#like yes yes yes he spills with loyalty and love and yearning

[kaurwreck]

please always take every opportunity to wax poetic about chuuya and bsd natal charts to me; especially since you're validating all of my headcanons.

in an attempt to reciprocate, a song from my chuuya playlist (no lyrics— too much of the intimacy and intensity are lost when separated from the music and performance):

for the ask game! chuuya is very popular among both men and women in the port mafia and could easily use it for personal gain, just chooses not to, because that's boring. but his colleagues are aware. they jokingly ask him to seduce the enemy sometimes. he's constantly getting love letters and everything. i am crazy about his aries venus trine north node, everyone around him thinks he's so hot.

okay ADORE this and also I have the same headcanon except rather than Chuuya not using it intentionally, I've decided he's just not. Wholly aware of his effect on people. He's been told before, he's just incredulous.

In honor of the immaculate vibes, the song I've chosen from my port mafia playlist is—

[ask game: send me a port mafia headcanon and I'll reply with a song from my port mafia playlist!]

[yuff7e]

Hii !!

Could you please write lady muzan with a his s/o male uppermoon reader that loves his boobies ?

𝐌𝐘 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑, 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐂𝐀𝐍’𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐌𝐘 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐒, 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔?

����𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

hello anon, i love this request .. i am also obsessed with lady muzans boobies, js wanna squish em (ofc he would crush my head if i ever put my hand near his beautiful chest) hope you enjoy this one shot + headcanons :) ఌ︎

♬♪ -> lıllılı.ıllı.ılılıı

muzan wasn’t unaware of your obsession; in fact, it was quite the opposite. your relationship with muzan had blossomed over favoritism, rooted in mutual respect. he admired your strength, your capabilities, and the unwavering loyalty you displayed towards him. he found himself drawn to these qualities, yearning to possess you as his most trusted servant.

muzan regularly rewarded you with generous amounts of blood in exchange for your dedication and hard work. one day, however, he decided to give you his blood in a different manner. assuming his female form to conduct a unique set of tests, muzan summoned you urgently. as you appeared before him, he turned to face you, gazing down with a tender expression.

“my, my, [name], how beautifully you’ve grown.” muzan remarked, observing you with a sense of pride. “i trust the eliminations of the remaining hashiras are proceeding well. have you brought me the samples?” “yes, master.” you replied promptly, bowing before him. with a graceful motion, you raised your hand, presenting a small, glistening tube containing a sample of blood.

muzan hummed in appreciation as he delicately took the tube from your hand, causing a shiver to run down your spine at the lingering touch. each contact with him felt like pure ecstasy, even if it was fleeting. muzan delighted in teasing you, savoring the effect he had on you.

“you’re very good, [name].” he purred, his voice laced with allure. “i might just have to reward you with some of my blood.” with a tantalizing smile, he began to make his way toward his nearby table, leaving you with a mix of anticipation and desire in his wake.

with each passing moment, your yearning for further contact with your lord grew more intense. you hungered for his touch and approval, the very sound of his voice was enough to send you over the edge. the cold blood he had shared with you coerced through your veins, driving your longing for more of his attention.

sensing your unspoken plea, muzan placed the tube of blood down before returning to your side. seating himself in the chair facing you, he exuded an aura of power, his presence captivating you.

as muzan signaled for you to meet his gaze, you obediently lifted your eyes to meet his. locking your gaze with his mesmerizing presence, a smile naturally graced your lips as you admired his perfection, your thoughts swirling with desire; causing a grin to tug at the corners of muzan’s lips, acknowledging the unspoken admiration.

in a swift motion, muzan slowly folded back his yukata, revealing his impressive chest as it spilled out of the fabric before you, a symbol of his power and dominance laid bare in your presence. the action alone would’ve made you fall to your knees if you weren’t already on them.

your mouth went dry as a lump formed in your throat, causing you to stutter out, “master, i—” before muzan interrupted you with a raised hand, signaling for you to approach him. your legs felt like heavy weights as each step you took a struggle as you slowly made your way to kneel right before your master. muzan moved a hand towards your jaw, his grip tight. he gazed intently at your face, a moment of silent communication passing between you.

without a word, he guided your face to hover just above his exposed breast, his commanding presence leaving you eager. “i want you to drink the blood from here.” muzan’s directive was clear, his voice hung with authority as you puckered your lips against his areola.

slowly, your hot mouth engulfed his nipple, causing muzan to twitch; which only fueled your desire more. you bit down lightly, being careful in order to not hurt your master. you sucked in, and that’s when the ecstasy hit you, his thick blood coerced throughout your mouth, over your tongue and down your throat. you couldn’t help but flick your tongue over his nipple every now and then as you sucked, a new lustful feeling taking over your senses.

muzan placed a gentle hand against the back of your head, soothing you as you drank from his chest. he usually didn’t hold back on how much blood he gave you, since you were his favorite. he leaned his head back slightly, brows furrowed, reveling in the feeling of your mouth on the sensitive area.

you bring a hand up to massage his soft, tender breast, encouraging more blood flow. you tremble with pleasure and power as you feel it coursing through your body. eventually, muzan has to push you off, a prominent bite mark surrounding his nipple, which quickly heals. he looks at you with his dark, feminine eyes, gazing deeply into your very being.

“my dear, you just can’t resist my breasts, can you?”

˗ˏˋ ✨ 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 ✨ ´ˎ˗

— ever since muzan let you drink from his nipple, you’ve been obsessed.

— and honestly, muzan has too.

— the way you instantly attach to him, massaging them as you drink…

— he’s mesmerized by your dominant behavior and proceeds to let you drink from his chest more often.

— at times, he may just alter his chest and not his actual appearance, allowing you to truly behold your lord and experience his aura as you drink from such an intimate place.

— one day, you asked your lord if he allows anyone else this privilege .. wether it’s just you and him, or shared with others ..

— he attentively considers your question as he senses the pressure on his chest intensify, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

— "my dear, do not ponder such matters so naively. you are aware that this is a highly intimate gesture that i would only permit you to partake in. you’re a good boy, [name]."

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐒 : 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍

[hellreads]

Chapters: 3/4 Fandom: 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS, K-pop Rating: Explicit Warnings: Rape/Non-Con Relationships: Kim Taehyung | V/Reader Characters: Kim Taehyung | V, Reader, Yandere!Kim Taehyung, Yandere Taehyung - Character Additional Tags: kpopyandere, Smut, Yandere Bangtan Boys, Daddy Kink, Spanking, Drunk Sex, Somnophilia, Twins, Obsession, Yandere Bangtan Boys | BTS, Yandere BTS, Stalking, Photography, Reader-Insert, Emotional Manipulation, Abortion mention, pregnancy mention, unhealthy relationship, bts smut, Taehyung smut, kim taehyung smut, Yandere, Yandere Smut, Oral Sex, Non-Consensual Spanking, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Emotional Infidelity, Dom Kim Taehyung | V, Dom/sub, Love Triangles, Infidelity, Established Relationship, Victim Blaming, yn has low self-esteem, obsessive taehyung, Stalker Taehyung, Missionary Position, Woman on Top

Summary:

Your relationship with your boyfriend hasn't been going well lately. His twin, Kim Taehyung, decides to take advantage of this.

“I know this is wrong of me and I know you probably think of me as some kind of crazy bitch who keeps fucking with you, but I’m telling you now. This is what I want.”

and yes you are a crazy one MC, if you’ve been reading this series since day one you’d know our girl here is in a very uncomfortable and unfortunate situation trying to save her long-term relationship with her boyfriend Minho while having the devil incarnate Taehyung around her testing her loyalty and resolve through and through.

[ SPOILERS AHEAD ]

I don’t think I wrote something for chapter two but that part of the story was crucial for you to see the side of Minho, the side that MC failed to see/acknowledge because she was blindly in love with him, as mentioned before he was master manipulator he knows how to play his cards well in order for people around him to bend to his will and give him what he wants and that was proven when MC decided to make things right by talking to him, ask him what’s going on and prove that what Taehyung told her wasn’t true, that he wasn’t cheating on her and I honestly believe he wouldn’t do that, it’s just Tae shamelessly feeding the two poisonous thoughts so they’d end up separating so he could pursue MC because he always knew that they’re the ones meant to be together. she was made for him as he was made for her.

so long story short Minho spilled the truth and told her he knew everything about the abortion and asked her a lot of whys? actually i’d do the same if I was him, even if she’s not ready it’s just right to let your partner know that you’re having a child together, then you make a decision and let them know that this is what you want to do, what you think is best for you, hiding things like this only feed minds with unpleasant thoughts which made it very easy for Taehyung to plant seeds of doubt by telling the kid might not be Minho’s that’s why she didn’t have the heart to tell him of her plans. but surprise surprise if you thought it was such a sweet moment that the lovers reconciled I viewed it as Minho using the opportunity to pin her down and clip her wings, I truly pity her for not having the voice to tell what she truly feels because Minho was comfortable, they’ve been together for so long it only made sense that they marry eventually even if it wasn’t what she wanted, it was so painful to watch her slowly die on the inside, but also frustrating to know that she was also falling for the wrong guy.

she wanted Taehyung probably because he was similar but also different from his twin, he gave her the attention she wanted, he made her feel things she can’t remember getting from her lover, things were wild when they all got together under one roof, everything escalated quickly and the next thing that happened Minho and MC got engaged and it only put more sinister thoughts in Taehyung’s head he didn’t act out immediately but he had plans, MC added fuel to the fire by wanting to know directly from Tae whether he had feelings for her and then everything just went downhill and he was gone the next day (scenario was wild because MC what are you doing honey?? you okay? please stop playing with fire). 

if you’ll re-read from the start you’ll know that MC here is equally manipulative in a way because of what she’s done to Taehyung, sigh everyone’s just wicked in a sense so here they are MC and Minho back together and planning their wedding and Taehyung found someone new to plaster his broken heart, poor new girl for being dragged into this mess, Tae exactly knew how to push MC’s buttons, time may seem like it wasn’t on his side but it only proved him that his patience even though it was testing him was what he needed and true enough it brought MC to his studio way too many times and waiting for her to go away made her yearn for him more and then they meet again and here goes our MC falling into another trap by Taehyung, she really needs someone to guide her jghaksjdgdfhgkd I was kinda happy that she’s finally being true to herself and accepting it’s Taehyung she wants and she will get him no matter what even if it means breaking Minho and Yumi’s hearts, but just when you thought everything would go smoothly MC wandered around and saw the photos that proved she’s been stalked and put two and two together that Taehyung’s feeling were true but also creepy and she needed to get away from him before all hell breaks lose, but unfortunately for her she ran out of time and who know what’ll happen next, idk if she’ll be kept hidden somewhere or if Taehyung would go to Minho and ruin MC then they’ll be together idk there are so many possible scenarios in my head rn but all I know is MC is regretting everything at the moment and if she could go back she would probably never ask for Minho’s number when he saved her.

ahhhh MC you poor child, I hope you learned from this experience and if you ever manage to run away and save yourself don’t look back. |  🍒🍒🍒🍒🍒

[ragingbookdragon]

Reunion Of The Lonely Christmas Lovers

A Shay Cormac x Reader One-Shot

Word Count: 1,560 Warnings: Explicit Language, Alcohol Consumption

Author’s Note: Everyone we’re adding Shay to the Christmas fic list! Let’s go! -Thorne

           “Alright, look piss-ant,” she sighed. “I have to get on the ship.”

           “No.” he grunted, arms wrapping tighter around her body as if he could keep her forever.

           “Shay, I have a mission to do.” She reasoned. “I’ll be back after I’m done.”

           “But it might take forever, (Y/N).”

           “Oh please, this is me we’re talking about. I’ll be done within a year and back before you know it.”

           Shay pulled back slightly, peering into her eyes. They were self-assured, like always, and he let out a sigh.

           “Aye, you’re right.” He let her go, watching as she straightened out her uniform. “Will you send me a letter or two?”

           “No.” (Y/N) bit out and his face dropped. She let out a laugh, slapping his stomach. “Yes, piss-ant, I’ll send you letters when I can. God, you’re gullible.”

           He huffed, but a grin crossed his lips and he reached up, cupping her face. “Cheeky little thing.”

           “Well one of us in this relationship has to be. And let’s face it, it isn’t you.” (Y/N) countered.

           Shay’s face turned solemn and he murmured, “Be careful, love, please.”

           “I’ll try,” she shrugged. “No promises though.”

           His hand shifted, firmly grasping the back of her neck, but not enough to hurt. “No. Promise me right now that you’ll be careful and that you’ll come back to me in one piece.”

           (Y/N) met his gaze and he leaned forward, pressing his forehead to hers. “I’ve lost too much. I won’t lose you, love.”

           She smiled and pressed her lips to his. “I promise that despite my usual dumbass streak, I will come back to you.” His eyes were wary, and she added, “Safe and sound, alive and well.”

           Shay searched her gaze, then whispered, “I love you, (Y/N).”

           She smiled. “I love you more, Shay.” The captain of the ship called for her and she sighed, pulling away from him. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

           “I’ll think about you all the time.” he yearned.

           (Y/N) scoffed. “Don’t quit your day job piss-ant. You still have responsibilities to worry about other than me.”

           She boarded the ship and walked to the stern, waving at him until he was out of sight.

***

           “You don’t seem to be enjoying the Christmas festivities much, Shay.” His eyes darted to the Grandmaster. “Not feeling the cheer?”

           Shay huffed into his tankard, taking a swig before setting it down. “What makes you say that, Master Haytham?”

           The Grandmaster chuckled. “You can call me Haytham, Shay. We’re in an informal setting.” He regarded the Irishman with a steely gaze. “Missing our Spymaster?”

           The Assassin-Hunter choked into his beer, pounding his chest harshly as coughs tore through his throat. “What—” he started but broke into more coughs. Haytham merely handed him a handkerchief.

           Shay’s face was crimson, and he took it. “Thank you,” he croaked, slightly glaring when the man beside him smirked.

           “I’ll take that as a yes then.” Haytham sighed and crossed one of his legs over the other. “I understand why you miss her. She’s good company.” His steel eyes scanned the group of Templars around them. “And an even better Templar than most.”

           “And she’s your best friend.” Shay offered.

           “She is,” he nodded. “And my most trusted companion.”

           The Irishman leaned on his elbows, peering at the man. “So, how did you and she become so close?” he glanced down at his mug. “This might be rude, but you don’t seem the type that has many friends.”

           “Unlike you?” Haytham countered, and Shay couldn’t help but see all their faces in his mind.

           “Aye, I’m one to talk, I guess.”

           The Grandmaster let out a sigh, staring off into the distance as he said, “She and I met when we were children. Our fathers were old friends and when hers died, (Y/N) came to live in our house.”

           “And I assume you were both trained as Templars then?” Shay guessed.

           Haytham offered a rare snort. “Actually, she was an Assassin once.”

           Shay’s eyes went wide, and his jaw dropped. He didn’t even try to hide the unbridled shock he felt.

           “When I was taken in by the Templars, she was taken by the Assassins. We met on one of my first missions after I was inducted.” His eyes narrowed fondly. “We beat the ever-living hell out of one another before calling a truce.” Haytham glanced at Shay. “We talked it out and she swore her loyalty to me.”

           The Irishman blinked, deadpanning, “Our (Y/N)? She just listened to you? And then joined you?” He cocked a brow. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same woman?”

           Haytham chuckled and sipped the wine from his goblet. “Oh, I don’t mean it was an hour of talking.” He looked at the other. “It took a whole month for me to convince her to join me.”

           “And she did?”

           “(Y/N) told me that my father had saved her father’s life and served his crew for it. She said she owed me the same allegiance that her father gave mine.” He set the goblet down and tapped the stem with his pointer finger. “She has only ever been the one person I could trust with everything I’ve ever had other than Holden.”

           Haytham’s eyes held an unfathomable pain that Shay had never seen, nor did he ever expect to see again, because as quickly as it had come, it was gone.

           “I…have always been protective of her because her loss would devastate me beyond repair. I am glad there is someone else other than I, with her well-being in mind.” He met Shay’s eyes and something akin to an understanding passed between them.

           The Irishman nodded, knowing that there were no words needed to be said, but the warmth in his chest made him burn with pride. He raised his tankard up, watching Haytham raise his glass.

           A loud knock sounded from the closed door and Haytham’s eyes darted to one of the servants who nodded and walked over. They opened the door then turned to the side, and immediately, their drinks hit the table, spilling all over.

***

           One whole year she’d been traveling on her own, and though she enjoyed being on her own at times, (Y/N) was done with being alone. All she wanted was to be wrapped in Shay’s arms.

           The mansion came into view and she smiled tiredly, feet suddenly feeling like they were made of lead. She pushed on though, the thought of comfort and congratulations too much to weigh her down.

           (Y/N) made it to the door and snorted at the sound of the festivities coming from within. She knocked loudly and a few moments later, the door opened. Smiling at the servant she passed by them and into the dining room, dropping her bag down on the floor. She grinned at the disbelieving expressions on her lover and friends’ faces.

           “Oh, I see how it is. Having the Christmas parties without me?” she quipped, and a scraping chair caught her attention before someone had her around the waist, hauling her into the air.

           “Lass!” Shay shouted, voice laced with joy. “You’re back!”

           (Y/N) snorted and placed her hands on his broad shoulders, squeezing tightly. “Told you I would, piss-ant.” He lowered her and she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Have you been obedient since I’ve been gone?”

           Shay offered her a toothy grin. “About as obedient as I usually am.” He winked. “Which is never.”

           She tutted. “Naughty, naughty boy, Shay Cormac. Whatever will I do with you?”

           “I can think of a few things,” he offered rather salaciously, and a gag sounded behind them.

           “Get a room!” someone shouted.

           (Y/N) peered over his shoulder and shouted, “Oi! This is my house, you fuckers. And I’m this close to making all you get out so my lover and I can really reunite for Christmas.”

           The group let out exaggerated noises of disgust and Shay nuzzled the side of her head. “Fort Arsenal is only a few away,” he murmured. “Want to leave?”

           She shook her head. “My feet are killing me. I can’t walk anymore.” Her eyes drifted to Haytham who wore a welcoming smile. “Besides, I’d better fill ‘im in on what happened in England.”

           Before she could move, she found herself being scooped up bridal style by Shay. Her arms automatically went around his neck, though she was shocked herself.

           “Shay!”

           He shook his head and turned to Haytham. “Grandmaster, I know you want to talk to her, but I’ve spent a whole year without her.” He spun on his heel and started marching to the stairs. “You can have her tomorrow.”

           “I am not a prize to be won!”

           “A mhalairt ar fad, grá. You’re my prize.”

           “I will punch the shit out of you, piss-ant.”

           “Keep threatening me. It’s a turn-on.”

           “Oh, you’re gross!”

***

           She lay on his bare chest, humming contently as his fingers lazily traced up and down her spine.

           “I’m glad you’re home, (Y/N).”

           She met his eyes and offered him a heartfelt smile. “As am I.” She reached up and brushed his hair out of his face. “I missed you with all my heart.”

           Shay took her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. “Merry Christmas, love.”

           (Y/N) rested her chin on his chest, murmuring, “Merry Christmas, Shay.”

[mimik-u]

Flower Child, Chapter 16: “Yellow (II)”

AO3 Link

i.

Poppy took little care to disguise the surprise in her pale face, her brows disappearing into her hairline as she visibly struggled to comprehend why her employer might be asking such an unexpected question.

“Ahhhh, y-yes?” Came the clumsy, fumbling reply. “H-he is, ma’am. Room 11037. I sent the flowers there—just as you asked!”

She clearly assumed that she was in trouble, an assumption that Yellow made no haste to correct as her cool gaze traveled briefly to the brass plate on her own closed door—Room 11812—which she knew to be somewhere on the sixth floor from the snatch of conversation between nurses she’d heard from the hallway earlier. She supposed this meant that their rooms were relatively close to each other, give or take an elevator ride or two.

Perfect.

“Excellent,” she murmured distractedly. “Good.”

An audible sigh of relief that wasn’t her own punctured the clinical air.

Pursing her plump lips, Yellow Diamond pulled one leathery thumb over the other and twisted to face Poppy again, who was staring at her expectantly, her ambiguous knitting long forgotten as she leaned forward in her seat, perched almost—if not exactly—birdlike. The woman had wide eyes, bright and yearning, a lovely daffodil yellow. They were almost childlike in their keenness, achingly young, and perhaps it was this reminder above all which made the businesswoman’s own eyes soften minimally as she addressed her with all her usual brusqueness of being.

“Poppy?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Please,” Yellow grimaced, “if only for this conversation, and ideally, all the ones to come, you can drop the ma’am’s.”

It had been gratifying to be called such the first five years of their acquaintance or so, a marker that the CEO had come into her own as a figure to be deferred to with such honorifics. (Once upon a time, she had merely been the CEO’s daughter, a title which came with no accolades other than privilege and patronization.) However, she supposed that since they were drawing close to ten years of having known each other, of having cohabited the same space for so many hundreds upon hundreds of days, that the relationship between them was already well established.

Poppy was once again stricken blind with no time to recover her face.

Her thin mouth popped open and then shut in a comical, half-moon shape.

“Yes… of course, ma—um,” she floundered, her fingers spidering nervously on her lap. “Of course…”

Yellow’s lips twitched involuntarily, a gesture she duly paid for as a sharp pain cracked through her cheek—no doubt owing to the seven stitches laced there.

Oi.

“Semantics aside”—she waved her uninjured hand vaguely and suppressed a wince—“when you called up here… were you able to discover what was wrong with the kid?”

Poppy frowned, her pointed nose twisting in consternation as she thought upon it, and it was with a small sigh that she shook her head. 

“No, ma’am”—she blushed furiously —“I mean, n-no. I don’t think they could tell me for patient confidentiality protocols… I apologize, Mrs. Diamond. Should I have pressed for an answer?”

“No,” Yellow returned shortly, her voice suddenly weary. “No, you did well, Poppy.”

“T-thank you.”

And they lapsed into a silence then that wasn’t entirely natural, taut like a wire that had only recently been strung. Yellow Diamond did not care for the silence—so alien to her and so heavy, like an intrusive embrace from a stranger. And yet, for the past four and sundry years, this very stranger had been living in her damn suite, taking up space on the couch she slept upon in the study, and accompanying her down the empty halls as she kept one ear primed to her left where the door of the master bedroom was perpetually cracked open, never closed lest she go in there and find her wife—

The stranger didn’t pay rent either.

Bastard.

Yellow went back to rubbing her thumbs together again, distantly soothed by the way that the striations of each digit intersected every so often before breaking apart again, over and over, like trains gliding over the rails of long worn tracks.

It was true she could just have asked her wife what was wrong with the boy.

Could have opened that tentative line of communication just a little further. 

Could have stuck one of her heeled boots just inside the door.

But perhaps that was the unbroken thread in the grand scheme and scope of Yellow Diamond’s life, the recurring truth that reared its ugly head through the bars of her ribcage every time she so much as breathed. 

Hypotheticals.

That was all she had anymore.

Mere possibilities.

Grains and ash and dust.

Teasing her empty fingertips.

Salting them.

I could have talked to Blue.

You would have— I would have—if only she would just be sensible .

(She’s never sensible anymore.)

(And you’re too demanding.)

(She called you cold, Yellow.)

(You’re cold. )

The thought struck Yellow Diamond cleanly, like a steel-edged blow. Her breath hitched, the strain pulling at her sore chest.

I shouldn’t have yelled at Pink that night.

I could have gone into her room.

It didn’t have to end like that.

But it did—and she did—and that was that, the damage irrevocable and irreversible and done, the finality of it all echoing pitifully through the emptiness of space and time. Like ink, its blackness spilled across the pages of her memory, seeped and spread and poured. Like sour wine, it was impossible to ever really swallow. 

But, Lord, how the woman had tried.

She had wanted to move on, to limp forward the best that she could.

She had felt as though that this was the only conceivable way she could exist in a world without her daughter.

This was the means by which she could wake up every morning to a merciless sun and live with herself—dammit.

Leave Pink Diamond behind.

Allow the very image of her to become obscured by the rubble.

Run.

But perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps she had been wrong this entire fucking time, and she was only now realizing it, and it was too late to be realizing it because time, oh God, time—

Time made fools of them all.

It slipped down an hourglass and through her fingers with all the mere possibilities of the life she and her wife and her daughter could have lived—grains and ash and dust.

As fading sunlight slumped through the window like a body on the floor, Yellow’s eyes dared to burn as she stared at her long hands emptily. They were stilled on her lap, intertwined lightly, with all the tenderness of a feathery kiss.

