’d used. You called up and a guy would talk dirty to you or whatever you were into while you got your rocks off. Jaren wanted someone to physically touch him though. But he supposed being that there was a lack of options, he’d try it. If anything it would be a slightly more creative way for him to masturbate, because even that was becoming stale these days.

His hand was shaking a little as he dialled the number on the card his friend gave him. It rang a few times before someone answered and Jaren found himself holding his breath.‘Hi, you’re through to C.L.A.T. You’re speaking with Sasha.’ The voice floated down the phone as if on a cloud. Jaren’s mouth went dry and he felt his heart skip several beats. He had never heard a voice quite like that before. It was deep and it melted in his ears like chocolate. It also sent vibrations through his body, making his dick already start to harden.'Uhm…hi.’ Jaren croaked, he had no idea how this worked.'What’s your name?’ Sasha breathed down the phone, a smirk in his voice. He has the most mesmerising voice I’ve ever heard in my entire life.'Jaren.’ He croaked again. He wanted to fuck Sasha’s voice, was that weird? He didn’t even need this guy to talk dirty to him, he thought he’d probably be able to come listening to Sasha recite the alphabet.'Hmmm sexy.’ Sasha hummed. 'I bet you’re real sexy Jaren, you sound sexy.’The way Sasha said his name made his head spin. His cock was rock hard and he freed it from his pants.'I sound sexy? Damn can you hear yourself?’ He wrapped his hand around his shaft. Sasha chuckled and my god Jaren had never heard a better sound in his entire life. He swore it vibrated down the phone right to his dick.'Well it does kind of help in my line of business.’ Sasha was still chuckling. 'So Jaren, what do you like?’'Like?’ Jaren started stroking himself. 'You. I like you. Just talk to me. Please talk to me forever.’ He was moaning a little as spoke. Sasha chuckled again and Jaren really didn’t think he was going to be able to last long if he kept that up. He took the phone away from his ear and put it on speaker.'You’re already touching yourself aren’t you?’ Sasha’s voice had a hint of a smirk to it. It made Jaren harder.'Uh…yeah.’ He couldn’t lie.'I like that.’ Sasha spoke. 'Close your eyes Jaren, picture me there talking in your ear while you touch yourself.’Jaren closed his eyes and pictured a mysterious figure at his side whispering in his ear. He imagined the person sliding their hand down his torso and into his pants. He felt a bead of pre-come on his hand.'I wish you were here. I want you to fuck me.’ Jaren panted.'Just close your eyes and imagine it. Imagine my hands running over your body, my tongue licking your tight hole. Picture my hard dick slamming into you.’ Sasha spoke in hushed tones and it was so incredibly powerful. Jaren didn’t even need to know what he looked like. The idea of this stranger and his oh so magnificent voice fucking him was making him light headed.'Make me come.’ Jaren panted again.'Oh I intend to.’ The smirk was back in Sasha’s voice. 'Are you picturing me there Jaren? Can you feel my breath on your neck? Can you feel my dick pounding into you again and again? Can you feel my hand snaking around your waist and taking hold of your dick and pumping you? Are you close Jaren? I want you to come for me.’ Sasha’s voice was just too much. Jaren moaned loudly and then he came all over his hand and t-shirt.'Holy fucking shit.’ He panted. With his clean hand he picked the phone back up, took it off speaker and and put it to his ear. 'Thats embarrassing. I don’t usually come so quick.’ He felt himself blushing. Sasha chuckled again and Jaren was sure he could get hard again.'I have that effect on people.’ He told Jaren.'I need to speak to you again.’There was silence on the end of the phone for a second and Jaren was worried Sasha had hung up. Then he spoke.'I’m not supposed to do this but I have an extension. If you dial 348 at the end of the number it comes straight through to me.’ His voice was quiet as though he didn’t want anyone to hear. Jaren guessed he was breaking all kinds of rules.'Thank you.’ Jaren smiled to himself.'I’ll talk to you real soon sexy.’ Sasha blew him a kiss down the phone and then the line went dead.

Jaren called Sasha everyday for the next few weeks. At first it was all about Sasha’s voice getting him off but Jaren soon wanted more. He was falling for that deep, melodic voice and it was killing him not to be able to touch him or have Sasha touch him for real.

One night he asked the one question he knew he shouldn’t ask. It came out before he’d meant it to.'Sasha?’'Yes Jaren?’'I know this is probably all kinds of wrong but can I meet you?’ He’d expected to be hung up on or at the very least have Sasha laugh at him and tell him where to go. But to his surprise nothing like that happened.'Yes.’ Sasha breathed. 'I thought you’d never ask.’

Two days later Jaren nervously paced his living room as he waited for Sasha to show up. He has absolutely no idea what to expect and he had no idea what Sasha’s reaction would be when he saw Jaren. What if he doesn’t like what he sees? What if he just turns and walks away? He didn’t have a lot of time for thoughts like this as suddenly there was a knock on the door. Jaren took a few deep breaths before he opened it with a shaky hand. Staring back a him was a tall, slim bald man with large eyes hidden under thick rimmed glasses. Jaren bit his lip.'Sasha?’'Yeah it’s me.’ Sasha smiled and Jaren would know that voice anywhere.'Wow.’ Jaren breathed and then they fell into each other’s arms. It was hard to say who moved in for the kiss first as lips just suddenly meshed together in the most passionate kiss either of them had ever had. Jaren pulled him into the apartment and Sasha kicked the door shut.'I need you so badly.’ Jaren panted.'Oh god, you have no idea.’ Sasha smirked at him, the smirk Jaren had heard in his voice on the phone so many times before. As Sasha led him to the couch Jaren couldn’t believe this was happening. He’d fallen in love with Sasha’s voice on the other end of the phone and now here he was, in his apartment kissing him. And nothing had ever felt so right.