Kissed, she thought to herself.

When was the last time she had been kissed?

How long had it been since Blue Diamond’s lush lips had pressed against her own with a kind of intensity that had consecrated them both divine? Oh, God, how inseparable they had been back then—colliding stars dancing together in the darkness of their room, the rumble of their voices the only echo of a sound in the space between them. They created supernovas every time they so much as breathed into each other’s skin; they expanded, and they collapsed into each other, and they knew each other, and they tangled in the stardust of their own bare radiances.

With all suddenness, they fell apart.

Their daughter died.

And neither of them could barely stand to look at each other lest they see the reflection of that twenty-one year old girl mirrored in each other’s eyes—her vivid smile, the heels of her red sneakers flashing against the hallway floor, the way her freckles used to bundle together when she laughed.

“Mrs. Diamond?” Poppy prodded uncertainly, and it was with a jolt that Yellow remembered that she was not entirely alone. Her gaze refocused itself on the maid as a dull flush suffused her sharply hewn cheeks. Her temples throbbed. Her entire body ached.

She missed Pink.

(Dead, gone, never coming back…)

And she missed Blue.

(She was terrified to so much as look at her.)

“Poppy…” She began reluctantly, and this in and of itself was an unstudied phenomenon, for Yellow Diamond was never reluctant.

 The syllables strangled themselves in the cylinder of her throat. 

“How…” She winced at her own weakness—she loathed herself—she pressed on anyway. It was all she knew how to do. “How have I done it?”

She paused heavily as she raised her head to greet the maid’s wide-eyed gaze. The white Peter Pan collar of Poppy’s blouse pressed innocently at the base of her slender neck. She wore a necklace strung with white imitation pearls.

“Done what, ma—Mrs. Diamond?”

“How… have I inspired your loyalty all these years?” Try though she did, it was impossible to subjugate the open wound in her voice into her usual cadence of tone—the hardness, the calmness, and the simultaneous assuredness of being which so defined the image of herself she projected to the world.

But there was no such thing as the world in that tiny hospital room.

It was only her and Poppy and the gentle humming of nearby machines.

“Heaven knows I pay you well,” she continued haltingly, “but if there’s one thing I know about money”—and the multibillionaire knew a hell of a lot—“it’s that sometimes… it can prove to be insufficient payment.”

Sometimes, there was just not enough money in the world to fix, to heal, to ameliorate, to restore.

Blue Diamond had called her cold.

Do you really think I could be so callous, Blue?

You act like it sometimes.

Perhaps she had a point. (She always had a point.)

“Forget it,” Yellow said abruptly, glancing away. This was stupid; she was being childish. She suddenly wanted to be left alone so she could revel in just how stupid and childish she was being without a one person audience to watch. “I’m being silly.”

It was not a dismissal at the same time that it was a clear dismissal; she folded her arms across her stomach and neglected to be gentle with the left one.

A dull ache spasmed through her hand.

She refused to meet the maid's gaze.

And yet, for all this, for every subtle and unsubtle portent that had been bluntly thrown her way, Poppy Aurelia did not move.

For nearly a decade, she had been by Yellow Diamond’s side, attentive to her every need, a feat which was only possible because she had become attuned to every microscopic nuance in her employer’s face, her voice, her body language. So she knew that she’d been dismissed, or more exactly, Yellow knew that she knew.

So, why then was she moored to her hardback chair, staring at Yellow from those pale, lamp-like eyes of hers?

Why then, with all the silent alarms trumpeting their signals, did she stay?

Poppy’s voice was uncharacteristically quiet as she began to talk; she fed her stuttering words to the floor, not daring to look directly Yellow in the eye. The flat of her left shoe bobbed nervously against the cleanly tile floor—tap, tap, tap.

But still, she spoke.

And she said, quite clearly, “I… I don’t think y-you’re being silly at all, Yellow Diamond… I… just think you’re… er… asking the w-wrong question.”

It was the first time in the entirety of their acquaintance that Poppy had ever interrogated the validity of Yellow’s words. She opened and closed her spindly fingers on top of her lap; every tense line in her body looked as though it was preparing for a retribution that didn’t come as the businesswoman only raised a brow in the surest measure of her restraint.

“What question should I be asking then?”

She obliged.

She played along.

She felt compelled to.

She had no choice if she wanted an answer, if she wanted to know why there were still people in her life who tolerated and endured her, who stayed and didn’t leave. (The list was growing precariously short with the passing years, but to be fair, it had never been especially long in the first place.)

“Ask me why I came in the first place, Mrs. Diamond. Ask me why I accepted your job offer all those many years ago.” A pause and then a hurried addendum, rushed, like a spillage of tea: “Only if you want to, though, of course. Please.”

Yellow Diamond simply stared at her—puzzled, floored, and somehow, incredibly enough, haughty all at once.

“You came because I stole you right from beneath Peter Hoffman’s snooty nose,” she returned immediately, almost flippantly. “He always thought he was better than everyone else just because his brother-in-law was the governor, but I showed him—”

Poppy cut across her.

Another first in their decade long relationship.

The maid at least had enough courtesy to look abashed at what she had done, her cheeks scribbled pink, and yet, she pressed on anyway, waving her long hands frantically. 

“Not that part, Mrs. Diamond,” she said hastily. “I-I mean, it’s related to that part, my apologies, but… a-ah… do you remember what you said to me then? In the dining room? You were there for a business meeting, and all the other executives were heading into the lounge to smoke… but you… you lingered, Mrs. Diamond. You stayed.”

It was vague—she hadn’t thought much about the exchange even in the moment that it had happened—but snatches of that night began to collect like wispy clouds across the canvas of Yellow’s mind, swirling and listless, faint but undoubtedly there. 

She’d just turned forty-six, and she was on top of the goddamn world.

She had straightened her tie in the same moment she had straightened from her chair… and there had been a girl, standing at the periphery of everything, who couldn’t have been much older than twenty.

She stared at her hands as so many suited men left the room, wincing each time one of them so much as glanced her way.

So many of them glanced her way, taunting.

Lecherous.

“I pulled you aside because Hoffman had said something stupid,” she recalled, in that same dismissive tone from before. Hoffman, a big technology magnate in Empire City, was always saying something stupid. It was a wonder his entire body didn’t sag under the weight of his massive ego.

But Poppy shook her head slightly.

“It wasn’t… just something stupid,” she corrected softly. Every premature line in the maid’s sharp face testified to the fact that she remembered these events with perfect clarity, the words that were spoken over a sumptuous roast pig, how maybe even the shadows of the candelabra danced across the gilded walls. She continued to curl and uncurl her fingers on top of her lap for the want of something to do with them. She saw images that Yellow didn't, heard echoes that the executive had scarcely deigned to register as sounds in the first place. “He told his colleagues that while I was a good maid… it was a shame I didn’t have more of an a-ass on me. I was just twenty-three, and that was my first major job, and h-he said things like that to me all the time, Mrs. Diamond. He was awful—that man. He likely still is.”

Another quick memory.

A sharp glimpse of it.

A wedding invitation that had sat on her desk for a few weeks before Yellow had unceremoniously shuffled it into the trash with the rest of the junk—in the fall, Peter Hoffman would be getting married for the third time, and his latest soon-to-be-bride was a thirty-four year old model from Europe.

He was getting close to seventy-three.

Poppy sniffed rather loudly and tried to hide the fact of it surreptitiously, swiping her beaky nose against the sleeve of her blouse.

“So, you pulled me aside, Mrs. Diamond, and you gave me a job, yes, but you also said something to me that I haven’t forgotten since then,” she continued.

And then, quite unexpectedly, with a suddenness that Yellow dimly recognized to be bravery, the tiny maid looked her employer in the eye, daffodil striking burning gold, and somehow, withstanding the heat.

Refusing, quite defiantly, to wither.

“You told me to never accept what I didn’t deserve, Mrs. Diamond,” Poppy said matter-of-factly, her voice confident, unwavering, irrefutably sure. She straightened a little in her chair, squaring her slender shoulders. “That I had a right to demand better than what I was being given, and that what I was currently being given wasn’t deserved. It’s advice I’ve taken to heart from the moment I accepted your offer, and it’s advice that has kept me in your employ all these years.”

“Poppy—” She hastened to interject, to protest, to contradict—consummate contrarian that she was. She wasn’t sure what she was going to say, only that whatever she said would be an attempt to stem the praise she could not possibly deserve. This had all been nine years ago; she had simply wanted to get back at a cantankerous old bastard whom she had always despised; words were nice, but they were never reliable measures of conduct.

But again—amazingly enough—Poppy Aurelia was faster. Again, she boldly interrupted Yellow, leaning forward in her seat. The sun from the window haloed her blonde hair, highlighting even the parts of it which stuck up at the top.

“I-I know you’re not the easiest person in the world… I’ve watched you and your family, and I’ve worked for you, Mrs. Diamond, a-and I know you, I think. You can be harsh, and y-you’re often demanding. Y-you get irritable when you’re tired, and y-you're honestly always tired… but that doesn’t make you’re a bad person, Mrs. Diamond. That doesn’t make you a monster.”

Poppy paused then, and she deliberated, and she chewed on her lower lip, seemingly weighing her next words against the risk of speaking them into existence.

Perhaps they were offensive.

At the very least, they were likely inappropriate.

In the end, though, she inhaled bracingly.

She ignored all the carefully drawn lines of etiquette.

She chose to let them fly.

“That just makes you… human.”

Five words, six nervously uttered syllables.

The sentence landed with a kind of finality between them, and there was tension in the air, electricity, as the two of them stared at each other over its heaviness. 

Poppy’s eyes were protuberant with anxiety, the fear that she had finally overstepped scrawled all over her face in red blush.

Yellow Diamond could have been carved from stone for all that she could muster herself to move, her lips parted slightly.

She swallowed thickly.

A feeling like eruption constricted the column of her throat.

And then, through the silence, despite everything awful that the silence was and had ever represented, she said, very softly, very quietly, “Thank you, Poppy… I needed to hear that.”

Poppy’s mouth collapsed into a trembling smile.

She fell backwards into her chair, seemingly exhausted with relief.

Courage cost something after all.

“Of course, ma’am,” she said weakly. “I-I mean, Mrs. Diamond. I’m sorry! I—!”

But far from being affronted, Yellow Diamond laughed—actually laughed—the sound hoarse and a little reckless, half-mad and almost, if not explicitly, fond.

“You’re hopeless, Poppy.”

The maid's smile became teasing. She picked up her knitting needles again, holding up her scarf-sweater-doily-thing up to the light pouring in from the window to inspect it better.

“O-only a little, ma'am.”

ii.

When Yellow Diamond returned home from the office that evening, opening the door with far more force than the gesture typically required, she discovered her wife tucked into the far end of their white couch, knees pulled up to her chest, an open book perched cozily in her blanketed lap. The flames from the nearby hearth bathed the living room in warm, flickering tones—autumnal oranges and honeyed ambers deep enough to get lost in, tentative golds that seeped across the spruce floor. 

Readers balanced carefully on the tip of her nose, Blue didn’t so much as glance up at her arrival, absorbed by whatever she was reading—likely some verbose classic or anthology or theological theory one. She pressed the closed end of her highlighter to her lips absentmindedly, almost appearing to chew upon it. Her long, brown hair was swept across the side of her neck, billowing in graceful waves over her left shoulder.

Yellow peeled her snow-dusted overcoat and scarf off with disgust and slammed each of these articles onto the adjacent coatrack, nearly sending the pole to the floor with the harshness of the action. She flashed a hand out and caught it just in time, but…

“Fuck!” She spat, glowering at the damn thing for daring to be so unsteady. “Shit.”

And it was with a soft sigh, knowing —in that almost haughty manner of hers—that Blue replaced her bookmark between the folds of her pages and finally looked up, her dark brow lifted along the lines of her weary amusement.

“I take it you’ve had a bad day?”

“No,” Yellow growled immediately, stalking over to the couch and plopping down next to Blue’s covered feet. Perhaps in the mood to defy all the studied rules of decorum tonight, she spread her legs wide and hunched forward, shoulders impolitely slumped.

A pause.

Her wife’s lips twitched in the place of a reply.

“Yes,” she broke. She admitted grudgingly. She dragged fingers through her stiff, blonde hair, pleasuring in the sensation of finally being able to muss it up once more. It took liberal amounts of hairspray to tame it into some manner of acceptability every morning. “My mother… we got into it again today.”

As she was only thirty to White Diamond’s sixty-eight, slowly but assuredly, there was a transition of power taking place at the older woman’s pride and joy, the company upon which she had built her titanium bones—Diamond Electric. Now a multinational conglomerate, it had begun simply enough by selling top of the line household appliances… but recently, beneath Yellow’s watchful eye and grasp of the new age market, the company was sinking its teeth into more contemporary avenues of growth, dabbling in radio and television broadcasting, as well as vehicle manufacturing. 

“You’re always getting into it,” Blue said dismissively, but all the same, she placed her now closed book on the arm of the sofa—(Either/Or by Soren Kierkegaard)—and leaned forward to listen more attentively, encircling her legs with her flowing sleeves. Her vivid eyes searched Yellow’s face in that singularly incisive way of hers, as though she was combing the woman from the inside out, taking her measure without so much as saying a word. 

It was always an odd feeling.

To be so thoroughly seen, understood, and adored by another.

X-rayed, diagnosed, and still, somehow, against all odds, loved.

“But do you want to talk about it?” She pressed.

“No,” Yellow flushed immediately. She had seized involuntarily as firelight caught the warm expanse of Blue Diamond’s exposed neck, and, for the first time since her workday had begun, a feeling other than thinly suppressed frustration rose up the column of her own throat. Her mouth was suddenly dry… the beginnings of a mischievous smile rose on her lips, crooked at the corners. “There’s a different way I can work through my feelings, I think…”

She leaned forward then, very much intent on pressing her lips on the exact place fire had already touched her wife first, but with a laugh that was both exasperated and incredulous, Blue placed a slender hand on her chest and pushed her back playfully.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Yellow!” She shook her head, her lilting voice swinging with its own amusement. “Are you aroused by your own anger? Are you so neolithic that you think a hickey is going to make your problems with your mother go away?”

Rebuffed, rejected, disappointed, and intolerably aware that Blue had a point—the woman always had a point—Yellow slumped back against the couch and crossed her arms over her chest, feeling uncomfortably as though she was just another one of Blue’s pupils being scolded for putting a hand in the damn treat jar.

“Well, maybe it would if you’d let me try…” She muttered impetuously, sticking her lips out.

“Later,” Blue promised, a slight purr in her otherwise light voice. “But please forgive me if I’m not especially tantalized by the idea of disrobing knowing you’re thinking about your mother.”

Another point made.

It was no wonder she was a celebrated academic.

“Touché,” Yellow groused brusquely, and it was with all the petulance of a teenager that the heiress stared upwards at the white stretch of ceiling, so as to delay the inevitable moment when she would have to meet her wife’s all-knowing gaze again. The black fan whirled through its circular rotations rhythmically, cleaving the air with long blades that reminded her forcibly of her mother’s expertly manicured nails, lacquered the color of pitch and seven inches long.

Sharp.

Potentially fatal.

Yellow Diamond had grown up knowing what it was like to be stroked softly by them—loved by their cold embrace.

Sometimes, it wasn’t so bad. 

The woman had loved her the best that she knew how—and this wasn’t an especially affectionate love, granted—but, at the very least, it was something. 

She was not entirely unbending.

She was not wholly cold…

Other times, though, White Diamond’s love was like having a knife raked down the canvas of her skin.

She never nicked blood, but the threat was always implicit in the cut of her nails.

“She doesn’t trust me, you know…” The words were seemingly spoken to the empty air, drifting upwards with the fumes from the fire. It almost felt nice to get them off of her chest. Cleansing. “I make one call for the company, and she makes another, but everyone automatically sides with her because she’s just… she’s so… well… you know how my mother is…. You know what she does to a room.”

Just by entering a door, her mother could part the Red Sea and turn it blue if she so pleased; shoulders stiffened to obeisant attention; spines straightened; people paid attention to the words which poured silkily from her black lips. 

If White Diamond said jump, employees at Diamond Electric were trained to already be ten feet from hitting the ground.

This was what authority was after all—control, power, unquestioning, unwavering respect.

“And she undermines me, Blue,” Yellow continued hoarsely, her fingertips digging into the soft press of her skin where she was holding on to herself. “And she makes me look like a goddamn court jester in front of the employees I’m supposed to be in charge of one day. Today, she called my inventory markup naïve in front of our entire team of accountants and proceeded to deconstruct why it was so inadequate for the next thirty fucking minutes… and all those bootlickers, damn them, they snickered behind their hands like were were in high school for God’s sake.”

The memory of the unpleasant meeting seared her wide-open retinas.

Much to her horror, her golden eyes burned where she sat.

She told herself it was simply the smoke.

There was a shift on Yellow’s left—the shuffle of sweeping fabric, a gentle thud as a woolen blanket fell gracelessly to the floor. And within a few seconds of these events, Blue Diamond was pressed against her side, soft and warm and faintly sweet—her clothes, her hair, her smooth skin wreathed with the scent of her favorite floral perfume. 

“Blue, you don’t have to—“

But Blue silently held out a hand.

There was a raised eyebrow of quiet invitation.

And with an immediacy that was instinct, and with an instinct that was sure, Yellow pried her arms away from her chest, and without thinking, without hesitating, without deliberation, rhyme, and reason, threaded her angular fingers together with Blue’s more slender ones until their palms touched, lifelines intersecting.

Together, they grounded each other.

They made each other whole.

“I’ve given you my thoughts on your mother before,” Blue began delicately, and these was a certain hesitancy in the polite intimations of her voice that Yellow knew was only thinly disguised disdain. The two had rarely seen eye to eye before, over matters both macroscopic and minute—but mostly over the problem of how best to love Yellow. The question, implicit but nonetheless distinct, often was, What did the woman deserve?  

Softly spoken words of affirmation, generously given? 

Or the type of tough, disciplined love which had allowed the thirty-year old to graduate at the top of her Harvard class, accolades upon accolades showered down upon her already impressive name?

“However… what I will say is this and leave it be for the night if you so choose…” Blue Diamond took a deep breath, as though steeling herself to utter something rather revolutionary. A long strand of her dark hair fell gracefully between her eyes.“She’s scared, Yellow.”

The effect was instantaneous.

Disbelieving, humored, scandalized, and perfectly unconvinced, Yellow laughed harshly and waited for the punchline that never quite came as she searched her wife over for all the telltale signs of humor, but the woman’s long face was quite serious, her thin brow collected cerebrally above her sea-sprayed eyes. “Have you met my mother, Blue?” She asked incredulously. “The woman’s got gems the size of a damn—”

But Blue Diamond cut across her incisively, frowning thin. “Don’t be crass… but I mean it, Yellow. Don’t you see? Your mother is nearly sixty-nine years old and the company is approximately half her age. She’s raised it as much as she claims to have raised you. This is her baby, whom she has cradled so tenderly for so many decades—her firstborn child that the emperor of age is now demanding that she gives up to him. Understandably, you’re too busy arguing with her to actually listen to the words she’s saying when she’s arguing back, but the message she sends is clear enough.”

“And what would that be?” Yellow returned testily, jerking her head.

Her mother was always a sore subject, tender to even touch.

But Blue, having long been accustomed to the recurring problem at hand, was unfazed; she continued with the maddeningly patient air of a teacher explaining that two and two made four to a toddler who had not quite gotten the concept yet. Her shoulder brushed gently against Yellow’s, brows bent almost pityingly.

“Every time she undermines you, she’s indicating that she’s not ready to part ways with Diamond Electric yet. Cutting you down reassures her that she’s still needed, that she hasn’t yet been rendered obsolete. Her critical eye is always going to be trained in your direction until you can prove to her that you’re ready to fill those ridiculously high heels of hers.”

“But that’s absurd!” Yellow cried. “She wants me to inherit the damn thing. That’s all she ever talks about—how I’m going to inherit the damn thing one day.”

“Yes,” Blue agreed softly, “but who said that human beings are always rational, Yellow? Our hearts are so often at war with our heads, and sometimes, logicality is subsumed by the primal. Your mother can want you to inherit Diamond Electric and also half-resent you for doing so all in one go.”

“If she’s feeling all that, then she needs to go get her head screwed on a little tighter. That’s stupid.” The words seemed peevish to her before they even left her mouth; she chewed on her own lip sullenly as the smile playing across Blue Diamond’s lips grew.

“Yes, well, I didn’t say you had to like it.”

They lapsed into brief silence then, unbroken except for the faint crackling of the fire in the hearth. The redolence of the smoke and the scent of Blue’s perfume wreathed Yellow with soothing familiarity.

She breathed in slowly.

And she breathed out.

Her heartbeat evened.

And all that suddenly became important to her was the notion, the fact, the incredible, undeniable proof that Blue Diamond was warm by her side; there was not an inch between their brushing shoulders; they spoke wordlessly with the interlinking of their hands.

“So what do I do with this information now that I have it?” Yellow asked after a few moments of this, to which the school teacher laughed lightly.

Her pupil had just asked another awfully stupid question after all.

“You simply remember it going forward,” she replied matter-of-factly.“You use it to understand your mother. And by understanding her, become better than her. You can avoid the mistakes she made. You can rise above her shortcomings and know—intimately and proudly—that you did.”

Yellow’s skepticism must have shown in her face because Blue only shook her head at the expression in it, cutting across her just as she opened her mouth to respond. 

“Prodigious though White Diamond is, she has yet to realize her Achilles heel—that she, too, is vulnerable, that she, too, feels and aches and fears. And the longer she restrains herself from this self-knowledge, the less she resembles you, Yellow.”

“Me?” Yellow couldn’t help but laugh; it was her last defense against the unexpected knowledge her wife seemed to possess concerning the nature of her mother. Where she was coming up with all this, the woman could scarcely figure it out. Yellow had studied her mother for thirty years and still felt as though she was barely scratching that pristinely cut surface, smooth all over.

(Honed around the edges. Dangerous to behold.)

“Yes, you, Yellow Diamond,” she said fondly. “You, who feels so deeply. You, who loves with abandon, the telltale signs of your care scrawled all over your face in permanent ink. You and you alone.”

Blue leaned forward then, slowly, carefully, so that their foreheads were touching.

It was a familiar gesture, one that Yellow completed automatically, all instinct.

She pressed her lips against Blue Diamond’s hairline, tasting the scent of her fragrant shampoo.

“And that, my dear, is one of the many reasons why I love you,” she finished quietly. “Because I know, beyond a shadow of a reasonable doubt, that you love me back.”

Yellow’s throat suddenly tightened; she swallowed, tried to regroup, and pitifully failed.

And she failed because she couldn’t stop thinking about how right her wife was; she had a point.

She rarely ever didn’t.

“Always,” she finally whispered, grateful, overwhelmed, adoring, undone. “Always, Blue.”

“Yes.” Blue’s lips grazed her own as the shadows on the wall swelled around them, flickering, dancing, expanding, convulsing… snow swirled across the tall floor to ceiling windows, flurrying white against an infinite night sky… “I know.”

They sunk together into the couch then.

They danced and expanded, swirled and convulsed.

Infinite.

iii.

With an abruptness that was almost violent, and an almost violence that sent a sharp pang up her injured arm, Yellow Diamond braced her shaking hands on the edge of the sink in the bathroom attached to her room. There were a few lacerations on her knuckles where they had scraped tiny bits of glass and debris when she had lurched forward in her seat during the accident.

Fresh, they stood out lividly against her skin. 

She examined them with vague disinterest for a handful of seconds as a way to stall for time, to distract from the inevitable moment when she had to look up.

Brush her hair.

Adjust the collar of her pajama top.

Throw a little blush on for the hell and sake of it.

Face herself in the mirror.

Her sweat-slicked palms cooled on top of the scratched porcelain; the seconds whiled down and away, teething upon themselves with each minute she stood in that abysmally tiny room, with its cheaply tiled floors and dingy lighting.

It smelled like hand sanitizer.

Her head pounded, each thud forming a singular accusation against her temples.

(Coward.)

(The name spat itself out at her, landing directly between her eyes.)

(Coward.)

(There was no defense against its validity, no sheathe to blunt the force of its blow.)

(Coward.)

(The raw truth of it wrapped its hands around her organs and squeezed.)

In the end, she was so well-practiced in how to put on a face, that she finished getting ready to leave her room without needing to glance at herself. When she exited the bathroom, she palmed the light a little harder than was necessary.

Room 11037.

The nurse who came by to remove Yellow’s IV earlier had indicated that it was on the fourth floor in the Truman Ward, where chronically ill patients were usually admitted. This wasn’t necessarily news to the businesswoman—she had known for a couple of days now that the kid was rather sick. But even still, there was something about hearing it aloud, in such an objective fashion, that made it feel less abstract than it had when she had briefly talked to Blue about him, so overwhelmed had she been by the fact that her wife was standing in her doorway, seeking her out.

Wanting her.

It didn’t register then, like it was registering so sharply now: Blue was friends with a chronically ill kid.

A kid who might very likely die.

For the last four years, the woman had become a master at inviting her own misery, wrapping it around her shoulders like one of her favorite silken shawls.

Sitting on the edge of her hospital bed, Yellow pulled on her black loafers with painstaking slowness and tried not to resent the fact that her wife was pursuing someone whose death may very well kill her.

(For the last four years, Yellow Diamond had collected each and every last one of her resentments just beneath her skin, where they had writhed. God, how they had seethed.)

As a last minute preparation, she shoved the left hand sleeve of her pajama shirt over her brace and stood up in a motion that would have been fluid were it not for the fact that she teetered dangerously, catching herself at the last second on the post of the bed. She gritted her teeth.

She swore violently.

And then, with terrifying rigidity, unbending to the last, Yellow Diamond moved forward.

It was all she knew how to do.

One foot over the other, each step meticulously measured.

What exactly was she moving towards? The woman couldn’t very well say, much less articulate to herself in a manner that satisfied her rational faculties. Physically, it was the boy—it was the child called Steven, a stranger at the same time he was an increasingly intrusive specter in the household of the Diamonds, a ghost there with all the rest.

The simplest answer was that she wanted to see him for herself, wanted to lay eyes on the human who had miraculously healed her wife.

But the simplest answer was almost pleasant.

In the right light, it could even be construed as kind.

Yellow Diamond was many things.

 She was not, in fact, kind.

iv.

“Argh!”

It was scarcely 4AM when the sound of silence shattered with an abruptness that was quite awful. A baby’s high, inconsolable, agonized wails pitched down the narrow hallway and into the half-opened door which led into the master bedroom, where Yellow Diamond’s sleep-laden eyes opened with a start, uncomprehending of what she was hearing for a handful of disoriented seconds until her wife stirred beneath the angle of her arm. Enveloped in the lock of Yellow’s limbs as she was, Blue struggled at first to lift her head from her pillow. They wrested for a few seconds in the disoriented awkwardness of it all, but eventually, Blue propped herself up on one elbow, her long, dark hair sweeping sideways down her back.

“Pink,” she whispered unnecessarily, glancing at the clock on her bedside table. “She may need changing.”

It was more than likely then that this was true; Blue had an uncanny knack for sussing out which of their daughter’s cries corresponded to each need.

“Wait,” Yellow yawned, swiping her free hand across her tired face. “I’ll get up this time. You need to get some more sleep. Big conference today.”

Blue didn’t need any more convincing.

“I love you,” she sighed in grateful relief as she slumped back down on the pillow in a movement that wasn’t entirely graceful. “Endlessly.”

“Don’t be so affectionate yet,” Yellow teased darkly as she snuck her arm from around her wife’s curving waist. “You can cover 4AM duty tomorrow night.”

“Aye,” came a faint voice muffled by blankets. “There’s the rub.”

Yellow chuckled quietly and pressed a kiss against Blue’s warm cheek before pulling herself out of bed in a flurried mass of tired limbs, bare feet hitting the plush carpet with a thud as she unfolded into the dark air. By the time she had gained the ten or so steps to the doorway, her wife was already asleep again, her light snores drifting upwards from somewhere behind her shoulder...

The path down the hallway to Pink’s room was smooth and familiar after nearly six months of having traced it night after night, called Siren-like to the inescapable sounds of the baby’s screaming. Yellow took the trip at a jog—mostly to wake the parts of her body that the crying hadn’t already—and gently pushed upon the incompletely closed door leading into the nursery.

Softly lit by the waning beams of moonlight pouring through the high window, the crib at the center of the room seemed almost incandescent—ethereal—even if the sounds emitting from it were anything but. Her eyes still half-gummed with sleep, Yellow proceeded to the side of the cradle, bracing her fingertips on the wooden frame as she looked down at her daughter—her beloved, her beautiful, her squalling daughter, Pink Iphigenia Diamond, whose tiny, button nose was all twisted in the agony of her continuing cries, face red and wet with the exertion.

It was with a certain steadiness that Yellow bent down and brought the baby into her arms, tucking her small head gently against her neck as she patted her bottom and bounced her up and down, up and down, as she’d done so many times before.

“Shhh,” she pleaded, cupping her palm around Pink’s back. “Shh, I’m here.”

The baby continued to whine for a few more minutes still, but the intensity of the sounds lessened the longer Yellow held her and rocked, back and forth, shifting her weight from one leg to the other until the six-month old was nearly quiet in the embrace of her arms. It was then that she made quick work of changing the dirtied diaper, discarding the soiled one in the garbage, and redoing the clasps on Pink’s onesie, always cursing how many of them there seemed to be.

Now laying agreeably on the changing table as Yellow fastened the last button, Pink stared at her curiously, the tender skin around her dark eyes still edged with the trace remnant of her tears. “Between you and the alarm clock,” she told the baby sternly, “I’m never going to sleep again.”

Pink gurgled in unknowing agreement.

From the changing table, the pair of them proceeded to the rocking chair next to the crib, which Yellow flopped into quite unceremoniously, even though she was gentle, ceaselessly careful, as she cradled Pink in her arms, swathing her in the woolen blanket that White Diamond had sent from her latest retirement travels in Peru. The woman was always sending Pink expensive trinkets from sundry countries, and with them, neatly written memos about the welfare of Diamond Electric. 

Sometimes, Yellow swore her mother continued to keep up with the company’s stocks better than DE’s team of expertly trained accountants did.

She was also positively sure that this didn’t reflect well on that team of expertly trained accountants.

Between the lines of asking—(demanding)—for more pictures of Pink and declaiming—(boasting)—the exotic natures of her travels, White Diamond’s more pressing message was clear, even if it was subtle, in that overwhelmingly honeyed way of hers.

Keep moving forward.

Continue advancing.

There was never a finish line for success, and therefore, no room for complacency, so darling, my dear, keep one eye on the road and the other over your shoulder lest the wolves attack from behind…

As moonlight dripped gently upon their heads, Yellow glanced down at the now slumbering baby in her arms, whose tiny fingers failed to encompass the whole of her mother’s thumb. The glow of the night settled softly on her milk white face, darkening the freckles spread like cookie crumbs across her cheeks.

She wondered to herself, very quietly then, had her own mother ever held her like this, so softly and so tenderly in the calm of early morning?

It was absurd to imagine White Diamond as being anything other than immaculately put together, arranged in a striking jumpsuit, balancing a portfolio beneath one arm and pressing a phone against her ear with the other.

Softness, tenderness, gentleness, grace—these were not words that readily stuck themselves to her stick figure frame.

She resisted those labels.

Unfailingly mocked them.

How she’d hate to see her own daughter even now…

Pressing an almost defiant kiss against Pink’s smooth forehead, Yellow concluded that it was unlikely her mother had ever yielded to a night like this; that was what the long line of nannies and governesses had been for after all.

She didn’t feel any particular resentment at the fact; she had long made her peace with the fact that the mother-daughter relationship between them was more or less transactional, unless, of course, they were bickering and fighting.

And yet, as she rocked her own daughter in that chair which ever so slightly creaked with each rhythmic sway, Yellow pitied her mother, who—last time she had checked—was apparently drinking thousand dollar bottles of wine in Paris and still finding time to criticize her only child.

It sounded vaguely unpleasant, going through life with eyes wide open all the time, head perpetually tilted over one’s shoulder.

Surely, she thought, the woman had to be tired.

v.

If Yellow Diamond attracted one pair of eyes as she crossed the clinically white hallway, then she attracted two dozen of them as nurses, doctors, patients, and visitors alike all stopped to stare at the spectacle to which they were being treated—the city’s most renowned CEO stalking through a hospital ward, wearing golden pajamas that were somehow finished off with polished business shoes.

Whispers hissed like tiny faucets all around Yellow as the engraved numbering on the doorways increased on either side of her. 

11029.

“That’s her. Yes, I’m sure…”

11030.

“She was in a wreck, I think. Saw it in the news.”

11031.

“Looks like someone’s lit a fire under her ass.”

“Shhhsh!”

Yellow scowled, her fingers twitching irritably by her side, but nonetheless maintained a distinctly cool expression until she arrived at the fifth and equally unassuming door on the right hand side of the corridor.

11037.

The door was incompletely closed, which allowed the soft murmur of the television within to seep beneath the cracks, advertising what sounded like some… some kind of kid’s show with its high pitched voices and jaunty background music. 

For there was a kid on the other side of this door.

A mere child.

And for the first time since she had conceived of this plan—(it was hardly a plan and more of an unsubjugated impulse)—the CEO faltered, staring at the wood blankly. A choice branched before her, the very dimensions of it almost tangible as she simply stood there, on that hard-tiled floor, feeling the bareness of her own self beneath the thin layer of her pajamas, feeling the cold draft of the hospital prickling uncomfortably against the back of her neck.

She could proceed forward into the room and glean something new about her wife.

For that was what it was all about, right?

At the end of the day, at the very end of this infernal world which they had inhabited together for so many years upon years, she was whom her entire life revolved around in all of its many facets.

Blue and Blue and Blue.

(Who was this mysterious boy to give her cause to smile?)

Or, Yellow could cut her losses as they were and let this final door remain unopened; she could walk away and assuredly regroup. Burying her hurts deep beneath her skin, letting them seethe there with all the others, she could tell herself—command herself even—to be satisfied with the outcome of a battle surrendered, her weapons laid down at the threshold of the final gate that was filled with noises from a children’s television program…

Her stiff fingers reached up and gripped the polished door handle, the brass so cold that it simply burned.

And she hesitated a little.

She bit her already cut lip.

She deliberated.

She was deceiving no one but herself.

She had long already made up her mind.

Because Yellow Diamond, for all that her rigidly composed exterior implied, did not know restraint.

She had spent a lifetime and an eternity scaling mountaintops in search of the next highest peak to climb, to conquer, to revel in, to find herself alone upon.

And so, she couldn't stop.

She wouldn't stop now.

She hauled her hand downwards in a singular vicious movement.

She pushed inwards.

And the door slowly opened to a room filled with dying sunlight, orange fractures slivering onto the walls like great, yawning cuts through the slats in the window blinds.

And there, to her left, propped up in the hospital bed, was the boy named Steven, staring at her from widened eyes.

She was shameless, appalled, entirely uncomprehending; she stared at him quite wildly back.

The nakedness of shock electrified the space between them.

After all, she was a stranger who had just bursted into his room without so much as a cursory knock.

And he was���there were no other words for it—a sickly, sickly child, small and emaciated, dwarfed even by the sheets which swathed him. Wires and tubes snaked across his body, invading him all over—his oxygenated nose, his arms, his chest. There were even a few protruding from his blankets. He had curly, black hair and big, brown eyes that were sunken in his face, grooved beneath with purple shadows. 

Her wife wasn’t merely just friends with a sick kid.

(That would have been too simple, too uncomplicated, too convenient for them all.)

No, she was friends with a goddamn corpse.

The thought arrived before comprehension did, and she frowned at herself immediately, scolding.

Sickened.

Steven recovered first, hastily arranging his face into a polite smile that made one of his cheeks look swollen. With a click of his remote, he muted the show he had been watching—some kind of colorful cartoon, which, for unfathomable reasons, featured a crying egg.

Sunny side up.

“Hi,” he ventured; there was tentativeness in his voice but a certain curiosity, too. Yellow glanced to his side and only vaguely comprehended that the sunflowers she had tasked Poppy to send to him were sitting on his rolling side table, haughtily arranged in their vase. She crossed her golden-sleeved arms across her chest defensively and suddenly wished the maid hadn’t made such an appropriate choice in flora.

“Hello,” she returned abruptly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. The room was much like her own, except a little smaller, maybe. Perhaps, though, it was the presence of so many machines hovering around his bedside which offered such an illusion of confinement. They were all hooked up to him in some form or fashion, humming and whirring. “You’re Steven, yes?”

“In the flesh,” he grinned cutely. “Steven Universe to be exact.”

She stared at him incredulously. 

He had to be joking.

“What kind of name is Universe?” 

He stared at her back.

Confused.

A little indignant. 

His button nose scrunched up, quivering the oxygen cannulas.

“Well, I think it’s a good name,” he huffed. “My dad chose it for us.”

“It sounds contrived,” she returned haughtily, sniffing. 

“You’re one to talk! Your name is a pun!”

Steven Universe covered his mouth quickly then, disturbing a nest of wires at they lifted into the air with the rash gesture, but the damage was already done; it was clear, painstakingly obvious, that the boy already knew her name.

“You know who I am then?” She asked sharply, demanding confirmation all the same.

“No!” 

But when Yellow arched a supercilious brow, he broke just as quickly, uncovering his hands from his mouth and letting them fall with a dull thud on top of his blankets. “Well, I mean… not technically… but uh, you’re wearing golden pajamas, and when Blue Diamond dropped by earlier, she said that you’d been in an accident… and it wasn’t difficult to, well”—he peered at her nervously, wincing—“put two and two together… you’re Yellow Diamond, right?”

But Yellow wasn’t really listening any longer.

Because Blue Diamond had dropped by earlier.

She’d been here, talked to him.

Communed.

For some reason she could not entirely rationalize to herself, the thought of it compelled her to want to hit something; she made an awkward, jerking movement, which she only dimly recovered from by leaning her shoulder against the nearest wall, collapsing against it roughly.

“The one and only,” came her affirming reply.

She hardly knew her own voice, how bitter it was and how cruel.

Steven Universe simply stared at her in silence, his mouth parted slightly for a lack of words to say.

vi.

The years scurried forward, dashing across the sands of time with tiny, pattering feet. Pink Diamond became one became three became five in the interim and the rush, her chubby limbs elongating with each passing day that she scampered around the penthouse suite despite her mothers’ protestations—both to the scampering and to the inconceivable idea that she was growing up. She had once been so small, a minuscule bundle in the warm expanses of their arms. But now, the tuft of brown hair which had once barely covered her bald head had bloomed into a spray of curls that framed the sides of her freckle-splattered face, poking up a little at the top. 

She was a funny little creature.

Exceptionally opinionated to be so young.

She liked her ballerina lessons, but she didn’t like her instructor, who she said smelled like socks. She had a bright, high laugh that often threw itself down the echoing halls as her various caretakers chased her down their lengths. Her chosen color was pink independently of her name (though yello’ and bwue were pretty colors, too). She loved dinosaurs—how they stomped and bit and roared. Her favorite foods were chicken nuggets.

And yes, these were obviously shaped like dinosaurs.

The little elf, they all called her: the various employees of the Diamond household, her tutors, her imperial grandmother, her mothers most of all. This was partially because she resembled an elf with her slightly tapered ears and big, mischievous eyes, but it was also a nickname derived from her uncanny knack of getting into places she wasn’t supposed to be: the kitchen cupboards, her mother’s claw-footed wardrobe, her other mother’s study—often hiding beneath the mahogany desk to lie in wait for someone to scare. 

Usually a maid who was cleaning in there, but sometimes, Yellow herself if she could manage.

(Sometimes, amazingly enough, she managed.)

When the then thirty-six year old entered her office one sun-splashed autumn evening, anticipating a call from Hélène Colbert—a high-up ambassador for a steel manufacturing company in France—Yellow made a cursory glance beneath the furniture just to ensure that there was no silently giggling child tucked into the darkness there. But there was nothing—only that secluded strip of carpet and a few dust bunnies the maid had missed during her last sweep through of the study. 

Satisfied, she straightened in her chair and snatched up a nearby pen so as to jot notes on the legal pad she kept on her desk at all times.

It had been a damn good week.

If she could secure an alliance with Colbert, it would be an even better one. The steel company had a plant just off Delmarva’s coast, and if they could work out a reasonable deal, then Diamond Electric would no longer have to import the bulk of their steel supply from a few states away. It would save the company a hell of a lot of cost in overheads, and it’d make the Diamonds that much money more… 

The landline rang just as Yellow scrawled that it was September 30th on the top of a fresh page; her plump lips tipped upwards in a lazy smile as she picked up the receiver.

“Hello? Yellow Diamond, I presume?” The woman had a low, pleasant voice that rolled with her French accent.

“The one and only,” came her confident reply, and the two began to negotiate, back and forth, sparring gracefully with their words, back and forth and around the bend again. If they continued at this pace, Yellow could have an initial affidavit sent to Colbert’s office by morning… hell, she could make one of the interns drive down to Delmarva tonight.

“Thirty-five percent,” Helénè countered.

“My highest offer is twenty,” Yellow volleyed back.

And on and on.

Fifteen minutes in, just as the conversation was becoming less jocund and more argumentative, there was a dull thud against the door.

Plunk.

Yellow’s golden-eyed gazed narrowed as she stared at the diminutive crack beneath the door; a slight shadow played there, moving along the edge.

Perhaps it was that awful cat of Blue’s…. ugly creature… it shed everywhere.

“With all due respect,” the ambassador continued, irritation edging her carefully constructed words,“we would be supplying the steel for your latest line of airliners, which is no mean feat, Mrs. Diamond. We deserve at least thirty percent of the cut.”

“Steel you only manufacture for less than ten percent of the cost it requires for Diamond Electric to actually produce the planes in the first place,” Yellow reminded her smugly.

“That’s—!” Hélène seemed to be rendered temporarily speechless. DE’s accountants had done their due diligence when it came to researching the company.”That’s beside the—“

Plunk.

Plunk.

The door was rattled again—twice. Hélène paused mid-blustering tirade; apparently, this time, she had heard it, too.

“Pardon?”

Plunk.

Plunk.

“Excuse me,” Yellow said shortly, her jaw locking. “Let me just handle this… I won’t be more than a moment—“

Straightening from her chair, Yellow Diamond placed the receiver on her desk and swept to the door in a few magisterial clicks of her heels, wrenching the knob violently. If it was that damned cat again—

It was not the damned cat.

The swinging doorway gave way to none other than Pink Diamond, who was sitting crosslegged on the hardwood floor, a bouncy ball caught between her grubby fingertips, the unmistakable expression of guilt caught between the freckles spanning her face. The triangle of light from the study fanned across her tiny form; she crouched in her mother’s lengthened shadow.

“Pink!” The word pried itself loose from her mouth more harshly than she had intended. (Hélène Colbert was on the line… they were so close to securing a deal… she didn’t have time to deal with childish trifles… her nerves prickled just beneath her skin.) “What are you doing?”

“Playin’!” The child smiled sheepishly, her gapped teeth revealing themselves with the gesture. She lifted the toy and just as abruptly let it go, where it crashed to the floor with a massive plunk. “Ball!”

“Where’s Sonya?” She glanced down the hall, as though expecting the day governess’s tall form to suddenly materialize at the end of it, stammering her obsequious apologies. “Why aren’t you in the playroom?”

Pink tilted her head uncomprehendingly as the ball landed with yet another echoing thud; the cavernous ceilings did little to mitigate the acoustics of the sound.

“I don’ know…”

“Well”—she pinched the bridge of her nose in a concerted effort to stem her annoyance—“go and find her, honey. Momma’s working.”

“But I don’t wanna play with Sonya! I wanna play with you!”

“I can’t—“

“But why, Momma?” The child wheedled.

“I told you,” she said it forcefully—she almost growled it—as though she expected the five-year old to grasp the nuances of a rational refusal. Couldn’t she see that her mother was busy? “I’m working.”

“But—!”

“ Pink, ” she snapped, slamming her hand against the doorframe, “ not now! ”

The child's protestations were snatched into silence.

Horrible, gaping, protracted silence.

And then, there was a tiny sniff.

A trembling lip.

Yellow Diamond realized seconds too late that she had gone too far, had crossed the invisible line between scolding her daughter and yelling at her— scaring her. Pink Diamond’s face reddened immediately, the beginnings of tears standing in her eyes, her tiny chest heaving in the telltale signs that she was about to cry.

“Wait, dammit—Pink, don’t—“ But any words of comfort were stifled in her mouth as Sonya finally came running down the dark hall from the direction of the playroom, her horn-rimmed glasses askew, dark strands of hair falling out of her usually meticulous bun. She scooped the child in her arms, uttering her excuses rapidly between every one of Pink’s awful cries, which were now freely being wept. “—playing hide and go seek… got away from me… so sorry, Mrs. Diamond… won’t happen again.” 

“Sonya. I mean, Pink. I—“

But before she could finish objecting, could explain, could thoroughly justify why she had made her daughter cry, the lithe governess had already pivoted in the opposite direction just as quickly as she had come, stroking Pink’s feathery hair and whispering soft words of consolation against her head, for the child had buried her face in Sonya’s turtleneck.

Like ghosts, they disappeared together around the corner.

And in the resulting quietness, the remaining darkness, Yellow glanced down.

Pink’s bouncy ball remained—red, abandoned, and ultimately harmless now without the agitations of its owner.

She kicked it away to release some of her feelings.

It plunked, plunked, plunked down the empty hall.

Slightly disoriented, irate, her chest prickling, the CEO eventually returned to her study, closing the door behind her with a click and apprehending the receiver again, where Hélène Colbert had waited, her silky voice armed with renewed rebuttals as to why the deal needed to be renegotiated. They sparred, and they fought, and Yellow unsheathed the best and worst that her blunt tongue had to offer.

And when they finally closed half-an-hour later, with Hélène swallowing twenty-five percent as pleasantly as she could manage without breaking the decorum of her own forced politeness, Yellow Diamond poured herself a celebratory glass of Moscato and reminded herself that she deserved it.

Pink was only a child.

She couldn’t possibly understand…

One day, though…

When she was older…

vii.

The silence staggered thin between the two of them for what seemed like an infinity, and within its breadth, for the first time since she’d woken up that morning in an unfamiliar bed, Yellow wanted to collapse beneath the weight of her own tiredness.

She was exhausted.

She was always exhausted.

When had there ever been a moment, in four goddamn years, when she had not been a corpse cruelly animated by the beating of a heart that was exhausted—spent, empty, irreparably, irretrievably drained?

Her entire body was the bruise that she leaned all her weight upon simply by standing upright as she met Steven Universe’s shy gaze in that crowded hospital room. The wall propped her up, rescued her, preserved what was left of her fragmented dignity; fleetingly, she thought of Blue Diamond’s silver cane.

“So…” Yellow hesitated, reluctant, unsure, lingeringly bitter. She attempted to subjugate these vulnerabilities into a voice that only barely managed to pass as level. “… my wife came by.”

She supposed, in the end, that it wasn’t this child’s fault that her marriage was on the brink of dissolution.

And so she concluded, if this indeed was the case, that she frankly couldn’t hold it against him.

(For the most part.)

“Not for very long,” Steven offered quickly, as though he thought that would help. “She looked really tired… she said she’d been in your room all night.”

It wasn’t lost upon Yellow Diamond how remarkable of an image that must have been: Blue sitting by her side—diligent, solemn, studiously concerned, her silvery brow skimming the tops of her oceanic eyes. For years, it had precisely been the other way around with them, the vigils she had observed by her wife’s calcified form long and unbroken. The sun would spread its arms around the morning sky, washing pink across Yellow’s weary face in gentle, ritual greeting. She would get up then, from the hardback chair where she sometimes sat, and begin her day anew: drink a cup of coffee, arm herself in a three piece suit, make business calls, go to the office, and call Livia constantly throughout the day for updates. Rinse, wash, repeat.

Sometimes, she would kiss Blue’s wrinkled forehead before she left.

Other times, she couldn’t bear to so much as look at her.

Acid would rise up the column of her throat.

Anger would scrape her fingers into fists.

Resentment.

It simply poisoned her.

Rinse, wash, repeat.

“I see,” Yellow returned unimpressively, glancing downwards; there was a scuff mark on one of her shoes, aberrant and unfathomable. (There were so many scuff marks across the neatly polished contours of her life; she could see every one of them clearly now, how they pulsed, how they bled, how they so inexorably bruised.)

Steven shifted in the bed as much as the tubes encumbering him would allow.

She looked up again.

“Blue also said you hadn’t been injured too badly… but I’m really sorry you were hurt in the first place.”

He paused uncertainly; the silence limped forward between them; it dared to approach.

The child had big eyes, brown and rather deep, even though they were sunken in unnatural hollows.

Pink’s eyes had been brown, too, chocolate smooth.

Playful and mischievous and kind.

The parallel did not invite comfort.

She would never see her daughter again.

“Are… are you okay?” He asked, his voice soft.

Tender.

It extended a warm hand across the silence between them; it tried to breach the gap. And this, above all, was the most inscrutable behavior to the practically minded businesswoman. This, above all else, simply galled her. Steven Universe didn't know her. In the three minutes since she had arrived here, she'd done nothing more than rudely abused his name, and still, he tried to breach the gap. Still, he was kind.

“You look like you’re... tired.”

“What’s it to you?” Yellow shot back instinctively, the words forsaking her before restraint held them back. Ashamed, irritated, weary, exhausted—she was always exhausted—she rubbed a chastising hand across her mouth, the heel of her palm rough against her lips. “I mean—shouldn’t I be the one asking you that? You don’t appear so rosy yourself.”

Even though she had just insulted him (again), Steven laughed, his bright eyes cutting through the gray flatness of the room. 

“Maybe not,” he grinned, “but that’ll change soon enough… I’m getting kidneys today!”

He puffed his chest out proudly.

His smile, incredibly enough, widened.

And in that moment, his joy, his happiness, his unburdened, unmitigated relief was almost so tangible, that Yellow Diamond could barely stand to look at it. Painted in broad strokes all over his sunken face, it was impossible to miss. 

Dying, somehow, he was the most alive entity in the room.

“You are?”

“Yup,” he laughed—exuberant, simply radiant. It was simply spilling from him now. “We just got the news this morning. Dr. M—she’s my nephrologist—she’s gone to get them… oh, but you wouldn’t know Dr. M… Dr. Maheswaran, I mean. She’s really…”

He babbled on.

It was inconceivable to Yellow Diamond—downright unfathomable—that he could be so buoyant and light, ensnared by so many running tubes and wires as he was, buried beneath them, dependent upon them, trapped. She tried to comprehend how he could nurse such pure emotions in a world that had been nothing but unkind to him. Always a rationalist, even to the bitter end of a universe which made no sense, she attempted to understand how anyone could still find it in themselves to be so good.

But when comprehension failed her—as it so rarely didn’t—she itched to be away from him.

The feeling swelled in her chest.

It choked her.

And yet, the woman couldn’t look away either, drawn, magnetized, inexplicably compelled like a flower leaning towards the sun, bent towards its light and warmth.

Was this what Blue Diamond had sought when she had befriended Steven Universe—this travesty of a human, this mere child?

Was she, too, looking for some of his sunshine to grasp onto, to bask in, to claim and call her own? 

And if this hypothesis had merit—as so many of her hypotheses often did—then how could Blue Diamond possibly stand it?

(Blue, who had stretched out in the darkness of their unshared room for so long. Blue, who had decomposed in a bier of a bed that had been made for two. Blue, whose long face was lined with weary shadows. Blue, who was but a mere shadow herself. Insubstantial. Spectral. Going but never entirely gone.)

Steven Universe’s face, the very expression in it, was sunshine.

It was unbearable.

It was irresistible.

And it was unmistakable most of all.

Tenderness and goodness and an eruption of kindling, all-encompassing warmth—they had long evaded Yellow Diamond’s searching grasp, and now they stared at her openly, from the face of a small child in a hospital bed. 

He smiled at her, and somehow, the very act of it was miraculous.

Because he, too, had been wrung out by the machinations of the world—he, too, knew its cruel hands, its ceaselessly grinding gears—and somehow, even still, he smiled.

The thought came to her, unbidden, that she once knew a child who would have done the same.

“Everyone’s so happy,” Steven finished, slumping backwards in his bed. It appeared as though the simple act of talking had worn him out.

The heart monitor on the wall fluttered a little more rapidly than sounded normal.

“And I’m also happy… and a little sad… but happy at the same time.” His brow furrowed as though it, too, was confused by the contradiction of emotions he was seemingly experiencing.

He coughed into the back of his hand, and the sound was rather terrible; it wrenched his entire body in a convulsive motion.

Yellow stared at him baldly while he caught his breath.

“I get the happiness,” she returned bluntly. (She didn’t really get it at all, but she wanted to—she was desperate to—and perhaps that made up for some of the difference.) “But why the sadness?”

He was going to get to live, and so that was the end all, be all, was it not?

Herein marked the end of his struggles?

Forever and ever—amen?

But the boy’s expression suddenly became modest again; he glanced away, a dull pink just barely layering itself over his cheeks which had ever so slightly paled further from when he had coughed.

“Well… I mean, everything happy is always a little sad, too, isn’t it?” He asked, and it was clear from the tone of his voice that he wasn’t particularly looking for an answer. “S-someone… died, so I could get their kidneys… and I guess… you know… that’s something to be sad about, even when I can be happy at the same time.”

Yellow Diamond hadn't expected this.

In all the tortured imaginations she had given to the faceless boy over the past couple of days, agonizing over who he was, and tormenting herself over what could be so special about him, and half-convincing herself that there was probably nothing really extraordinary about him at all, she hadn’t anticipated—in all her haste, her haughtiness, her great offense—to be proven wrong.

Because the words he had just spoken complicated everything she had hoped to confirm in the child.

For he was sage beyond his years.

His face looked as though as it was about a hundred years old.

He seemed to understand, in a more intimate way than Yellow had ever grasped in an entire lifetime, that emotions were not binaries, nor were they monoliths unto themselves.

It was entirely possible, Steven Universe said, to be happy and sad at exactly the same time.

It was possible, Poppy Aurelia had implied, to be neither good nor bad but some mixture in-between. 

It was human, very likely, to experience so many things all at once: grief and joy and aching relief and horror and kindness and sadness and warmth.

Perhaps then, it was conceivable… rational even… that she could worship the very ground her wife walked upon and still be angry with her.

She could be goddamned relieved that she was doing better and equally bitter that it hadn’t been because of her.

She could love Blue Diamond and wonder why she hadn’t been enough.

Why they hadn't been.

The realization staggered her.

Simply undid her.

And perhaps the naked emotion must have shown across her face because Steven winced, as though he had perceived he had done something wrong.

“I’m sorry… was that too much?” He asked, averting his eyes. “I know that’s kinda, like, weird to think about.”

“No,” Yellow Diamond replied immediately, and she was surprised to discover that her voice wasn’t entirely unkind.

Her lips jerked.

It wasn’t a smile, but it wasn’t quite a frown either.

“No…” She repeated distantly, and somehow, the sound became softer in the ensuing echo. “It wasn’t too much at all.”

In fact, maybe, just maybe, it had precisely been enough.

“D’you want to sit down?” He asked softly, inclining his head towards the empty chair next to his bed. “I don’t think my folks’ll be back for a bit…”

His smile was its own invitation.

It tilted lopsided across his mouth.

Yellow hesitated, and she chewed on it, and she ultimately shook her head, inadvertently loosening a crick in her stiff neck.

“Well," she said dryly, "I suppose I have nothing else better to do.”

Blast him and damn him, Steven Universe simply beamed.

viii.

“Here, Starlight.” Extending a skeletal hand from the swaths of woolen blankets covering her lap, White Diamond pressed a handful of quarters into her granddaughter’s outstretched palm. Caught by the stark, gray light leaning in from the window, the matriarch’s complexion seemed especially frail and powdery next to the thirteen-year old’s smooth, unbroken skin. “Take these and buy yourself something interesting from the vending machine.”

“Thank you, Gran,” Pink returned hastily, flustered, flushing, pleasantly surprised. She, like her mother, had expected this visit to comprise of White lecturing her over the tiniest details: her dyed hair, the length of her shorts, the couple of piercings running up the length of her ear. But instead, she was being handed a readymade out after only ten minutes of being informed that she needed to buy clothes that didn’t have artistic tears in them. Her fingers flashed to a close on top of the coins before she unceremoniously shoved them in the back pocket of her “too-scant, hardly appropriate, vaguely promiscuous” shorts, where they jangled next to each other with a telltale clink.

“Just avoid the crackers, darling. They’re awfully stale.” White’s darkly painted lips curled upwards in an encouraging smile. “And take care not to choose anything too sugary either. Heaven knows the damage you could wreak upon your teeth.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Pink grinned—(her grandmother didn’t catch the implicit sarcasm)—before she flounced off, the heels of her red sneakers clipping against the tiled floor with each exuberant movement.

A door opened, and a door just as abruptly closed, and the cheerful footsteps died down the hall, leaving Yellow Diamond alone with her eighty-two year old mother.

There was silence then.

Strained.

Fraught.

And a wordless tango that only the two of them knew. 

They stared at each other coldly, appraising each other without so much as saying a single word—one sitting stiffly in a fancily upholstered armchair, while the other somehow wore her wheelchair like a throne. The matriarch’s bony elbows rested judiciously upon the armrests, fingers templed delicately beneath her pointed chin. Her spiked hair was combed back in its usual fashion, voluminous and almost wild looking, rather like the mane of a lion. 

It was an impressive effect—it always was with White Diamond—marred only by the unexpected context of her surroundings. Ritzy though the Spire certainly was—by plebeian standards anyway—it was still an assisted living home, and because it was an assisted living home, because it implied age and dependence and a lack of self-possession, it was an affront to the founder and former CEO of a Fortune 500 company.

Desultory to the regal majesty with which she had always comported herself.

Offensive.

“I was beginning to believe you had forgotten me,” White began, the sugar in her voice acquiring a crystallized edge. “What has it been? Two weeks? Three? Forgive me for not knowing the intimate details, dear. Senility, you know.”

“Please,” Yellow rolled her eyes. “Spare me the histrionics, Mother. This is a temporary arrangement until—“

But White interrupted sharply, breaking the bond of her hands to wave one airily. “Until my physician concurs that I have fully recovered from an incident that I could have perfectly rehabilitated from in the comforts of my own manor. Yes, I am well aware.”

Nine weeks ago, she had stroked out and only barely survived to complain about the tale. She laid in a hospital bed for weeks upon weeks. It had only been luck, if such serendipity existed in an unthinking, unfeeling world, that the maid was cleaning that day, that she’d found her employer stretched out across the marbled floor in the kitchen.

The line of Yellow’s pursed lips thinned.

“You’re being too cavalier,” she said bluntly, shifting a little in her chair. “You almost died.”

“Yes, well, I didn’t, and now I’m here, and my own daughter can hardly spare a moment from her schedule to visit her poor mother in the nursing home she consigned her to.”

“Your doctor recommended—“ She began hotly.

“My doctor, wuss that he is,” White cut across her again, her thin nostrils flaring ever so slightly, “indicated that the fate of my whereabouts rested in your capable hands, and I see that you have chosen to wash them both free of me, a Pontius Pilate arranged in an Armani suit. How charmingly novel.”

Each word was expertly chosen, a weapon drenched in syrup so sweet, that to swallow it, was saccharine.

Silence simmered between them again, electric like exposed wires seething through the air. 

They challenged each other with nothing more than their eyes.

They waged a quiet war.

And Yellow lost.

Spectacularly.

A recurring theme when it came to her mother.

“I’ll arrange for you to be sent home tomorrow,” she folded, her voice clipped, almost petulant. Her arms covered her chest so tightly that she imagined she was leaving an impression exactly upon the spot where they laid.

“Thank you,” White returned, equally curt. “That is all I have asked for.”

Then cut.

End scene. 

Cue the curtain descending upon a familiar stage.

This was how appointments with her mother usually concluded after all, with her asserting the final word and Yellow tucking tail to run, hide, nurse her shining wounds, and pretend that they had never been inflicted in the first place come the next morning.

But then, complicating everything that Yellow had ever known about her, upending every assumption she had ever made in forty-four years of having been her daughter, White Diamond did something quite unexpected.

She sighed, the sound filtering thinly through her nostrils.

It was just a sigh, but it was also an implicit gesture of vulnerability.

An admission to weakness from a woman who had marketed her entire persona upon being impenetrable.

And the both of them knew it.

Rather than acknowledge it, though, White glanced away immediately, staring out into the wide window which stood next to her wheelchair. The pale light gently touched her face, bringing the lines etched into those leathery folds into starker definition. Countless botox injections and cosmetic surgeries had not entirely worked their magic, for Yellow saw, in that protracted moment—viscerally understood—that her mother was getting old, if she was not considered old already.

The thought gripped her.

Inexplicably stung.

On top of her blankets, the ridges of the matriarch’s bony fingers trembled slightly against an invisible cold.

“Mother…?”

“Starlight is getting so tall these days,” White murmured, as though Yellow hadn’t said anything at all. “You were tall, too, when you were her age, I believe… but you always slumped your shoulders, dear, and it detracted from the effect. I scolded you when I caught you at it.”

A chill that had nothing to do with the autumnal day collapsed down Yellow’s rigid spine. She had never once, in so many unflappable years, ever heard her mother engage in nostalgia, an emotion she had always more or less derided to be regressive.

Looking backwards, after all, distracted from the now.

White’s ebony gaze never left the window, though she continued to speak, her voice ever sharp but somehow, simultaneously distant .

Detached.

As though the two women, scarcely four feet apart though they were, occupied two different realms of existence.

“I scolded you tor so many trifles, Yellow,” she went on, giving no visual indication that she remembered her daughter was in the room. “Your grades, your occasionally taciturn personality, the very way you spoke sometimes, fearing naturally that your youthful shortcomings would reflect upon our hallowed name.”

“Mother,” she tried again.

Yellow wanted it to stop.

For nearly five decades, their relationship had been a contract that they had both meticulously observed, and now, before her very eyes, White Diamond was ripping it cleanly asunder.

She was looking back, and she was sighing.

This wasn't how things were supposed to go; this wasn't how their world turned.

“You don’t have to—“

“And maybe,” White Diamond hummed, the sound glasslike, almost fragile in that light filled room, “I scolded you too often. I instituted so many boundaries upon your life and nary gave you a means to shake them… goodness knows I likely didn’t intend you to… you are, after all, everything I ever dreamed in a progeny—successful, confident, shining… but I wonder… mmm, I suppose… no… no…”

She trailed off then.

The words fell emptily to the ground and laid, injured, at her slipper-enclosed feet.

Yellow Diamond attempted to pick them up the best that she could, though they shivered in her palms.

“You did your best, Mother,” she said, her voice strained.

Small.

She almost felt like a child again, standing outside her mother’s study, hoping to be let in.

“That counts for something, yes?”

There was a pleading note in her voice.

She loathed it.

She despised herself.

She had long since convinced herself she didn’t need her mother’s approval to illuminate the successes of her life, and yet, here she was—forty-odd years later, still begging for it, nearly on her hands and knees to get it.

White Diamond sighed again, the gesture infinitesimal. She never quite divorced her eyes from the window. Mist swirled across the flat expanse just beyond the glass, smoking the world beyond it silver, shroud gray.

“You should take a day off every now and then,” she only replied. “Accompany Starlight to buy less vixen-like clothes. Perhaps arrange a vacation between the three of you. Paris is always lovely in the fall.”

It was unexplainable, even to herself, but anger suddenly seared her chest as she realized what White was driving at.

“Mother—“

But before she could continue, before she could defend herself against White Diamond’s unsubtle accusations, before she could point out the hypocrisy of it all coming from her of all people, the door opened again. Pink came back in laughing—she was always laughing—boasting of her acquisition of the last pack of gummies in the vending machine.

And in all the commotion, washed beneath the noise, Yellow almost didn’t catch the words that slipped from the side of White Diamond's pinched mouth.

“Maybe I should have taken you to Paris, too.”

ix.

The adjustment from the wall to the chair next to Steven's bed came with no small relief, her body reveling in the sensation of finally being able to rest her tired bones. For Yellow, admit it though she never would, had overexerted herself, had walked too long and stood for even longer. As subtly as she could manage, she massaged the outer part of her right thigh where it had struck the side of the door during the wreck.

Without really knowing it, she knew—almost certainly—that the impact had left a bruise.

(Oh, well.)

(It could join all the rest—the contusions and scrapes and cuts and aberrant scuff marks.)

(Just another quantity more in the collection of open wounds that made up her life, that haunted it, haunted her.)

Careful not to disturb any of the lines and tubes which tethered him to so many humming machines, Steven Universe painstakingly twisted his tiny body to stare at her through the rails of his hospital bed.

And Yellow Diamond stared at him just as intensely back.

And somehow, quite instinctively, she gleaned the impression that he pitied her.

She shrunk uncomfortably beneath the emotion.

Protestation immediately sprang to her defense.

But in the end, he was kind; he only asked her a simple question.

“You sent me those flowers, didn’t you?”

With a small smile, he tilted his head to the tray which now stood directly in front of Yellow, where honeyed light from the window caught the petals of so many sunflowers crowded in a blue vase. She cursed Poppy once again for choosing such a metaphorically apt arrangement; she despised, viscerally, how one of the flowers seemed to drip below its peers, its long neck broken.

Hopeless.

Pathetic.

“And what of it?” She asked stiffly. Irascibility remained her go-to safeguard against uncomfortable questions, all those pesky, prying things. “That’s simply what you do when someone is in the hospital. You send flowers. You tell them to get well.”

But, once again, Steven was brighter than she had initially given him credit for because his rebuttal was such that even the Zircons couldn’t have refuted it, prodigious at making counterarguments though they were.

“Sure,” he grinned, mischievous, shit-eating. His dark eyes twinkled with his own playfulness. “But that’s not really something you do for total strangers, right?"

No, no in fact, it was not.

Damn him.

“At ease, Sherlock,” Yellow scoffed, simply fuming. She half-hated this child still. She crossed her arms over her chest and felt as though she would never unbend them from her stony frame again. “You only received them because of your relationship to my wife, of what you mean to her.”

But even the very mention of Blue Diamond did something to her, transformed her in the instant it took to articulate her existence.

Her golden eyes softened.

Her hands clenched on top of her lap.

And she was weak; she almost felt indecent; she glanced away.

“You mean a lot to her,” Yellow shrugged, hesitant, almost childish. It was childish to talk about one's emotions in such a bald way. “And that, in return, means something to me.”

She could feel his dark eyes settle upon her, sensed the intensity of them, the quiet warmth, and once again, the hackles of all her best self-defenses attempted to stir to her aid, dull anger writhing in the pit of her stomach.

She stared outside the window, at the indigo drapes that were pulling themselves over an orange sky, and tried to master herself.

She returned her gaze to the sunflowers almost against her will.

And found yet another thing to hate about the whole arrangement.

How the vase was midnight blue.

“You... you mean a lot to her, too, you know,” Steven whispered. Each word fought to be heard over the sounds of the many machines which kept him alive, but still, they fought; they ached to be heard. “She loves you… she’s just… she’s—”

“What?” Yellow pounced upon the words harshly. She clung to every last one of them as though they promised the secrets of the universe in their hesitant syllables. She didn't even attempt to strangle her question into a murmur to match Steven's own.

She was desperate.

Craven.

Blue Diamond loves me, but what?

What unspoken things remained in the gulf between them? (There were so many, likely too many to ever really surmount.)

What final barrier tore their collective world asunder?

(Was it Pink? Was it grief? Was it Yellow herself? Perhaps, simply enough, it was everything; it was all.)

Steven was gentle, almost apologetic, as he proffered an answer.

"She's... forgotten how to say it, I think," he said. "And she's trying... she's really trying... to remember how."

It was three mere words.

They were trite and cliché; every child knew them.

I and love and you.

And yet, for the first time in four years, Yellow understood her wife perfectly; she knew that it could hardly be as uncomplicated as that.

For it was those same three words that never came easy, even if they were said, even if they were masterfully articulated.

Because love was not a string of syllables.

It was not a phrase, nor a trivial, commercialized thing.

It was bigger than that, grander and more terrible.

More inconceivably profound than three words could ever possibly hope to suggest.

Love was action.

It was light and touch and sound.

I and love and you.

"I love her too." The words came before Yellow Diamond ever really registered them; they seized at her constricted sternum; they eviscerated her raw throat.

"... but you've forgotten how to say it," Steven finished for her.

Yes.

But she couldn't bring herself to admit it, so she nodded thickly, and somehow knew, from the way that he smiled sadly at her, that Steven Universe understood.

x.

Dusk fell through the high window in Yellow’s study in strange shafts of amber light, illuminating the stack of papers she was attempting to decipher in the growing dimness. Her readers sliding down the edge of her nose, her mouth moved soundlessly to the heavy cadence of the words, the words, the words—but her tiredness unmoored her; her comprehension only barely kept pace with the speed with which her eyes skimmed the long sentences. So it was a relief when a faint knock at the door gave her a tailored excuse to set the damn thing down for a brief moment. 

Indeed, she was so glad not to be reading a dense passage on consumer statistics, that she forgot to sound irate at being interrupted.

“Come in,” she called, her voice hoarse from hours of disuse.

Obligingly, the heavy door creaked inwards, and there, in the triangle of light thrown forwards by the lamp on Yellow’s desk, stood Pink Diamond in that ratty, old hoodie that Blue so despised, a pencil caught in her feathery pink hair, an apologetic smile caught on her lips. She had only recently turned seventeen a few weeks ago, and for some reason, right then and there, it struck Yellow Diamond that it absolutely showed. 

Gone were the traces of baby fat from the girl’s heart shaped face, replaced by a certain angularity which bore the trace distinctions of pride, confidence, and the beginnings of a distinct ego. Gone were the gapped teeth that had defined many of the photos from her childhood. Gone were the awkwardly lanky limbs that had made her so self-conscious during her tween years; as she entered the office, her movements were graceful, shaped by all those years of ballerina lessons. She walked on the tips of her toes, gliding silently across the wooden slats.

Her daughter had grown up somewhere in the rush of so many years.

And somehow, it had escaped the woman’s attendant notice.

Was it not just yesterday that she had fit perfectly in Yellow’s arms, cooing at her softly through the darkness?

Was it really today that she presented herself before her mother as a young woman, so close to becoming an adult and simultaneously so far from actually being one?

Pink broke the trance first by collapsing into the armchair in front of Yellow’s desk, pulling her spindly legs up from the floor, so that she could cross them. There was a My Little Pony bandage on her left knee where she had only recently scraped herself trying to shave.

For some reason that she couldn’t entirely articulate to herself, the presence of it soothed the businesswoman.

Reassured her, perhaps, that there were some parts of the child who still remained.

“Well, Mother,” Pink sighed heartily, “I’ve finished my History essay. Can I go to Carmen’s party now?”

Carmen Luíz, as Yellow knew, was both a classmate of Pink’s at the private school she attended and the daughter of two wealthy business executives who were highly reputed in all the important social circles as parents who let their underaged daughter throw raucous parties in their manor on Wide Island any time they found it upon themselves to celebrate their wealth by taking vacations.

They often celebrated their wealth.

Yellow exhaled through her nose and returned to her papers; the paragraph on statistics hadn’t become any less incomprehensible in the couple of seconds it had taken for Pink to ask her asinine question.

“My answer hasn’t changed since the last time,” she returned, her voice clipped as she adjusted her readers, pushing them back on her nose. “You know my position on parties.”

“But—“ 

“But nothing, Pink.” Yellow never entirely looked up, uncapping her favorite red pen to make a few scratch marks on the packet. They were less in the service of productivity than they were the illusion of it. “My word is final.”

Pink fell silent; she knew better than to cross her mother’s carefully drawn lines so late at night; instead, she picked sullenly at one of her mismatched socks, the pink one with patterns of roses embroidered across the cloth.

Yellow scowled, partially in response to the particularly dense sentence she was trying to divine meaning from, and partially because she hated when her daughter grew taciturn. It was a tactic which worked well enough on Blue when Blue was feeling merciful, but she, on the other hand, had as much tolerance for moping as she did country music—which was to say little all.

“Is there anything else you needed?” She asked pointedly, glancing up once more. “I’m rather busy—”

But her daughter’s dark eyes had shifted away, her ever veering attention suddenly caught by a point of interest somewhere just behind Yellow’s shoulder. Yellow followed her gaze slowly and immediately understood that she was staring at the photograph perched on the shelf there; the sunset caught the edges of the silver frame and swept an orange hue over the subject it contained.

With a faint jolt in her stomach, she recognized it at once—a picture of White Diamond holding Pink on her third birthday. The two of them were sidled together in an armchair, the toddler sitting on her grandmother’s lap. White looked ever impeccable in a stunning black jumpsuit, which was cinched at her tiny waist with a silver belt. She wrapped her bare arms around Pink and placed the point of her sharp chin atop of that abundant spray of brown curls.

Meanwhile, Pink was laughing in the image, her childlike exuberance radiating across the space of so many elapsed years, her face covered in what looked like the vestiges of chocolate cake.

A smile that was remarkably genuine pulled at the corners of White Diamond’s black lips.

Somehow, amazingly enough, her eyes creased pleasantly beneath all the botox.

It was the happiest Yellow had ever seen her own mother, and perhaps that was why she kept the reminder in her study.

It was a testament to the damn near miracle that the woman hadn't entirely been made of ice and burnished steel.

That she had loved—incrementally, sparingly, meticulously—in the best way that she knew how.

“Gran,” Pink murmured, a small smile threatening to disturb her freckles. “I’d forgotten she always wore a lot of eyeliner.”

“When I was younger,” Yellow returned slyly, “she used to inform me that there was no point in putting on makeup unless it was to create an intimidating effect.”

“Which explains the black lipstick,” Pink laughed, miming the act of drawing a smile across her lips with an invisible tube.

“Precisely.” Her own laugh was like a bark, short and rather blunt. Amusement climbed up her chest and nostalgia—the press of so many memories in the span of a handful of seconds.

But then, to her horror, there was a lump in her throat that had nothing to do with either emotion.

White Diamond had only died a year ago, but sometimes, only sometimes, the fact of it still caught Yellow off guard when she was least expecting it. 

It had been her time.

Assuredly.

Absolutely.

She had been eighty-five.

She had had another stroke.

But still, the woman—her mother—for all her many faults, had always been there—the stubbornly unyielding presence at her shoulder.

Unshakeable.

Invincible.

Some days, it registered with Yellow a little more forcibly than usual that she would never pick up the phone again to be treated to a forty-five minute lecture on production inefficiencies at Diamond Electric.

And more often than not, this realization did not come on the heels of relief.

“It’s weird,” Pink said quietly, voicing what her mother had silently been thinking, “but sometimes, I kinda forget that she’s gone, you know? She only dropped by so rarely… it’s almost like she could still be vacationing in Rome, Milan, Tokyo, or any of her other favorite wine spots.”

She had many favorite wine spots.

“Yes, well”—with some effort, Yellow pulled her head back to its forward position—“that feeling goes away eventually.”

She tried to glance down at her packet again.

The words glittered malevolently beneath the lamp.

“I mean,” Pink pressed softly, “I don’t know… it’s kind of comforting to think she’s still out there somewhere, right? I-I know she’s not, but, like—“

“You’re right,” she returned flatly. “She’s not…”

The dismissal in her voice was clear.

She dared to glance up again and saw that an embarrassed flush had scrawled itself across Pink’s cheeks. But this time, the teenager obediently unfolded from her seat, stretching her limbs high over her head before bringing them down by her sides.

“Yeah… I’m just being silly,” she said, glancing away. “I’m going to go see if Mom’ll edit my essay for me. My conclusion paragraph’s shit.”

“I wouldn’t count on it, dear.” Yellow penned yet another useless mark on her paper. “You know how she feels about plagiarism.”

“True,” Pink smirked, regaining some of her youthful jauntiness, “but she hates the idea of me making anything less than an A even more.”

“Touché.”

The door opened and then closed once again, leaving Yellow Diamond alone in an office full of dusk and dust and thin, fading light. With as much delicacy as she could spare in the silent seconds that followed, she replaced her pen on top of her desk and templed her hands lightly on top of her stomach, breathing in deeply.

Exhaling harshly through her nose.

Perhaps it was the rationalist in her—militant, rigid, almost unfailingly correct—who took no comfort from the fantasy that her dead mother was still somewhere in the world, enjoying a fruity cocktail, smiling lazily beneath a European sun.

Or perhaps it was the pain which such an image inexplicably wrought.

Subtle, though sharp to even prod.

For there was no comfort in death, no assuaging its keen sting.

There was only the coldness of its reality, the aching bitterness, the confrontation of an unassailable truth...

But perhaps she had been premature in teaching Pink that.

Perhaps she had been too hasty in preventing her from holding on to one last childish daydream more.

After all, the seventeen-year old had plenty of time to grow up—to learn, to know, to intimately understand that the world turned viciously, perpetuating its endless cycles over and over again—recapitulating them.

It turned and turned and turned.

And sometimes, all they could do was turn with it.

[moonmarrowed]

@espektros​ ( if u think i waSNT going to write u a starter for diar u were sorely mistaken )

❛ there is so much i wish to tell you, ❜ the world has begun to fall apart around him ( jealousy gnaws at his heart / he will never be enough / he yearns to be ), but one person is constant. in this, the artist finds ... ah, he finds a whirlwind of emotion ( yearning / he knows that beautiful things can be so indifferent / he does not deserve the loyalty he has been given ). it is childhood admiration that has bloomed faster than he could’ve ever imagined. crimson ink spilled across the parchment. yes, he is so very envious. yes, he is so deeply in love. ❛ ... i ... ❜ 

❛ diarmuid, you brought me back here, right? ❜ blue-green eyes still reflect passion, dreams ( oh, he will always be a dreamer! / a heart with limitless love, if only he is allowed to give it ). even with his body in such a sorry state, there is something to try to live for, right? right before him. ❛ you came to save me. even though you had no need to — ❜ sola-ui had been used as a source for mana, a plan kayneth had hoped would allow him to fight to his fullest, too — one that kept his lancer alive and well. thank god. ❛ ... thank you — for this ... although i fear i have nothing to offer you as a reward. not like this; what could i give but ... ah, no, i can’t imagine it would be something you would want. ❜ 

[remywrites5]

jegulus???

Regulus carefully shifted the cake he was holding to one hand so that with the other he could knock on the door. Today was the day. He was finally going to tell James how he felt about him. He had been crushing on him ever since James had become Sirius’ flatmate. When Regulus had been helping Sirius move into his flat for Uni he had met and immediately started having feelings for James Potter.

           James had been enthusiastic and sweet as they’d carried boxes into the flat, taking a break from moving his own stuff in and helping them out with some of the heavier furniture. He’d also taken his shirt off after getting too sweaty at one point and Regulus had nearly died because he’d never seen someone with abs in person before.

           After everything was out of the van, the three of them had ordered a pizza and sat on the floor eating it as neither James nor Sirius had brought a sofa or a table but they did have three televisions and several gaming consoles between them because priorities. They didn’t have plates either and had to keep their pieces of pizza on a paper towel. They’d chatted, Sirius and James becoming fast friends, while Reg sat and tried not to stare at James too much.

           Since that original meeting, Regulus had come to visit several times. Being home was a bit of a nightmare without Sirius around so Reg took any excuse he could to come and visit. James and Sirius didn’t seem to mind Reg crashing on the sofa (once they finally got one) and staying the odd weekend. His crush on James had just continued to get worse and worse the more time he spent around him. James had followed Reg on all his socials and was constantly commenting sweet and encouraging things on his Instagram selfies that always had Reg’s heart fluttering.

           So he had decided he was going to do something about it. It was James’ birthday and Reg had driven up for the weekend to surprise him. He’d bought a cake and was going to tell James he was in love with him.

           James flung the door open. “Reggie!” he said excitedly. “I didn’t know you were visiting! Oh my god, is that a cake for me?”

           The moment he saw James, Regulus’ tongue decided to stick to the roof of his mouth and remain there. All he could do was nod to answer James’ question, his eyes feeling like they were going to bulge out of his head from sheer terror.

           “You’re the best!” James said, taking the cake from Reg’s hand and hurrying into the flat. Regulus tried his best to swallow around his rebellious tongue as he stepped inside and closed the door. “We’re having a big party tonight to celebrate. I’m so happy you’re going to be there. “

           “Reg?” Sirius called out, stopping on his way out of his bedroom. “You didn’t tell me you were coming up this weekend.”

           Regulus shot his brother a look that must have alerted him to Reg’s absolute panic because Sirius rushed over. “Help!” Regulus whispered once his brother was close enough.

           “We’ll just be a minute,” Sirius called out to James, taking Reg by the arm and leading him into his bedroom, being sure to shut the door. “What’s wrong?”

           “I’m in love with James.”

           Sirius smirked in response. “Oh little brother – “

           “Don’t patronize me,” Reg said, batting his brother’s hand away from his arm. “I can’t tell him that. He’s going to think I’m so stupid.”

           Sirius shuffled his feet and looked uncertain for a moment, like he was debating something with himself. “I don’t imagine James would think that.”

           Reg narrowed his eyes. “You know something.”

           “No I don’t!”

           Regulus pinched his brother hard on the arm. “Spill it!”

           “I can’t,” Sirius whined, backing away. “I can’t betray Jamie’s confidence like that.”

           “I’m your brother!” Regulus said indignantly. “Where is your loyalty?”

           Sirius rolled his eyes. “Look, all I’m going to say is that you should tell James how you feel, okay?”

           Regulus still eyed his brother suspiciously but decided to drop it. It was a good thing too because James chose that moment to burst into the room. “Come on you two! What are you doing hiding out in here? I want to go get balloons for the party.”

           Sirius sighed. “You are turning twenty, Jamie, not four.”

           “Shut up,” James said, sticking out his tongue. “It’s my birthday and I want some ruddy balloons, you party pooper.”

           “Fine,” Sirius said, looking between Regulus and James. “Why don’t you and Reg go get balloons and I’ll stay here and finish getting stuff set up?”

           Regulus shot Sirius a look and was about to open his mouth to protest but James was already giving an enthusiastic “Yes! That sounds perfect!” And then James was grabbing Regulus by the arm and tugging him down the hallway before Regulus could protest.

                                                                       ***

           Regulus felt like any moment he was in danger of floating away like the old man in Up. When James Potter had said he wanted balloons it turned out he wanted basically enough balloons to fill the entire flat. As James continued to pick out different colored balloons, Regulus stood holding the ones that had already been filled. It was enough that he needed both hands to hold all the strings otherwise the balloons kept clumping together in an unruly mess.

           James came bounding over, beaming from ear to ear, and Reg found he couldn’t help smiling in return. “You look adorable holding all those balloons,” James said, standing in front of Reg.

           Reg’s blushed slightly and ducked his head down. “You know this is ridiculous, right?” he said, trying to sound exasperated but only succeeding in sound incredibly fond.

           “Oh I know,” James said, pushing away some of the balloons floating in his face. “Hey Reg, do you know what I want for my birthday?”

           “Other than an obnoxious amount of balloons?”

           James bit his bottom lip for a moment. “Can I kiss you for my birthday?”

           Regulus’ blush deepened. “Why would you want that?”

           James pushed more balloons out of the way and stepped closer. They were surrounded by balloons on almost all sides creating a private little space for them amongst them. James reached out and cupped Reg’s face with both his hands. “Please Reg, it’s my birthday.”

           Regulus swallowed thickly and then nodded. He struggled to keep hold of the balloon strings as James guided his face forward and their lips met in a soft kiss that had Reg’s toes curling in his trainers. “James,” he murmured against James’ lips. James hummed in response and changed the angle of the kiss slightly, gently licking his way into Reg’s mouth.

           They finally broke apart after a few moments that had Regulus’ stomach threatening to drop as he was overwhelmed with emotion. “I love you,” he said quickly before he lost his nerve.

           James smiled and gave Reg a few more tender, lingering kisses. “Works out,” he said, pressing his forehead against Reg’s in a moment of intimacy that Reg had never had before in his life. James fingers brushed against Reg’s jaw and cheek making Reg shiver in response. “I love you too.”

           Regulus laughed quietly. “So I’ll be your birthday present then?”

           “I’d like for longer than just my birthday, if that’s okay with you,” James said, pressing kisses to each of Reg’s cheeks and then capturing his lips again. Reg was alreaday getting addicted to the way James kissed him.

           “I’d like that as well,” Regulus said, ducking his head down in embarrassment at saying something so soppy.

           “Good,” James said, stepping back and taking some of the balloons from Reg’s hand. With his free hand he put his arm around Reg’s waist. Regulus put his arm around James in return and they began to walk in tandem. “Now I can introduce you everyone at the party as my boyfriend! Which is good because I may have told a few of my friends that you already were.”

           “What?” Regulus said, his jaw dropping.

           James adjusted his glasses and shrugged his shoulder slightly. “I’ve gotten caught staring at your Instagram a lot. It’s not quite as embarrassing if I say you’re my boyfriend.”

           Regulus shook his head in amusement. “You’re unbelievable. What would you have done if I said no?”

           James chuckled and pressed a kiss to Reg’s temple. “I had it on good authority that you were interested in me.”

           “Sirius?”

           James nodded. “Sirius.”

           “We should get back to your flat so I can strangle him with some of these balloon strings,” Regulus said, frowning deeply. He couldn’t believe his own brother had betrayed him like his and revealed his feelings to James.

           James laughed again and kissed the top of Reg’s head. “Don’t be angry with him,” he said, resting his chin on Reg’s head. “I pestered him about it constantly because I was pining.”

           Regulus huffed in amusement. “Pining?”

           “The worst kind of pining,” James confirmed, giving Reg’s side a squeeze. Already Regulus was getting lost in the small affectionate touches and gestures. “Endless pining. Yearning. He got so fed up he finally spilled that he was fairly certain you liked me.”

           “Fine,” Regulus said, tilting his face up in expectation of a kiss. “I won’t strangle Sirius. But only because it’s my boyfriend’s birthday.”

           James beamed at him before ducking down to kiss him once more. “I like that. I like you calling me your boyfriend.”

           Regulus smiled against James’ lips. “Happy birthday, boyfriend.”

[a-dorin]

lost & found | kylo ren

warnings: some angst, fluff, cursing

summary: after the events of that fateful night on exegol, you are in search of your exiled lover. not a single soul knows where the planet is. that is, until you encounter the coordinates.

dark. empty. useless. there was a gaping void in your heart that could not be filled. that’s what your world felt like since the day he was exiled. how could it have happened? how could you have let it happen?

as you stared out into the stars ahead, your mind relayed the events of the past month. since the fateful day on exegol, the day that palpatine was erased from existence, your life was not the same.

since the resistance destroyed the last remnants of the first order, everyone left was banished. they were sent to an unknown planet, on the most outer rim of the galaxy. it was ruthless, as many of the remaining first order members didn’t even get a trial. they were all exiled. in an instant.

your heart ached as your mind wandered to your lover. kylo ren, was one the first to be sent away. tears welled up in your eyelids, spilling down your cheeks as you relayed the events in your head. the way his lips felt, desperate for one last kiss. the way his eyes screamed for you. the way his hands trembled as he admitted he was scared. kylo was never scared. he didn’t fear anything or anyone.

your fists tightened into balls as you sucked in a shallow breath, in attempts to regain your composure. yet a new wave of hurt crashed into you, reminding you that you were a failure. you promised kylo many moons ago that you would come for him. that you would rescue him from his exile. however, that was over six months ago.

what would he say if you ever found him? would he forgive you for taking so long? locating the planet was no easy task. the only reason you were not exiled was because of your neutrality. as a medic for the first order, you pledged your loyalty, yet your heart yearned to help everyone. after all, that’s why you took the position. now, you were rogue. and no one wanted to help a rogue in her search for a planet that didn’t exist.

slamming your fists on the console, sobs racked your body. hot tears splattered against the cool metal, glittering in the dim light. surely by now you would have received a sign. the fact that not a single soul knew where the first order exiles were sent to was mind boggling. there had to be someone that knew something.

your droid beeped below you, in hopeless attempts of comfort. you adored your heap of metal, but he was not enough to ease the constant pain. it was like a deep gash scoured onto your heart, hurting you with every single beat. you felt that your life was beginning to have no meaning. the constant search was starting to take a toll on your health as well. you rarely slept, and picked at food. you just knew you couldn’t stop until you found him.

“there has to be something somewhere,” you muttered darkly, wiping the tears away, “zoom, replay the events of that day.”

zoom obeyed, playing the footage of the day that kylo left, shackles on his wrists. your heart skipped a beat as you gazed at him through grainy images. you reached out, gingerly grazing the footage. if only kylo was here. with you. life would be so different.

even though you had seen the footage countless times before, a new detail emerged. whether it was a soldier you hadn’t recognized before, or the orange jumpsuits of the resistance, there was always a new aspect brought to your attention.

this time, it was the glow of a datapad as a resistance pilot chatted with another pilot. the pilot’s messy dark curls were familiar to you, but you couldn’t place your fingers on why. they talked briefly, before walking away from one another. however, the datapad was left open, glowing in a pilot’s hands.

“zoom,” you cleared your throat, “can you examine that datapad for me?”

the droid chirped happily in response, whirring as he examined the footage. after about one minute, he produced a clear image of the datapad. your eyes widened as you realized there was coding. in front of your eyes were the coordinates. the coordinates to your lover.

“ZOOM!” you yelped, wrapping your arms around him in a tight embrace, “i love you, i love you, i love you! you’re so smart.”

zoom laid his head on your shoulder momentarily, before backing up. you slid into the captain’s seat of your shuttle, zoom sticking in a plug for the coordinates. the coordinates lit up on your console, your fingers dashing over buttons.

jumping into hypespace, you regained balance. soon, you would be with kylo. soon, the two of you could run away together. soon, the two of you would be able to spend the rest of your lives together, making up for that lost time. six months was far too long.

your shuttle landed on a barren, rocky planet. as your eyes took in the view, your nerves were shot, pumping anxiety through your veins. was this the right place? it had to be. six months of searching endlessly could not be wasted.

exiting your ship, your hand rested on the blaster attached to your holster. everything was so unpredictable. who knew who you would run into. who knew what could happen to you or your droid.

after wandering around for about thirty minutes, you reached the entrance to a camp. small huts stretched for about a mile, tiny specks milling around. you assumed those specks to be people. but, were they human? were they the banished first order soldiers, generals, and lieutenants? was kylo there?

without any hesitation, you entered the camp, zoom trailing by your side. if anyone tried to kill you, zoom was there to protect you as well. yet, you felt as if you had nothing to lose. this had to be where he was.

hushed whispers filled your ears as you strolled through makeshift streets. eyes fell on you. it was easy to see that you were not from the area. many of the people were dressed in plain clothing, some of it torn and ragged. you were adorned in full clothing, armed with weapons, and your hair was clean and well kept. you were a stranger from an outside world.

“are you (y/n)?” a deep male voice caught your attention.

you arched a brow, “yes, i am. why?”

“he requests that we bring you to him,” the man was apprehensive. yet, your heart skipped a beat. was “he” kylo?

“i will obey those orders,” you dipped your head, awaiting for the man to give further directions.

“follow me,” he turned, beginning to walk further into center of camp.

your heart began to race as you approached a hut. it was clear to see that the person who lived inside was a person of power, as the hut was carefully constructed. there was laundry hanging outside, drying. people lingered around the house on the streets, staring with hopeful eyes.

the man pushed open a door, and the world slowed around you. there he stood. in front of you. he was still alive and well. you rushed to him, crumpling to the floor as tears cascaded down your cheeks.

“you found me,” kylo’s voice was ragged, cracking as he held you in his arms, “you found me.”

“i’m so sorry,” you sobbed, tears blurring your vision, “i didn’t mean for it to be such a long time. it was so difficult and frustrating and-“

“stop,” kylo hushed, pressing a ginger kiss to your forehead, as if he was testing if you were real and not a vision, “stop that.”

“i missed you,” the tears were beginning to subside, fading away, “i missed you.”

“i have been thinking about you every second since i last saw you,” kylo murmured, his eyes full of nothing but love, “i knew you would find me. i just had to be patient.”

“i love you,” your lips crashed into kylo’s, aching for his touch.

kylo melted under the action, eyes fluttering closed in pure bliss. your kiss was beautiful. full of love and adoration. he pulled away, cheeks tinged red, “i love you more, my angel.”

you buried your head in his chest, inhaling his scent. god, it had been too long. happiness filled you to the brim, bursting throughout you. never in your life had you imagined you would be reunited with kylo once again. now that it was happening, it all felt like a dream.

kylo’s voice filled your ears, “let’s run away together, and start over.”

“you don’t have to tell me twice,” you shook your head, falling into his embrace once more.

“we’ll leave at dawn,” he stated, placing yet another kiss on your head.

the two of you held one another on the dusty floor of the hut, pure happiness filling the room. no matter what, you would never leave kylo ever again. the pain was too much to bear.

now that kylo had you again, he was determined to never let you go.

tagged @blue-automne

[thethoughtsfromthreeam]

Monument Woman

Pairing: Marcus Pike x OC (Rosemary Carter)

Warnings: A bit of angst

A/N: Sort of trucking along, now into chapter 4, which gets us into the meat of this whole story, so I guess this sorta qualifies as a slow burn?  Not sure.  Anyway, enjoy!

Reminder: I ain’t ever seen Pedro Pascal in FUCK ALL, I’m just coming up with this as I go along, using imdb.com, wiki, and 84,000 tabs I got open to plan out this shit.  I also write soft versions of his characters so if you’re craving asshole vibes, I ain’t got any but my own to offer.

Tag List:

@zeldasayer , @beskars , @coolmaybelateruniverse , @the-feckless-wonder , @pascalisthepunkest , @mandoandyodito , @randomness501 , @fioccodineveautunnale  , @ahopelessromanticwritersworld , @lilkermit14 [please message me to be added or subtracted]

Part 2 – Well, It’s Valuable for Starters

Coral Gables Restaurant sits right on the banks of the Kalamazoo River, serving as the perfect backdrop to any lunch or dinner date.  It was Robert’s favorite place to eat and the whole staff knew him.  So, lunch dates for the two history buffs could last hours and no one would say anything to them.

Long after the lunch plates had been taken away, Robert nursed his beer and Rosemary leaned back in her chair, letting the early summer sun warm her skin.  As she sat there with her eyes closed, Robert let himself just watched her.  She was tall with a brunette pixie cut – the only hair style he’s ever seen her sport – and he noted there was greyer hair than when they first met and finer lines on the youthful face.

She took up a lot of space with her personality and that’s what he loved best about her.  Of all the people Robert called his friends, none were close to him like she was. When he met her not long after she started at the museum and it was an almost instant rapport.

He never had children of his own, never even gotten married.  But something about Rosemary drew him to her and he felt this love for her like he hadn’t ever felt for anyone else in his nearly seventy-two years.  When the doctor gave him the prognosis, he realized the sadness that had washed over him wasn’t about his death but the fact that he had someone he was leaving behind. It both hurt and consoled him.  He wasn’t going to be alone.

“Rosie.”  His voice was soft, but she still heard him and opened her eyes.  He smiled at her and she sat up and nodded, pulling her chair closer so she was more comfortable to chat.  The waitress appeared with refills for Rosemary’s lemonade and another beer for Robert.  They stayed quiet until she left.  When they were alone again, she raised her eyebrow and gestured for him to continue.

“If there are things in those boxes that you can sell for the museum, go for it.  There are a few I want the museum to have and one item it needs to take.”

“Well, I doubt I’ll take anything that will cause me extra work, but we can draw up the deed of gift on the other items as normal.  I already have my eye on a few things, which are probably among what you are already giving us.”  He nodded. “What’s the item you want us to take for sure?”

“The Cornucopia.”  Her eyebrow raised in confusion at the comment.  “It’s a priceless art piece, a friend of mine valued it at three-quarters of a million dollars. On the low end of things.”

“WHAT?” Rosemary’s jaw dropped.  Holy shit.

“I know, I was surprised it valued so high as well.  I bought it at an antique shop in Chicago years ago and given how valuable it is, I want the museum to have it.”

“Uh, hell yeah!”  Rosemary’s eyes began to gleam with glee and Robert laughed.  He knew she was thinking of Fred and he was pleased he could help her get a leg up on the man.  While Breyers had never been anything but courteous towards the storeowner, there was an underlying hostility to the curator’s words and actions.  Something about the greedy curator never sat well with Robert and he shared in Rosemary’s dislike of him.  

“When we head back to the house after lunch, we’ll talk more.”  The two sat back and grinned at each other.

---***---

“But, ma’am. . . Ma’am. . .” Agent Horacio paused, the murderous look on their face not even showing up in their voice.  “Ma’am, I get what you are saying.  I’m asking you to set up a meeting with me to go over the case. Yes, we reopened it.  Yes, we’re working on it.  Now if you would just. . .”

The ever-patient voice of the agent faded into the background as Carmichael skirted the table with a handful of photos, a small smirk on her face. She walked up next to Pike as they filled the evidence board with the last of the pictures from the case files.  A second and third board were set up on the other side of the room, allowing the team to make further critical connections to the cases they had so recently linked together.

They worked quietly for a bit, Carmichael subtly shooting glances at Pike, whose brow was furrowed in concentration.  Finally, her curiosity got the better of her and she turned to look at her partner.

“Okay, spill.  How did the date go with Lucy in Accounting?” Her voice dropped to a whisper belying the eager look on her face.  Pike grimaced at the question as he pressed on the last of the push pins.

“There was no date. She stood me up.”  Her loud gasp caused a few of their team to look their way, but she ignored them, giving Pike a look to continue.  “I called twice, and she never answered.  Never even showed up to the date itself.  I don’t think I can go back to Bobby’s anymore.  Lindsey is starting to feel sorry for me.”

“Hell, I feel sorry for you, Pike.  That’s the third date you’ve been stood up on in, what? Two months?” Carmichael’s voice softened.  The poor man was having a rough time of it, what with Lisbon breaking his heart, his divorce before that, three failed short-term relationships after he came to D.C., and now this series of no-show dates over the last year.  She frowned and laid a hand on his wrist, which had stilled on the last pin as his words died on his tongue.

He didn’t look at her and she could feel him stiffen underneath her touch. He pushed down his growing frustration at the situation and turned to smile at her, the grin not coming close to reaching his eyes.  His shoulders squared up as if to say the conversation was done.  She had known the man for six years and just wanted him to be happy, but for the moment, she gave him a small smile to help him with his charade.

“It’s okay Carmichael, maybe I’m just not meant for a relationship.” His voice sounded almost sad at the tone and she bowed her head.

“I don’t think that’s true, Marcus.”

“Yeah, well the universe is working hard to tell me that I’m meant to be single. I should be listening instead of fighting it.”  He sighed and turned away, walking out of the room before anyone could comment on the large frown that had formed on his face.  She looked after him, a defeated look in her eyes.  No one loved as hard and as loyal as him, he deserved the world. She knew that the right person for him was out there, but she couldn’t understand why Pike hadn’t crossed paths with his soulmate yet.  

She turned back to the board, picking up the marker to begin labeling the photos they had posted.  While she wrote, she silently prayed to the universe that her partner’s heart found its home sooner rather than later.

-*-

Pike looked at himself in the mirror, droplets of water still on his skin and the strands of hair framing his face were damp.  Splashing water on his face helped cool down his skin, but Carmichael’s words of sympathy had stung, even if she meant well, and he had to leave the room before he got upset even more.  As he leaned against the sink, he bowed his head and took a few deep breaths. The small moment of zen from earlier in the day had faded and the headache had returned.

It was known that the agent wore his heart on his sleeve, that he was loyal and generous to a fault.  Most of his colleagues loved him for it and it inspired loyalty from those who worked under him.  But none of that seemed to translate into anything romantically successful.  At this point, he was certain that he was a running joke throughout D.C. and that women agreed to a date to see how long he’d wait at his favorite diner for someone to show up.

Last night, Lindsey comped his dinner because she just couldn’t take the defeated slump to the man’s shoulders one more time.  She even went home and hugged her wife, hoping a little of her joviality would seep into her bones.  If Pike knew that, he would have bitterly laughed at the idea that he can help other people love harder, he just couldn’t get people to love him back.

After letting the dark thoughts swirl through his brain for a little longer, he stood up straight and glanced into the mirror.  He wiped his face one more time and straightened his tie. Without looking back at his reflection, Marcus Pike vowed to himself that he wasn’t going to let anyone in anymore. He was here to catch art thieves and that’s what he was going to do.

He just prayed the yearning in his heart heard the declaration, too.

---***---

Rosemary huffed as she staggered up the walkway to the front door of the museum with the heavy box in her arms.  She cursed herself for thinking that she could carry such an awkward and heavy load by herself, but she was a stubborn mule and was determined to get it all done in one trip.  She sighed when she reached the top of the short staircase.

She reached out and kicked the frame of the door into the building knowing that their long-time volunteer, Bob, was at the front desk.  There was something about him that grated against Rosemary and if truth be told, he was a bad volunteer, but he was the only reliable one and so she had to put up with him and his nonsense.

She realized with a start that she’d been standing there for several minutes, and no one had come to the door.  She peeped through the glass and saw Bob sitting there, looking her way. Grimacing as she shifted the box, she kicked the door again, harder this time.

And he still didn’t move.

With a low growl, Rosemary shifted around and pressed her butt against the handicap button on the wall and with a sigh of relief, she walked through the now open door.  While the June day wasn’t particularly hot, the sun was still warm and the physical activity overheated her.  The cool air of the lobby felt like kisses of heaven on her skin and she slightly closed her eyes at the sensation.  When she opened them, she looked directly at the man in front of her.

“Bob, did you see me kicking the door?”

“Yep.”

“So why didn’t you come open it for me, you clearly saw my hands were full.”

“Kicking is rude.”  The man’s rheumy eyes stared at her and it took two deep breaths to ensure Rosemary wasn’t going to start screaming.  She gave him a tightened smile instead and she walked over to the elevator. “Rosemary, the elevator is for handicap people, you’re not handicapped.”

“Bob, the elevator is for everyone.  Goodbye!”  She entered the small space and leaned against the wall.  We need him, we need him, we need him, she chanted to herself, nothing convincing her that it was true.  The ride to the third floor was a short one, but the heavy box made it seem longer.  When the doors opened, she took a left down to the staff offices and her workspace.

She did her best to carefully set the box down on the bench, but she grimaced as she heard rattling inside.  When it didn’t sound like anything broke, she heaved a sigh of relief. She turned her head as she heard footsteps from the hallway and within moments, Helen enter the room.

“How did it go?”  She had a small smile on her face, coming closer to the work bench

“Not bad, I took one big box of stuff – good stuff, too.”  The curator grinned and Helen grinned back, curiosity all over her face.

“Nothing ugly?”

“God no.  As my grams liked to say, ‘God don’t like ugly.’”  She lifted the lid off the box and suddenly Rosemary screamed, scaring Helen and causing her to scream, too.  The latter jumped back towards the door, unsure of what was happening.  The sounds of the two women yelling echoed in the room until the scream Rosemary let out evolved into a laugh, tinged with adrenaline. “FUCKING ROBERT!”

“WHAT? WHAT? WHAT?”  Helen was now on edge and creeping back closer to the work bench, still wary. Rosemary reached into the box and lifted out the stuff monkey she passed over earlier.  Helen recoiled at the sight.

“I thought you said you didn’t bring back anything ugly!”

“I didn’t!  He must have put it in here after I told him it was worthy of the dumpster.”  The laughter continued as she looked at the stuffed animal.  Finally, she sighed and set the monkey down on the bench.

“You’re not putting it in the collections are you?”  The director still looked at the item with wariness.  It was truly ugly with its almost realistic eyes. She shuttered before looking away.

“No, but I’m going to keep it, though.  He’d probably make a better watch dog than Banana.”  Looking around, Rosemary turned to her boss.  “Speaking of which, where is that dog of mine?”

“He’s in your office, conked out on the couch and snoring away.”

“See?!  I need the monkey now.  My own dog, of whom I am his whole world, didn’t even come hither at my screams.  I am abandoned and unloved.”  Rosemary ended her dramatic comment on a sigh, her hand against her forehead.  The two women began to laugh again.

“By the way, please for the love of all that is holy, find someone to replace Bob at the front desk.  He watched me kick the door to get in and refused to get up.”

“Did he say why?”

“Yeah, ‘kicking is rude.’”  Rosemary mimicked the old man’s gravelly voice and rolled her eyes. Helen patted her shoulder and said she’d chat with Bob about it, but the curator didn’t have much faith in the forth-coming conversation.  The director left the room and Rosemary dove back into the box to pull out the rest of her treasures.

---***---

“Here is the paperwork on the history of The Cornucopia. Please promise me that you’ll list this as a restricted item.”  Robert sat down, a file folder in his hand.  “I know better than to make outrageous demands, but I want it in the paperwork that this item cannot be loaned out, it cannot be displayed, and it is to remain the collections for the rest of the museum’s existence.  I don’t even want it announced that you have the piece.”

He took a breath and Rosemary’s eyebrows furrowed.  He hadn’t been kidding when he said he had restrictions on the item.  He continued.

“The piece is valuable; I don’t want the museum becoming a target for it. I’m giving it to you because I know you’ll protect it.”  Rosemary nodded as she thumbed through the file, skimming the history of the sculpture. She looked up at him.

“Let me write up the deeds for you and we’ll note everything you want me to list in terms of restrictions.”  She got up and went to her computer set up on the table.  For the next hour, she sat asking Robert questions and filling out the forms, using the printer to create physical copies. After she was done, she sat back.

“We’ll take good care of it.  I promise.”

---***---

The next day, Rosemary sat at her desk, imputing the new collection pieces into PastPerfect, transcribing notes she had scribbled in her binder.   Most of the pieces she had taken were worth it; besides the map, she took a few pieces of pottery from a celebrated local artist, a couple of prints that dated back to the Fort’s early years, seven quilts, and several history books.  And of course, The Cornucopia.

She pulled the file out for the sculpture and sat back in her chair. After opening the folder, she began to read the files she had skimmed earlier.  The more she read the appraiser’s history more her eyebrows crawled up her forehead.

The Cornucopia was created for Russian Tsar Nicolas II by renown Ukrainian artists Artem Chumak.  The bronze sculpture was inlaid with rubies, sapphires, yellow diamonds, jade, pearls, and opals, most mined from around the Russian Empire.  Ukraine historically has been known as the breadbasket of Russia and the piece was commissioned by the Ukrainian government as a gift to Nicolas upon his marriage to Princess Alexandra of Hess.  It’s value at the time of creation was $250,000 USD.

It is known that Dowager Empress Maria took the piece, along with several other valuable items after the fall of the Empire and she sold it to the Grand Duke of Luxembourg in 1920, who in turn loaned it to the country’s National Museum of History and Art the following year. The museum returned it to the family during World War II to protect it from the advancing German army.  It was again loaned to the museum for another twenty years before the family chose to cease ownership.

The piece was then sold via Sotheby’s Auction House in 1965 to a private collector in the U.S. and has remained in private ownership since then.  Because of its history and the materials used, the value of The Cornucopia is approximately $750,000 for insurance purposes, but on the auction block, could fetch upwards to . . .

“Three million dollars?!”  Rosemary shrieked, her feet dropping to the floor as she sat up.  She looked at the sculpture sitting on her worktable and her face broke out in a grin.  Oh, ho ho ho, she really got the leg up on Fred Breyers this time.  This was the best gift that Robert could have ever given her.

[royallyanxious]

Deep water

Summary: Roman used to have blue eyes.

Pairing: romantic roceit

Word count: <5k words

Trigger warnings: brief mentions of blood, injury mention, sea being cruel

Ao3 link here

The story was inspired by this post

Author’s note: Not gonna lie. This fic is for two amazing people @ultimate-queen-of-fandoms2 and @ellistruggle. Thank you for inspiration

The legend says that Roman used to have blue eyes. 

Various versions of the story were passed around between ships of both mortal and immortal, of both holy and unholy ones… Every soul at the sea knew the melody of this song but nobody could sing it without a hitch. It was one of the tales that never made it to the books but lived in many hearts, for many years. For some, it was the proof of the highest price one must pay for living at the sea. For others it was a confirmation that gold is the only real treasure. Finally, there was a small group of people who didn’t believe the story - those led the loneliest of lives.

Because it was real. This legend. The tale of Roman and the love of his life. The love of his life gifted with the voice of an angel, the body of a monster, the soul of a devil and a quivering heart that ached for Roman only…

It was a tragic love-story between Roman and a merman. 

***

“Logan… You’ve been sailing with Roman for so long…” sing-sang Patton, gently patting Logan’s forearms while Virgil subtly pushed the bottle with rum towards them. 

“I will not ask for another free pass for you, Patton.” Logan stated sternly, suspiciously eyeing the bottle in front of him. Those young ones… so naive for thinking that something like that would make him talk.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare!” Patton innocently fluttered his eyes. Damn, his long eyelashes and soft lips. “It’s just that Virgil and I…” he stopped in favour of playing with the hem of his shirt, “It’s just that we…”

“Yes?” Logan arched his eyebrow. The rain outside intensified. Internally he thanked Roman for docking tonight, instead of setting off as they originally planned.

“Patton means to ask if you know what really happened to Roman’s eyes!” blurted Virgil, clenching his hands into fists. Logan couldn’t help but smile a little bit. In his opinion, Virgil was not a fit for a pirate. But he was undoubtedly loyal and loyalty was something highly treasured in the sea.

“Roman’s eyes?” Logan repeated, as if he didn’t know what they were talking about. 

It was hard not to notice though. The flash of crimson at the centre, the dark shade of drying blood around the irises. The teasing sparkles that pulled out the most poisonous of scarlets. The brilliance of rusty reds and vivid corals paired with razor-sharp gaze that made people shiver and avert their eyes. Logan - quartermaster on Creativity - shuddered. It was hard to forget Roman’s blood red eyes.

And it was even harder to stop having nightmares about them.

Patton scooted closer, pulling Logan out of the maze of his memory. Patton’s hands rested on Logan’s shoulder, curse him for that warm skin.

“You know…” Patton started lowly, “They say that they weren’t always red. His eyes.”

Logan licked his lips and glanced at Patton and Virgil. Their round faces, scattered with freckles, their earnest eyes, the hollows on Virgil’s cheeks, the scar running over Patton’s temple. They looked like a good kids...

Completely ignoring the rum, Logan sat on the table, pushing Patton’s hands away. He didn’t need those forms of encouragement to tell the story. Sighing heavily, Logan wiped his glasses, leaving wet smudges. If there was one thing he hated in living on the ship, it was the constant humidity. 

“First of all, I want you to know that when I met Roman, his eyes have already been red,” Logan started carefully, watching for reactions. Virgil and Patton immediately moved, pushing the barrels they were sitting on closer to Logan. Their noisy curiosity was truly endearing. 

Once they settled down, he nodded with content. He was almost sure that they wouldn’t tell anyone of what they would hear today, “So mind you that everything I will tell you tonight is a passed story.” Logan added nonetheless.

“Is that a warning?” Virgil laughed anxiously. Not a fit for a sailor at all.

“It’s a promise.” grinned Logan in response. “It’s a promise that you will hear this story again and again and again from people who know Roman from legends only. Every single time you hear the new version, you will start doubting which is the authentic one.”

“And who told you your version of the story, Logan?” peeped Patton. He was practically shaking from excitement. 

“Mine?” Logan’s thin lips stretched into a wicked grin, reminding everyone just why he was the quartermaster, “Oh, I heard it from Roman himself. He's, perhaps, the least trustworthy source...”

***

Roman’s eyes used to be in the color of the horizon. The color of the future. That peculiar shade of teal which can be seen on the thin line dividing sky from the ocean. The resemblance was uncanny. 

And they said: one evening, as a child, Roman looked into the mirror and saw the world opening itself right in front of him. He saw the treasures hidden deep on the bottom of the ocean, the diamonds waiting for him in the caves that weren't drawn on maps and the pearls shyly peaking through the parted lips of the green clams.

The very map of the most valued of values was hidden behind the thick veil of Roman’s eyelashes, at the teal bottom of his eyes. And he saw that every route and every track leading to those riches was drawn with azure line that pointed beyond the horizon.

But, Roman saw something more. Something that he promised to never share with anyone before he could grasp it with his own hands.

He saw gold. Shining in the sunlight, shimmering under the water. He was young, so young back then, and he thought that it must have been golden coins glimmering in the crystal clear water. Twinkling brightly under the surface just like the stars twinkle on the midnight sky. 

It became a sole purpose for Roman. To touch, to grasp, to own this gold treasure.

The sea lured him, the ocean tempted him, the salt on his tongue mocked him. The deep waters and secrets hidden within them were what he was meant for - he realized and set off into the open seas of the unknown future.

***

“Did he find it?” Patton gasped, clenching his fingers around Logan’s wrist. The quartermaster didn’t bother to shake it off.

“Shush, don’t interrupt him, Patton,” tsked Virgil. His eyes were as big as saucers. Beneath a thick layer of interest, first sparks of longing were waking up to life. Logan smiled internally. This must have been what Roman meant when he said that Virgil had a potential that needed to be encouraged. Just like everyone who ended up in the sea, Virgil too longed for an adventure.

“I can’t stand the tension!” pouted Patton, looking impatiently at Logan. “So… did he find it? Did he find the gold? The treasures?”

The quartermaster’s lips broke into a smile but his eyes remained sad. Troubled even. He reached out and swiftly pulled the abandoned bottle. The room filled with the biting scent of rum. Logan watched the liquid in the bottle. In the candlelight the glass looked as if it was made out of jade, reminding of the treasures hidden in the seas.

“Yes,” Logan said finally, corked up the bottle and put it away. “At last Roman found the gold, he dreamt of.”

***

Sun after the storm - that’s how Roman referred to that day, that hour, that moment. There was also another expression he used to describe it. The other term that he uttered in secret, in complete silence when he was alone as if he was afraid that the demons may come after him and rip the words out of his throat.

“The fateful day that gold came to life.”

He was the only survivor from the storm that wrecked their ship. That much was clear. Roman watched all of his companions sink in the sea. He didn’t remember hearing the screams but he remembered the loud crash of waves above his head and that was enough. It was his first thought when he drifted back into consciousness. 

His eyes - his teal eyes - were heavy and his lungs - warm with red blood lungs - were still full of the salty water. The soil beneath him smelt of algas and fish. And yet there was no saying, even then, that Roman woke up to live up to his dream.

The island appeared deserted. As deserted as he could tell by far. The sand was white and warm and the forest teased him insufferably with the possibility of finding something edible. But Roman was smarter than this. The most beautiful sceneries were hiding the darkest secrets. 

So he walked down the shore, watching the familiar line of the horizon, enjoying the softness under his feet, breathing the air that he missed deeply when caged under the water. 

The cove was small, too small for any ship to dock there. It was beautiful, yes, but if on a ship Roman would pay it no mind. But he had no ship and it was still a cove - probably the only place on this island that could possibly keep him alive. Sighing, Roman slipped down the rocks, hand clasped around long, sharpened stick. 

His footsteps were perfectly silent. The way he walked, the way he sneaked, it was an art itself, it was a part of Roman that he kept buried deep inside. The delicate, fanciful side. The side that yearned for beauty. 

He became a part of the scenery before he realized it - the only survivor with his hair tossed back, with his shirt stiff with the remaining salt and with teal eyes that mirrored the color of horizon.

The colors were spilling into the cove like an avalanche, brashly flashing with intensive hues against the shy whites of the sand. The greens as fresh as spring sprouts, the bronzes that tasted like chocolate, finally the azures and pale-blues bearing a peace and comfort. Beauty and grace was blossoming in the cove as one watched, leaving no space for wrongness.

Nothing, however could prepare Roman for the beauty he saw when he crouched on the big rock and looked into the crystal clear water.

The way it shone in his eyes, the way it shimmered, the way it teased his senses. It was a song itself. The gold was singing to him before Roman even heard voice. Before he even learnt that his gold - his beloved dream - had a voice.

His eyes raked over the long trace of golden scales - tiny but beautiful. His appreciation was growing with every inch covered with golden beads. He was taking in the view for as long as long the tail was - until it started melting into something softer, something wavering beneath the surface, something that made his breath hitch.

“Mermaid-” he gasped, instinctively backing away. 

That sound itself was enough. It had to be because - what Roman didn’t know by then - he also had a voice that sounded beautifully in mermaid’s ears. 

The surface rippled, the miniature waves hit the rocks and tiny bubbles of air rose to the surface. Roman blinked and suddenly there was a person - a man - leaning over the stone right in front of him. He was gazing curiously at Roman, his head tilted a little bit as if Roman was something to examine - not something to lure into deep water and drown. Drops of water were scattered across his cheeks, neck and shoulder like tiny freckles. They sparkled like a brilliant glitter.

“Don’t come any closer!” squeaked Roman and the man smiled in response.

“It may come as a surprise to you,” he replied, his voice mellow and relaxed, “But I can’t really step out of the water whenever I can.” his golden tail for a moment appeared over the surface, splashing the water at Roman.

And maybe it was the pirate’s soul in him or maybe it was the velvet-like tone in merman’s voice but Roman reached out, trying to grasp the gold that he had been searching for all his life. And soon there was hand in his hand and it was cold and slick but somehow it fitted perfectly and if earlier Roman had any doubts on the situation, now his fears were long gone. He chase for long but now the treasure was under his fingertips.

“I’m Roman,” his thumb ran over the barely visible scales on merman’s hands.

“I don’t have a name that you could use beyond the surface.” the merman shook his head. His eyes - golden eyes - were earnestly shining with hope and something akin to shame. “Every name I would tell you, would be a lie.” 

“May I choose a name for you?” Roman leaned down, gazing at merman from above.

“You may choose your name for me. And I will wear it proudly.” 

“Then, I choose a name ‘Deceit’. Since everything is a lie.”

The merman - Deceit - laughed loudly and it was like thousands of bells started ringing all at once. “Darling,” he purred, “Everything might be a lie, but I’m plenty real.” he smiled showing a row of sharp teeth. And Roman? Roman smiled because before his heart was long gone and his eyes and teals were now meant for one person only.

That was how their fate sealed before it even finished forming and the maps in Roman’s eyes were flooded with hot and crashing waves of passion.

They talked about this moment later, sitting almost side by side - Roman above the water and Deceit beneath it. They talked about it when they were almost touching - nothing more than the delicate weight of one hand on the other. They talked about this moment trying to figure out what brought them together and how they knew that they were meant for each other. Trying to figure out how was it possible that they responded to bonding song so quickly. 

Like the tidal waves, they meant halfway and clashed into each other with a force so strong that it was enough to wake up the monsters sleeping in the oceans. And by the way water flowed around them and by the way the horizon darkened, they knew that their love had no chance against the power of the sea.

***

In the books that are no longer readable and in the memories of people who died a long time ago there are stories. Legends. Warnings. 

If a man or a woman are married to the sea, they have no right to fall in love with the Child of Waves and Tears.

The sea is not a forgiving lover, not a merciful partner, once it closes the heavy lid over your head - it won’t let you out. And if you try to escape it will reach out for you, it will chase after you until it catches you, crading the soft body and warm skin close to its chest.

That’s how the sea loves its lovers.

That’s how it forbids them to meld with its children. 

***

Roman wasn’t blind. He could see the dark clouds over their heads. Deceit wasn’t mute, he could hear the way sea roared for them. Both of them. Every day was pushing them straight into the arms of tragedy.

Therefore, their first kiss was chaste and filled with as much excitement as fear. 

Deceit was so close and when Roman leaned down like he always did, it turned out that they were much closer than expected. The smell of salt and home. Their shared home - the sea.

When the skin brushed the skin and when the lips brushed against the lips, the sky above them opened, tearing the taste off their lips.

Roman guessed that Deceit tasted like salt and water but he couldn’t be sure. The sea didn’t let him find out. He could watch and he could touch but he couldn’t melt into Deceit as he used to melt into cold waves that lulled him into sleep for so many years. He longed. 

Once the rain stopped, they read the signs on the sand. Deceit’s tail was reflecting the colorful shades of the rainbow above their heads. 

“It appears clear to me that Mother doesn’t want for us to stay together,” whispered Deceit, his lips dangerously close to Roman’s ear.

“Mother?” echoed Roman.

Deceit looked at the horizon. Its color reminded him of Roman’s eyes. Deceit had always dreamt of crossing the line of horizon. 

“The sea may be my mother but you pledged yourself to her and she likes you too much to let go off you. It’s obvious by the way she favours you. She was merciful enough to bring us together. Throwing me into the cove and throwing you at the shore. It’s her doing.” Deceit ran his fingers up Roman’s thigh. He wished he was strong enough to fully pull his body out of the water. “She felt our destiny but didn’t expect for it to fulfill the rest of our life.”

“So the sea…” Roman’s voice broke a little bit. The song in Deceit’s ears had never been sadder. “She wants us apart.”

***

“But Roman loves the sea!” Patton explained, barely holding back his tears. “He couldn’t just give up on that!”

“He couldn’t,” Logan agreed quietly. The waves shook the ship, trying to push the memories out of his head. “Neither could Deceit. The sea made both of them. Gave them purpose in life, gave them solace and home. And they offered their life in return.”

***

Love is like a double edged sword - it is a perfect weapon but it could easily be used against the warrior holding it. 

The sea was smart - she knew that they would give up their life for each other so she had to take something much more precious from them. She had to steal something imprinted in their memory. Something as precious as their most hidden treasures. She had to break them apart with their own weapon.

The storm broke in the middle of the night when everything was as dark as spilled ink. They never slept close - Deceit needed water to restore his energy and Roman needed the tiniest amount of warmth that a shelter could provide. 

Two screams intertwined in the sky in one, shared song. It was barely audible over the loud thunder and thick streams of rain. 

Roman could feel the sharp cut of the wind and water on his legs, arms and face. It didn’t stop him though, he kept walking towards the water, step by step, inch by inch. He thought he could hear a broken sob in the air. It was wet, heart-wrecking sound and Roman knew that it was the sea crying for him and Deceit. She hated their suffering but she also hated the idea of them being together even more. One final blow of icy cold wind slapped Roman across his face, digging into his eyes, forcing tears out of them, making the maps and plans slip down his cheeks. He didn’t stop to gather them. He didn’t shove them into pockets. Instead he walked over them, crushing teal veils under his heels.

One thought - get to Deceit as fast as it was humanly possible. He didn’t even get that only last chance.

Roman passed away midway through the beach. Just a couple of meters away from his beloved.

***

Deceit pushed himself up the shore while his arms screamed in pain. He knew that he had to get away from water unless he wanted it to throw him into the darkest corners of the globe, for so long that he would lose his way back to Roman. 

“Better now or never.” he hissed through clenched teeth, focusing on the skin under the golden scales on his tail. Some merfolk could transform their tail into legs but Deceit had never tried that before.

He expected the pain, he expected the turmoil. He didn’t expect the fire. Filled with cold blood and used to the icy water Deceit knew no warmth except of Roman’s. The fire ripping his scales of was unbearable. Every scale felt as if it was set on fire as if it was trying to burn out the remaining gold.

He tried moving further, dragging his barely-legs behind himself.

He passed away midway through the beach. Just a couple of meters from his beloved.

***

“And what happened next?” Patton inquired, practically leaning on Logan’s side. His stubby fingers were digging into quartermaster’s arm. Virgil with fevered eyes was peaking over his brother’s shoulder.

Logan shrugged, knowing well that his answer would disappoint the audience. It happened to the best of stories - it was tempting to colorize the ending. But Logan promised to himself that he would tell this story as it was told to him.

“That’s the end. Roman and Deceit never met again.” he sighed, hopping off the table, “Few days later Roman was found unconscious on the drifting boat. His pockets were full of golden coins. When he opened his eyes they have already been red.”

Patton’s face dropped, “So the color…”

Helplessly, to show just as little of comfort he had to offer, Logan opened his arms. What was he supposed to say? That Roman’s eyes lost the color when the sea hit him with the final blow? That the teal canvas slipped off and buried down in the white sand on some neglected island? Logan was a pirate, he had seen many strange things but even he sometimes had doubts for this part of the story.

“I told you at the beginning,” huffed Logan, pushing the table back under the wall, “Roman told me this story and you know that he has a tendency to… embellish some aspects.”

Virgil nodded thoughtfully. The adventurous sparks were still shining in his eyes. Maybe he was a fit for a pirate after all. 

“What did Roman do with the gold though?” Patton poked Virgil’s cheek.

“Oh, that?” Logan asked and drained the bottle, “He spent all of this money to buy Creativity and hire the crew. And, among many others, I was lucky enough to be a part of that first crew.” he added with a very self-pleased smile. It was clear that he was very proud of that.

The storm outside shook the windows. More of the violent raindrops drummed against the glass, splashing the streams that were already running down them. 

“Now that you know this story you can stop asking.” finished Logan, talking a step towards the door. “But don’t mention Roman that you heard it from me. Although I know that he wouldn’t be angry for telling you, he just… doesn’t like being reminded of Deceit.” 

With these words Logan left the room, leaving Virgil and Patton alone with their thoughts and silent mourning after the tragic love. 

***

The rainpour was getting bigger and bigger as Roman slipped into the mostly abandoned warehouse. The door closed behind him with a barely loud squeak. Tentatively, Roman looked around trying to see through the darkness surrounding him. Slowly, as his eyes got used to the darkness, the shadows started reminding more of shapes than a blurry nothingness. The barrels, empty caskets, piles of wood and finally - the skeleton of a ship that was never meant to be finished. 

Feeling vaguely secure Roman stepped further into the warehouse. He could hear the water splashing against the sharp edges of the stones where the water met with the ground. 

His heart was pounding inside his chest. He really hoped that his feeling wasn't wrong. But no, it couldn't be. He doubted he could ever mistake the song in his ears for something else. Every sound and every tune was perfectly audible for him, despite the rain trashing the harbor outside. The song was growing louder and cleared over the past few days, ever since he saw the dark clouds of the horizon.

Rain, yes rain. The stormy clouds - the twin sisters of the sea. 

It was… Familiar. How could he possibly forget both the song in his ears and the sound of rain that aimed to drag him away from the singer. 

Roman took another step forward. Wet stone crunched under his heel. 

"Silence did not become one of your traits, I presume."

Roman froze. He thought that he was prepared. He wasn't. 

"Dee…" He uttered, frantically looking for a familiar shadow under the water. The song in his ears stopped. 

Melodic laugh vibrated through the air, shaking Roman's body to the core. 

"Last time I checked you called me another name," replied still shapeless, bodiless, faceless Deceit. 

With shaking hands Roman tried to light up the matches he was clenching. Only lonely spark jumped into the water, for a moment, brightening the darkness beneath the surface. There was nothing there. 

Letting out a shaky exhale, Roman laughed nervously, "I thought that giving you a nickname would be a nice touch." He said, fumbling with another match. 

And suddenly there were hands on his hand - cold and silky wet - and there was a weight on his back and if someone was leaning over him. And there was a breath on his earshell and it smelt like salt and home. 

"It is a nice touch, I must admit." The whisper was much closer this time. It was the voice of the devil, the voice of the monster, the voice of Roman’s greatest love.

Roman watched the cold hand lay over his and press the match against the flint. Fire erupted in front of his eyes. He quickly lit up the fuse of his lantern and the room filled up with warmth that Roman felt in his heart. It was hard to turn around. Not yet. Not yet. He wasn’t ready. Even though he waited for so long. The thunder slashed the sky above the roof, sending sparks through his body.

“Well, I guess that Mother’s not happy for our meeting.” laughed Deceit bitterly, pressing his cheek against Roman’s shoulder.

Wet laugh rolled down Roman’s tongue. It turned out to be more of a sob than a laugh. There was a shift behind him and then there were lips pressing against his neck and a whisper against his earshell.

“I want to look into your eyes, Roman.”

And Roman had always been weak for that sweet voice, for that beautiful song. In a split of a second - as if someone finally pulled his strings - he turned around and it was like all the air fled from his lungs.

“Deceit.” he uttered and pressed his lips against the lips, for the first time tasting its salt. It was somewhat sweet of Roman’s tongue.

The kiss was returned within a second, of course it was. It was the first time they could actually kiss even if it was just for a moment, even if it was just for a minute. 

The wind and rain had already been banging against the doors and windows when Roman stepped away, his hands still resting on Deceit’s arms. Only then did he realize that Deceit was standing, standing, in front of him without any help. 

“I learnt how to turn my tail into legs,” explained Deceit, seeing Roman’s gaze. He sounded almost embarrassed and Roman’s heart flipped in his chest. 

Soon enough however that shy expression melted under the pressure of something gloomier. Deceit’s hand moved to cup Roman’s cheek, thumb running over the skin beneath his eye.

“I see. That Mother wasn’t entirely merciful for you either.” He said, letting out a pained sigh, “Your eyes.” he added, sensing Roman’s confusion, “They used to be different color.” 

“I cried the color out of them when I realized that we parted.” said Roman smiling slightly, brushing his fingers against the reddened scales covering a half of Deceit’s face.

“Ha, and here I thought that I was the bigger liar among the two of us,” Deceit chuckled, winking at Roman. “I know the sea's doing when I see it.” His legs wobbled a little bit and he had to brace himself against Roman’s arm. The other didn’t complain. “I’m sorry, it’s still hard for me to stand like that for too long…” he bit his cheek, “Would you mind if I...?” he gestured at the dark pool inside the warehouse.

Instead of answering Roman scooped him into his arms and - as if Deceit was lighter than a feather - carried him into the water. It was obnoxiously hard to let go off this weight. Roman imagined that he could easily carry Deceit around all day long. The small pleasant noise that Deceit let out was at least a little bit of a reward. 

“It’s not golden anymore,” Roman noted pointing at the newly reformed tail, without a surprise.

Deceit shrugged. “I wear my punishment proudly,” he added, waving his crimson fin at Roman.

Another massive blow hit the warehouse. This time both of them glanced at the creaking, wooden roof.

“I’m afraid we should go soon. The storm will calm down once you leave the dock.” said Deceit after a couple of moments.

Roman’s heart lurched to the side. He wasn’t ready. Not yet. Shut the door, lay bricks in the windows. Just give him some more time.

“Will I see you again?” he asked instead. It came out weaker than he expected. He leaned down and gripped Deceit’s hand. It was so slippery in his own. He was afraid that it would slip out of his grasp any moment soon.

“Yes,” replied Deceit instantly.

“When? Where?”

“I don’t know when and I don’t know where.” Deceit shook his head, “You must look out for the dark clouds in the sky and red trail in the water. There I will be.” he added, trying to pull his hand out of the hold.

“Can you promise that?” Roman demanded, tightening his hold. His heart was hammering against his ribcage.

In a flash:

Lips against his lips. Salt that tastes sweeter than it should.

His hands left empty.

One echoed whisper. “I promise”

Roman was alone. The rain outside stopped raining.

***

They fell hard. As hard as the waves crash against the shore. As hard as the dead body falls into the cold water of the ocean.

Their love was hot and wild. As hot as blood pumping through their veins. As wild as the water under their fingers. Hot and wild like blood in Roman’s eyes and Deceit’s scales.

When they were apart they were singing lullabies for each other. The moonlight being the messenger. Their melodies danced on the peaceful surface of the sea.

When they were together, the tornado was shaking the world. The edges of their bodies were as hazy as the clouds in the sky.

One slash was enough to cut them apart, two slashes were enough to give them a reason to fight.

The sea.

The way it opens in front of them, cold and eager. Ah, so eager. Endless, deep, ruthless, selfish and demanding.

The sea. 

The way it closes it shell, trying to keep the warmth inside, trying to keep its children away from each other. It doesn’t realize that it has already marked them as each other’s forever.

*** 

Roman opened his crimson eyes. 

The waves were crashing against the sides of Creativity. The sky above him was darkening with beautiful navy color. He looked at the horizon. Where the sun was touching the sea, he could see the tiniest red glow.

“Change of the course, Logan.” called Roman sharply, “We’re sailing into the west.”

the end.

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[josiewinters1999]

When Ice Melts: A Loki Fic

When Ice Melts: A Loki Fic

Loki x Original Female Character

Chapter 1

Contains: Mentions of blood and injury, post endgame Loki, original characters

Summary: After stealing the Tesseract in 2012, Loki finds himself stranded on a planet of intense gravity, blistering heat, and red people. He is taken prisoner by the natives, only to find the chieftess of this civilization is oddly familiar...

A/N: This will be the first chapter in what I hope will be a long slow burn fic. It’s kinda short but I don’t want to bombard you guys with too much at once lol. Luckily I already have a few chapters ready and I hope to continue writing. The chapter art was done by myself and I would really like to make something new for each upload. Hope you all enjoy!

Yet another boring day in court, Willie thought to herself. As she sat upon her throne of red stone, expertly crafted thousands of years before she was born, each carving intricately detailed with care, she stares off into space, faking her attention on the people in front of her. Can they not take care of anything by themselves? She wondered, her large headdress feeling heavier with every passing second.

She shifts in her seat, the long red robes dragging the stone floor as she does so. The Galfreskan chieftess is pulled from her thoughts as one of the representatives from the farming district gives her an almost loud look for approval.

Only half paying attention to what he had said, she waves a tired red hand to him, “Yes, yes,” she mumbles in her native tongue, “rotate the wheat. If you don’t the fields will dry up.” He nods, wringing his hands and looking down nervously. “I don’t really understand why you felt the need to come to me with this issue,” Willie groans, “I made sure you were more than capable and intelligent enough to manage the fields.”

He bows slightly, his own robes swaying as he does so, “I’m sorry Miss. Forgive me for wasting your time.” He stands, “I’ll see to it as soon as possible that crops are rotated for the next planting.”

Resting her cheek on her propped up palm, Willie sighs, “Yes, now please leave. Your company is growing tiresome.” Straightening himself, the man scurries out of the throne room, through the stone archway into the corridor beyond.

On his way out, a familiar face speed walks in, worry and confusion plastered on his face. The dim lighting of the various candles and torches in the room allow Willie just enough lumination to see the features of the approaching figure. Sitting up she smiles and lets loose a relieved sigh, “Ah,” she exclaims, “Voorsha! My sweet apprentice, what brings you to me at this time of day?”

Voorsha is a young man standing about six foot tall with the same atheltic build and red skin of his leader. The only things that differentiate their physiques are their hair color- the chieftess having a golden blond and Voorsha having long, dark brown tresses.  

He, covered in a thin sheen a sweat, something common for a planet with an average temperature of 100 degrees, pants, struggling to get his words to spill to the chieftess before him.

Catching on to his nerves, Willie’s smile fades, and she leans forward more in her seat, not yet getting up, “Voorsha? What’s wrong?”

He looks up at her, chin tilted down to swallow the lump in his throat, “Miss, I’m not sure how to bring this news to you…”

A feeling of slight fear clutching both her hearts, Willie is now on the edge of her seat, feeling herself beginning to perspire, “What?” she demands desperately, “out with it kid!”

Clenching his fists, the man, clad in traditional warrior clothing, the intricately tied belt around his waist signifying his loyalty and servitude to the chieftess, takes a deep breath, “We’ve captured a prisoner.”

Furrowing her brow, Willie’s tense shoulders fall slightly, “A prisoner? What type of prisoner? A Galfreskan  prisoner? Because, truthfully boy, that’s nothing to bother me with I trust your judgement-”

“No,” he interrupts, shaking his head, “A foreigner. A white man. I don’t know what he is, but he’s not human or Galfreskan .” There is a moment of silence between them, Voorsha studying his master’s face and Willie wracking her brain to think of the possible unexpected guest her guards have just captured.

“However,” Voorsha continues, “He speaks English. I heard him.” Taking another deep breath, he goes on, “When I was out along the canal, making the inspections you ordered, one of my men claimed he heard a voice from the treeline. We go to investigate and find a man with white skin and black hair stumbling around like he couldn’t walk.

“Seeing that, I knew he had just arrived and isn’t accustomed to the increased gravity yet. I ordered my men to stay hidden but alert as I watched him. He was grumbling angrily to himself. Finally, he noticed me. He shouted and began attacking. He didn’t wield any weapon I had ever seen before, not even on our visits to Earth.

“He held a glowing blue box, and I could sense the power from it was immeasurable. I ordered my men to shoot his hand, to get it away from him. They did as they were told and he became powerless. From that point, it was fairly easy to apprehend him. After knocking him unconscious myself, my men and I brought him back here and he should be in the dungeon by now.”

The events of Voorsha’s story only made Willie even more confused, it was simply too much information to process in such a short time. “I don’t understand. Why is this so hard to tell me?”

Swallowing one last time, Voorsha closes his eyes before uttering, “Before he lost consciousness, he yelled at me. None of the other men understood him but I knew his language. He said, 'Do you have any idea who I am? I’m Loki, son of Odin'.”

All the color from Willie’s face drained immediately and she almost felt herself faint. Loki was a name that, for the past almost decade now, she had only heard in her dreams. The grip on her stone armrest instantly loosened as her face filled with even more confusion, words not bearing to pass her lips.

“I’ve heard enough of your stories, Miss,” Voorsha continues, “that even I know who that is and what he means to you. I wanted to be the one to personally deliver the news to you.”

Shooting her head up and snapping herself from her daze, Willie pleads to him desperately, “Take me to him.”

Nodding quickly, Voorsha steps back as Willie emerges from her throne, long, regal, red robes flowing behind her. “Yes, Miss,” he says, “as I said before, I made sure he was taken to the dungeon.”

Without another word, Willie pushes past Voorsha, him hot on her heels, as she races down the Great Temple’s corridors. He wrapped feet slap against the stone, the wind created by her swiftness shaking the flames of the torches behind her.

Dashing through the temple and occasional stairs, Willie’s mind races, mostly with fond, romantic memories of her long lost love. How she yearned to even see him one more time, if for nothing else than to have her last vision of him be a pleasant one and not of him lifeless on the cold floor of a spacecraft, neck snapped in two.

For once in your miserable life woman, listen to me and stay hidden. I’ll be back for you. His last words to her echo in her head, the feeling of his bloody hand gracing her cheek making her eyes water.

She nearly trips on her robes running down the final set of stairs to the dungeon. Catching her headdress before it falls, she regains her composure. Taking a moment to breathe before passing through the final arch to the dungeon’s main room, she pauses. Voorsha finally catches up, himself also slightly out of breath.

Noticing the chieftess’ nervous state, he places a reassuring hand on her shoulder, “You can do this Miss. You mustn’t let yourself fall in front of your people.” She nods at his words, finding the courage to make the steps into the darkness.

In the black of the dungeon, she sees a light by the former preparation area for sacrifices. Since the discontinuation of that practice, the space had lain bare. Approaching the light, Willie sees him, her mouth falling slightly open.

He was on his knees, two guards with large spears holding him to the ground by his shoulders. His hand was clutched to his stomach, bleeding through the bandages the third guard off to the side has presumably put on him.

The prince wears his typical green and black armor, something it seemed he never took off. The coolness of his clothing and his pale skin contrasts much with the warmth of the room and the red of everything around him.

Sensing the chieftess’ presence, all three guards straighten themselves. Loki seems to not notice anything happening as they speak to her in a language he can’t understand. “Your honor, he was injured in his apprehension. The wound is still bleeding but he should be fine.”

She nods, remembering Voorsha’s story of him being shot in the hand with an arrow. Willie steps forward, a small pebble beneath her rolling forward and making just enough noise for Loki to notice.

He looks up, wincing in pain and covered in sweat from the intense heat of the planet he found himself on. “Who’s there?” he asks to the darkness, unable to see the two people before him, “Show yourself.”

One of the guards shoves Loki to the ground hard and he grunts loudly. Sitting back up, he watches a woman emerge into the dim light. She was tall, fairly muscular, her build showing even under her loose robes. Her red skin and strong facial features matched those of the other natives he had seen thus far. However, her golden hair, as well as the large thing adorning her head, indicated to him she was special.

“Who are you? The queen of this kingdom?” He asks with cynicism lacing his voice, once again wincing in pain after he spoke.

Willie’s heart drops. He doesn’t recognize me. Stepping back into the darkness, she hears him complain as she gathers her thoughts.

In the events with gathering the infinity stones through time and space, Willie remembers Steve Rogers telling her that Loki, a Loki from another time, took the Tesseract from that world and left without a trace.

Since that day in New York, she had changed so much. She looked absolutely nothing like she used to. She is taller, more tan, has gained weight, and simply just older. It was no wonder he didn't recognize her, even after all their time together. However, it didn't diminish the pain.

Her eyes dart to the third guard to the left of the prisoner on the floor. He holds a blue box, the light it gives off illuminating his face full of confusion. She then looks back to Loki. Young, full of anger, a fire in his eyes she hadn't seen in him in ages. Since that day in New York.

The pieces begin to slowly fall into place. This wasn’t her Loki. This wasn’t the Loki who knew this aged, war torn, face. This wasn’t the Loki who grieved the loss of his mother and vowed he would make her proud. This wasn’t the Loki she got the privilege to see change into a better man. It wasn’t the Loki she got to fall in love with for a second time.

This Loki was angry. This Loki knew only betrayal, lies, and a need to prove himself to a father he felt abandoned him. This Loki was from a different time.

“Don’t you speak English woman?” He shouts through gritted teeth. He demands, “Answer me! Who are you?”

Taking a deep breath, Willie steps back into the light, knowing what she must do, “The better question” she answers in English, “how did you get here?”

He sighs, slightly relieved there is some communication going on, “Thank the gods, you people can speak English,” he looks up, still clutching his bloody hand, “If I knew how I got here, I wouldn’t have come.” Looking around he notices he never figured out exactly where here was.

“Speaking of which,” he says venomously, “Where am I?”

Raising her chin and looking down upon him, the headdress clad woman answers, “This,” she starts slowly, “is The Great City of Galfreski, a place nearly impossible to find if you aren’t invited. So needless to say, your arrival is very concerning.”

Loki raises a brow in confusion, “Galfreski? How is that possible? Galfreski was destroyed over a thousand years ago.”

The chieftess chuckles, gesturing around her, “It would seem that it is indeed still here.” This Loki wasn’t there to hear her tell him she had found it, miraculously and inexplicably back from the dead, and she planned to return home. That had happened in another time.

He shifts on the cold, dry, stone, “In that case, there is someone I would like to speak to.”

Swallowing and using all her willpower to keep her composure, the woman almost stutters, “Who would that be?”

Through sweat soaked black hair, he spits, “A woman named Willie. She is of this planet and I’m sure she will kill you where you stand for doing this to me,” he gestures to his injured hand.

Thinking for a moment, Willie speaks, “She has no jurisdiction over me .” If she wanted to change Loki the way he had changed in the other timeline, the chieftess had no choice but to pretend she wasn’t herself. She continues with pride, “You have no right to complain about getting an arrow through your paw, either. My men told me what you were accompanied with.” She looks to the tesseract then back to her prisoner.

“Then you should know how much power that thing has and it belongs in my hands,” Loki barks, “none of you possess the needed power to wield it.”

She scoffs, “And you do? I know exactly what that thing is and I also know exactly who you are, Loki of Asgard.”

He is taken aback by her words for a minute then he smiles, “See, that is where you are wrong. You know nothing of me you cruel wench. I’m not of Asgard. I’m-”

“Yes, you were born in Jotunheim but raised by the allfather,” she interrupts, waving a hand in dismissal, watching the shock on Loki’s face with a smug smile, “Again, Loki Odinson, I know exactly who you are, and what you’re capable of.”

Looking to his hand once more, she notices the blood pooling on the ground around his knee, “You should be lucky my men didn’t kill you. Had it been my call, I would have ordered it.”

Stepping towards him, he scoots back, stubbornly clutching his wound. Willie squats, “Let me see it,” she holds out a red hand to him.

“Why?” he asks, smugness dripping from his simple question, “You want to see me die.”

Biting her tongue at the mere thought of seeing that again, the chieftess sighs, “I don’t want to have to burn your body when you're gone. So for the time being, I’ll keep you alive,” Thrusting her hand toward his pale one, she demands, “Let me see it.”

He cautiously gives his bandaged hand to her. She just as cautiously removes the bandages, occasionally looking up into his beautiful green eyes. More than anything, she wants to throw herself into his arms and weep tears of joy. It had been so long since she’d been this close to him and her body ached to touch him more.

Removing the last bit of fabric, Willie sees what damage had been done. A small hole goes straight through his hand, an entry and exit wound allowing light to pass through. Feeling guilty for causing him this much pain, she bites her lip.

“Voorsha,” she calls to her assistant, switching to their native language. “Go fetch one of the healers. It’s bad.” She looks up to the guard that originally cared for Loki, “You, go get some water and clean this out once more,” she looks back to all the blood, it beginning to coat her own hands, the reds mixing together in one big mess, “You’ll need more bandages as well.”

Switching to English to speak to her prisoner, Willie raises her head to make eye contact with him, “I’m sending for some people to treat this.” Standing to her full height once more, she steps back, “After your cell is prepared, I’ll have some food brought to you as well. You must be very weak after losing all that blood.”

His eyes widen, “Cell?” he scoffs, “you can’t expect to keep me here. I demand you call my father and have me sent home.”

Willie shakes her head laughing, “That won’t be happening my dear. You’re staying here on this planet until I feel you’ve repented for your actions against Earth.” She leans down slightly, staring him down with vengeance, “I know what you did Loki and don’t think you won’t pay for it.”

With that, she flicks a hand, her guards knowing exactly what she wants done. They pull Loki to his feet, them now being eye to eye with one another. His knees go weak and they have to hoist him up again. He frantically looks between the large red skinned men and then to his captor, “You can’t do this, the allfather will have your head for this!” he spits.

“I don’t think he’ll see an issue with it.” Willie says, a bit of sorrow in her voice as she watches her love get carried away to be locked up once more.

*TAG LIST*

@bambamwolf87​

[journal-of-an-outlaw]

The Price to be Paid

Hey gang! 

This is my very first Tumblr fanfiction. I used to write waaaay back but it’s been awhile. Just finished my first playthrough of Red Dead Redemption 2 and of course needed to write something about my story with it. 

Feel free to message me with feedback or thoughts, like I said it’s been a few years so I’ll post this to Ao3 after awhile. Please like and reblog only, no reposting. 

Chapter 1 

“See that one? Easy. Go nick his watch.”

You laughed and smiled over your shoulder at Abigail as you walked over towards the cart that had stopped from one of the nearby farms selling apples in the middle of town, red and bursting to be eaten. A man who was picking out which ones looked best out of the pile didn’t seem flustered by your sudden appearance which was good. It made the next part easier. 

“Oof! Excuse me sir, I didn’t see you there. Are you okay? Oh, let me help wipe that off your shirt.” 

Coffee bled a dark brown down the man’s white shirt as he hastily moved to grab something to stop the spread, and you were ready with your handkerchief. While he snatched it out of your hands, you removed his pocket watch without him knowing, the pressure of your hands on his torso masking the motion. The cold coffee had been sitting on the edge of the cart as if someone had forgotten it in their haste to leave for the center of town. He huffed and hawed and made a bigger fuss than you could have hoped for, but the nearby prying eyes only saw a silly girl who managed to spill coffee onto the boy buying apples. 

You smiled one last time at him and batted your eyes then flounced down the street and around the alley to meet Abigail. She laughed and grabbed your shoulder while you showed her the watch; no engraving or photo slipped inside which made you relax at the fact it wasn’t overly sentimental. 

“Now see, this here is exactly what you can pawn off. A good 8 dollars for this, plus whatever else you can grab adds up fast. Then maybe...a way out?” her eyes were kind as her mouth twisted into a coy smile. 

You smiled back at Abigail. The past few months while she and her gang were in town you had grown close. She hadn’t divulged too much about the people she ran with and that you could understand. The world was dangerous and full of opportunities and you couldn’t judge her for the choices she had made to keep her and those she cared about safe. You had never really left the town you were raised in and your family was your ‘gang’, but their secrets would never haunt others that you choose to surround yourself with. You knew she had a man, maybe not a husband but someone she loved. And a son that she loved more than anything in the world. Although she’s never told you outright about him, you’ve seen her buy (or steal) little trinkets and toys that no grown man would want. That’s when Abigail taught you the same tricks. How to divert the attention of shop owners so your hands could dart into your pockets with stolen food, or how to nab items to pawn to build up your own funds when you bump into folks and cause a scene. You had been eyeing the mountains outside of town a lot more lately, and thinking how great of an escape you could make. 

“Where would I even pawn these? Do I walk in with everything at once?” you asked her. She contemplated for a moment. “You don’t want to walk in with arm loads of stolen things, but a few here and there should be okay...maybe clerks will let you trade them for goods! Like for food or clothes and such. There’s a good pawn shop in Rhodes, but that’s a long ways from here in Blackwater.”

Your hometown, or at least the place you had been raised in, was hot, dry, and desert like most of the year. The people were kind and you liked being situated by the river. On particularly hot nights you would sneak out and sit by the slow and lazy moving water, imagining it was carrying you someplace new and far away, where no one would know you and you could start over. But you knew that idea was just that and there was no escaping. Small fantasies were all you had. Some nights you yearned for your life that began in Boston, but Blackwater was the only home you had ever known.

Abigail brought you back to the present with her hand on your arm. “Y/N, I might have to leave soon. I don’t want to but there are things I can’t change that are set in motion by the people I’m with. You’re...well I guess my friend and I wanted to let you know.” You laughed at her hesitation to call you a friend. Knowing her it isn’t an insult. If anything, she means it as a way to say she doesn’t get close to many people and has somehow chosen you. 

“Abigail I appreciate you telling me, but I’ll see you again! I am not worried.” Sometimes your blind optimism got the better of you. Damn those novels that you got lost in. Few things brought you pleasure like the chapters of a book. 

The two of you clasped hands and parted for the day as the sun set behind you. Slowly but surely you were building a collection of items that had been lifted off the residents of Blackwater and were going towards your future pawn trips. As much as you loved the town and its dusty, dirty humbleness there was a darkness that lived there. 

You neared your house and felt your heart drop to your stomach as the parlor light flickered on meaning your mother was not home, but your father was. Dad had a mean drinking problem, and as the man in charge of  some government organization had power which mixed terribly with his vanity. He wanted everyone to know that he and he alone was in charge. 

Climbing up the steps quietly you hoped to sneak by. That damn fourth step gave you away, and you silently swore as your father barked for you to come back down. 

“Y/N! Get down here. How dare you walk by and not say hello to your father?” You mumble an apology and kissed him on the cheek, the smugness in him as strong as the whiskey on his breath. As you turned to head to the kitchen for dinner he grabbed your elbow hard enough to make you wince. “Were you in town today,” he asked, but it was more of a statement than a question. He must have seen you, or heard about Abigail somehow. “Y-yes father, I spent the day in town. At the market, there was a wagon from a nearby farm…” you drifted off and tried to walk to the other room. Your father stood abruptly, but was distracted by your mother opening the kitchen door. She was a force of pure good and the only thing that could tame your father’s wild ways. Her face beamed and invited you both for dinner. 

“How was town today, Y/N? The apples look delicious.” You mother winked at you and motioned to the three red apples sitting on the counter waiting to be baked into a pie for dessert. While in town you didn’t even notice her so she must have moved quietly. The roast chicken and potatoes were delicious and you couldn't eat fast enough. After dinner, your father went out to the back porch to smoke while your mother sat and played cards with you. 

“Mother, why don’t we just leave?” you whispered. This was a conversation you had had many times in the past. “If we packed and left at midnight he couldn’t track us. We could go to the mountains, move west or even north again! A new city with no one following us and we could make a new life. Work in an art gallery or a farm or...just some place nice and safe. Where no one could hurt us.” The darting of your eyes was not missed by your mother who had never known about your father and how his rage manifested late at night. He always did have a knack for hitting you in places that no one else would ever see.  

Her hand was soft as it wrapped around your own. You knew this fantasy would never happen but you always hoped someday she would finally agree. 

“My dear, we musnt run away from those things that we fear. Fear only increases when we turn our backs to escape rather than face it head on.” 

********************************************************

The next day in town you met up with Abigail again. You knew the time was coming for her to leave from the way she clung to you a little tighter and laughed more forced and often. It made you sad to think that this bright light in your life lately would just be gone due to...whatever it was that would drag her away. Loyalty and family all meant something to you of course. But it was still upsetting to think that this exciting time would soon be over. 

“The last thing I’ll teach you as a thief is this. In order to pull off a good heist, you have to believe. With everything you have. A poor orphan left to die on the side of the road? Believe. Someone who just got robbed and needs a ride to town? Believe. Someone who isn’t being abused by a man somewhere in town? Believe.”

She stared you down hard during this last line. You flinched and moved to cover the bruise that had been exposed when you rolled your sleeves up from the heat. A soft expression met you when you looked up to her blue eyes. 

“I...It’s nothing I promise.”

“And that, hon, is exactly what I was talking about. You have to believe. Make it out of this town, safe. Please. If not for me, maybe just for you.” You watery eyes meet hers and you realized that it’s obvious to everyone but you that leaving may just be your last hope to being happy. The only issue you have is leaving your mother behind with the monster that hides behind the eyes of your father. His rage wasn’t always there. Mother said as a child you lived happily in Boston just the three of you. It was supposed to be four, and that’s where the trouble began. When your brother was lost a few days after his birth your father couldn't stand it. The whiskey was his crutch, and it soon became more of a constant burden. Every day it seemed he stumbled in from work already drowning in the vile stuff. Even the thought of its scent brought you gagging now. Your mother says that’s the reason you had to leave the northern city and move to the nowhere town of Blackwater and start all over again. That drink and the havoc it caused. 

While you had the time the two of you decided to celebrate. Sitting in the saloon you clinked your drinks and cheersed to seeing each other soon someday. Abigail loved hometown whiskey and your poison of choice was gin. Many drinks later and the two of you stumbled out to the main road, needing fresh air after leading the whole bar in a great rendition of a popular song. You swayed in the heat that met you outside of the doors. A huge commotion down by the water caused half the town out to come bursting out to the roads behind you. Galloping horses, screaming, and gunshots were all you could make out. Damn those drinks and whatever was in them! You couldn't see more than four feet in front of you, and everything beyond that was a big old blur. 

“Y/N! We need to move. Now!” Abigail somehow sobered up and was in charge of the whole situation. “Get behind that building and pretend you don’t know me-” but her words were cut short by a man grabbing her arm and yanking her down the road. 

“Abigail!! Hey! Let her go!” You chased, well, more like stumbled after, the pair and beat his arm with your fists. He released Abigail and grabbed your hands, shoving them down by your sides and forcing you to stare into his eyes. 

“Now what in the hell are you doing?” You stare dumbstruck into his face thinking that you might have landed yourself right into one of your novels. Beautiful blue eyes searched your drunken face and you couldn’t even speak. His eyebrows pulled together and crows feet showed around the edges of his eyes, years of the open sun and road changing the landscape of his face. Stringing coherent thoughts together was a struggle when Abigail shoved the man. “Arthur! Let her go she’s my...she’s my friend.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows, “Abigail I have to get you back to John-”

Three men raced around the street corner on horseback and shouted in your direction. “Those three! Stop them! They’re linked with them gangs from the riverboat!” 

You swung around to face Arthur and Abigail. “What have you done. Your gang! What did you do!” 

Arthur swore and grabbed you by your waist. “Abigail, get on that grey horse there. The bay is mine.” She nodded and took off down the road. You cursed and swung as hard as you could but it was no use, this man had you captive as he put you on the horse and followed Abigail. The lawmen were not too far behind and you heard the bullets they fired whisk by you and hit the buildings down the street. From the back of a horse you watched the faces of people you knew zip by faster and faster, and with them the memory of who you were confined to be quickly slipped away. What a strange turn of events in the past few months. Abigail had taught you how to pickpocket and thief your way hopefully to a new life, but instead of taking that route here one was riding you off on a horse. It scared you, but you couldn't look back. 

A sharp and terrible pain grabbed you suddenly as a bullet met your left side below your ribs. Screaming, you almost fell off the horse but managed to clutch onto Arthur’s shirt with weak fingers. He turned around at the noise and seemed upset as his face filled with worry when looking at the blood spilling onto your shirt. The pain proved too much and the last thing you remember was landing on a hill of grass with dust swirling all around as the sound of pounding hooves raging your ears from all directions.

[starcunning]

Anabasis

This, on the other hand ...

There might be one more in this wheelhouse before patch. We’ll see.

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground. So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind: Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Fray knows what is best for them, so it is Fray that rouses their body from bed, Fray that makes sure they remember to eat and wash and breathe. No one around them is aware of their curious codependency; Urianger had some early inkling of their symbiosis, but Urianger is gone.

So when a Julien de Vedastus is announced as wishing an audience with the Warrior of Light, it is Fray that prepares to meet with him.

The name means nothing to X’shasi, and hardly rouses her from her torpor. Fray expects an Ishgardian nobleman, disdainful of the layer of dust that has settled in the solar. Were there more of them perhaps they might have more concern for keeping up appearances, but the senior Scions are gone beyond the reach of even Eorzea’s greatest champion, and those that remain have other priorities.

Perhaps in time their dormitories will be like Minfilia’s solar, gilded with disuse; sunny rooms that no one visits. Perhaps Shasi’s will too. She thinks it from time to time—she will never take Fray’s offer to run away, but the choice to disappear and become unknown may not always be hers.

For now there is the unseemly quietude of the Rising Stones and a request for audience. Fray expects more requests will follow.

Julien de Vedastus enters the dusty room with a blademaster’s confidence. Fray can tell just from the sound of his footsteps. Something about them rouses Shasi from her living sleep, so that when Fray turns them around to see the man approaching in the garb of a Resistance soldier, she too is looking at him.

He is an Elezen man, with eyes of deepest blue and a Doman blade hung from his belt. The gryphon’s-head cap he wears casts a shadow over his features, but they are familiar to her just the same, as is the expression he wears: not the open worship of a man come to petition a champion, but a quieter awe. Tears prick her eyes. His name is not Julien de Vedastus. It can’t be. It’s something else. It’s—

“Zenos,” she whimpers. Her face is against his chest already, his arms around her, holding her up. They are the only thing that does; her knees are weak and wobbling. She clutches at him, callused hands clinging desperately to khaki canvas. He has a heartbeat. He is alive, somehow. Not himself, but here. “Yes,” he says, dropping to one knee. She can reach his neck now, and buries her face against it. His pale skin is perfect, unmarred. There should be a scar there, from the time he almost died in front of her, and there isn’t. She touches his chest, where another should be—from the time he did die in front of her. “I killed you,” she says. “How are you here?” “By accident,” he says, “and then by choice.”

She cannot make sense of it, and only understands that he has returned to her—an unforeseen boon executed in unforeseen fashion. For a moment she wonders if Myste has stirred, but her crystal is whole, if not her heart. Zenos lives.

“Where have you been?” she asks softly. “Garlemald,” he replies. “Elidibus has your body,” Shasi tells him, trying not to choke on the words. “I know,” Zenos says. “When I awoke, no one knew where you were. And in your absence, it seemed, certain parties were keen to cast your victory in doubt. I chased him across the provinces,” Zenos said. “Always just too late. Always just in time to hear about the miraculous recovery of the beloved Crown Prince. Lies upon lies.” “I believed them,” she confesses, and it shudders out of her like a sob. “For a time. I watched you die, and it broke me, but Brutus was so certain.” “Who?” he asks. “Asahi sas Brutus?” she says, feeling foolish. “Your devoted disciple?” “I believe I would know if I had taken such a person on.”

She can feel the tears roll over her cheeks, hot and unwelcome, falling onto the canvas of his uniform until it too is hot and damp and stifling, and still he does not let go of her. His fingers, familiar and strange, slide through her hair. “I know,” she says, trying not to sob. “I know, now. But I believed it. That somehow you had returned to the Empire, that you had played me for a fool. That this little killer from the capital knew you better—loved you better—” He hushes her, breath hissing from him. One hand strokes her back and the other comes to cup her chin, to lift her head. He will kiss her now, she knows, and she yearns for that without end.

But she cannot allow that, and turns her head. His lips brush the corner of her mouth instead. “We can’t,” she says, head dropping. He nuzzles against the crown of her hair, breathing deeply. Then he sighs—though he does not seem half so disappointed as he does relieved. “Why ever not?” he asks. She lifts her head to look at him. For all that he looks different, so much of him looks the same. She raises a hand and brushes back his hood, and the blond locks she expects come tumbling out over his shoulders, and she cannot bring herself to explain everything. She takes his hand instead, presses his palm to her cheek, his thumb to her scar. The scar he gave her.

It feels like cowardice when she says, “Look.” Like she should bear the pain of explaining, like she should wring herself out for him. Do you trust him with the knowledge of me? Fray asks. She only nods, eyes closing. Both hands clutch his now, the fingers of one locked around his wrist, the others intertwined with his own, pressing his skin to hers. “Don’t ask me to explain,” she says. “Please, please make this easy for me.” Her hands tremble. He nods, and presses his forehead to hers. His breath spills over her skin, evenly at first.

There is a soft yelp of surprise and pain, a trembling of his hand in hers. This is how she knows what he sees with his Resonance; this is how she can know he has drank of her suffering.

“He might still wake up,” she says, opening her eyes to fix the stranger that was once her lover with her pleading gaze. Her voice is quavering, desperate, trying to convince herself as much as explain to Zenos. “There might still be something I can do to save them, and when he does …” “When he does,” says Zenos, hoarse-voiced and closed-eyes, “you cannot have betrayed him.” He lifts his head. “Even if I can explain it to him and he understands,” she says, realizing now the impossibility of the situation, “I don’t know if you should be with me.” “I love you,” he says, as though this is simple. As though anything in her life has been simple in ten years. She closes her eyes on this notion, shaking her head. Her hands fall from his, but his fingers still caress her cheek. “Don’t be foolish, Zenos,” she says softly. “It’s easy to convince yourself you love someone when they’re around you all the time.”

The light is different in Mor Dhona, but the way it slants through the windows is just the same as at the conservatory, and for a moment she allows herself to indulge in the fantasy that it is moons ago, and she has not killed her lover, has not watched Myste die and Thancred fall. Less than a year’s turn and she is so much diminished by it; her responsibilities erode her. As Fray always warned. There will be nothing left of her, soon, and sooner still without him. Still, she cannot ask him to stay.

“Ah,” he says. His eyes are blue, and his insights are grounded in the mundane when he says, “This, then, is what you think happened with me?” “What choice had you but to love me!” she protests. “You were my captive! What choice does anyone have? I am the Warrior of Light! To deny me is to risk the future of this star entire. Is it not better to capitulate? To keep me happy?” Fray bristles in the back of her mind, but Zenos speaks before he gets the chance. “You think this, too, of your rogue, then. That, like me, you wore him down.” “Yes.” “You forget some things in your eagerness to explain this to yourself.” She glances away, unable to bear the weight of his gaze. “Like what?” she asks softly. “We have been apart for moons now,” Zenos says. “I did not forget that at all,” Shasi says, feeling her tone sharpen. He only holds her closer then, her ear to his chest. “But I chose to return. And you love me, despite my absence.”

She stiffens but does not pull away. Unseen, her eyes go wide, and she thinks over every word that has passed between them, and there, in her condemnation of Asahi sas Brutus, is her confession. No wonder he had tried to kiss her after.

Her love is a death sentence, but he has survived his execution, or at the very least haunts her in living flesh. “I love you,” she agrees. “It was around the time I met Lindleya that I realized …” “The Hydrus widow?” he asks, lifting his head from hers. She looks up into his face, finding his brow knitted. “Yes,” Shasi says. “Lindleya rem Aglaophotis. You knew each other?” “Socially,” he says, and she remembers that which she always forgets: that he is a prince, with a prince’s education and a prince’s responsibilities. “She was wed to my father’s … favourite.” He lades the word with meaning, but she already knows all about Regula van Hydrus and Varis zos Galvus—and she knows, too, how it made Lindleya weep. “It was inevitable that we should meet. One pities her lot.” “Then would you be her?” Shasi asks. “In love with one whose loyalties are divided?” Zenos laughs softly. It is a comforting sound. “You have been in love with Thancred Waters longer than you and I have known each other,” he says. “You saw that when you looked?” “No,” Zenos says, “I saw it in the Menagerie, watching you fight. It came off of you so readily. I could read it in the air around you. And around him.” “But only because he and I—” Zenos clutches her to his chest, stroking her back. “You lost them all. For more than a year he was absent your life, and you loved him. He came back then. He’ll come back now.”

Shasi isn’t sure why Zenos is so keen to create for himself a rival, but she allows herself to relax against him for a moment. “What will you do now, ‘Julien?’” “My hope has ever laid with you,” he says. “And unless I miss my guess, you are in need of support.” “We have some allies yet,” Shasi says. “That is not what I am saying,” he tells her. He draws back far enough so that he can look upon her face, cradling it in his hands—or in the hands he now possesses.

“I needed you, once,” he says. “Whatever I am now, I owe to you. Let me repay that.” Her vision blurs with tears, and she buries her face against his shoulder before they can fall. He holds her as she weeps. For the first time in months she no longer has to be the strongest person in the room.

And Fray lets her relinquish that strength and composure, because this is what is best for her now.

[svt-writers-club]

😭😭😭😭i just read ur villian au jihan angst and hfksKFKSKKFKSLD IM SO WRECKED???? Do jisoo and jeonghan ever make up? What happens afterwards? Do jihoon and jeonghan rly stay together and does jisoo really just let jeonghan go??? I need to know 😭😭😭😭

>:3 i’m in a strange pining sort of mood so here’s some jihan with some jicheol muahahahahah (i also just wanted an excuse to write some sexy pining jicheol so sue me)

Seungcheol was born with fire in his veins. His earliest memory was setting a dead tree on fire, shrieking in happiness as flames licked the dry branches like autumn leaves. For as long as he can remember, he’s been causing trouble and setting things alight.

Seungcheol is also great at burning bridges (both figuratively and literally – but mostly figuratively). Sometimes he wishes he wasn’t so good at it.

Like now.

He’s been looking for Jeonghan and Jihoon for three months now. It might’ve been easier if he hadn’t been so fucking horrible with keeping in contact with Jihoon (he still has Jeonghan’s number, but Seungcheol isn’t going to pretend he isn’t Enemy Number Two). He’s spent three months bribing, threatening and burning anyone who could’ve had contact with the heartbreak duo – because that’s what they did to Jisoo.

Jisoo might have a reputation of being ruthless and heartless, but Seungcheol knows Jisoo feels something for Jeonghan. Sure, Seungcheol isn’t sure Jisoo is even capable of human emotion, but he imagines that it’s Jisoo’s version of being in love. Jisoo has been heartsick – he’s been mopey, easier to annoy and his kill count has gone from a mere handful a week to dozens on a bad day. As his self-appointed best friend, Seungcheol’s in charge of dealing with that. The last thing he wants is Jisoo in jail. Not in this condition.

Jeonghan is impossible to find. For someone who hates subterfuge and subtlety, he sure is a pro at finding secret hideouts that stay, well, secret. It’s hard to tail someone to their secret lair when you can’t even find the person.

Jihoon, however, couldn’t care less. He’s arrogant and brash, uncaring if he’s caught on camera because the cops will never catch him anyway. God, he’s a cocky bastard. (Maybe that’s why Seungcheol finds him so intriguing.)

However, the bastard is still too smart to lead Seungcheol right to the plant manipulator he needs to talk to. Be it loyalty or some fucked up way to torture Jisoo (and by extension, Seungcheol), but it’s aggravating. Three months is too long to find someone to un-sad Jisoo.

Seungcheol isn’t surprised when Jihoon slips into Pleiades and Andromeda – a strip club that’s frequented by some of Seoul’s most depraved criminals. After all, Seungcheol’s enjoyed his own nights there, either fucking around or fucking shit up. He’s not surprised, but he’s really fucking annoyed. That’s the only reason he stalks after Jihoon, caging him against the bar with his arms.

“Hello, fancy meeting you here while you’re stalking me,” Jihoon drawls, glancing at Seungcheol out of the corner of his eye. The cheeky bastard doesn’t even bother turning to face Seungcheol. The taller growls, pressing closer so Jihoon’s back is flush against Seungcheol’s front.

“No more games,” Seungcheol demands. His palms heat up, smoke curling along his fingers as the wooden surface of the table scorches. “Where the fuck is Jeonghan?”

“Fuck if I’ll tell you,” comes Jihoon’s snide retort. He leans forward, ass pressing against Seungcheol’s groin as he calls for a bourbon and soju mix. Seungcheol hates the fact that his cock gives an interested twitch, despite his don’t fuck the same ass twice rule.

Seungcheol exhales, smoke trailing out of his nostrils as he struggles to reign in his temper. “Jihoon,” he says in an even voice, “I’m doing this for Jisoo.”

“If Jisoo,” pure disdain drips off Jihoon’s tongue, “cares so much about Jeonghannie hyung, then why isn’t he here, threatening me?”

“Because Jisoo is an idiot and he doesn’t know he’s heart broken.” Seungcheol’s hands ball into fists as Jihoon spins in the cage Seungcheol traps him in, glaring up at him with eyes the colour of dark, bitter chocolate.

“I don’t give a shit,” Jihoon hisses, enunciating every syllable. “He left hyung for dead. As far as I’m concerned, he’s better off without The Gentleman.” Jihoon sneers, pushing Seungcheol back with a single finger. “And I sure as hell don’t want anything to do with you.”

Seungcheol bares his teeth – it’s not a grimace, but it’s awfully close. “Come on, doll – ”

“Stop right there,” Jihoon says with an imperious wave of his hand. “I’m not your doll, I’m not your babe. You don’t get to call me disgusting nicknames because you’re nothing to me.”

“You’re not still upset I left, are you?” Seungcheol asks helplessly. He’s always been the fuck ‘em and leave ‘em kind. Jihoon must’ve known that the moment he tumbled into bed with him.

Jihoon’s eyes are ablaze with rage. It’s such an attractive look on him that Seungcheol has to remind himself that Jihoon is officially off-limits.

“I’m upset that you think I owe you anything,” Jihoon spits. He’s only a hundred and sixty-four centimetres, but his anger makes him at least ten feet tall. “You think you can waltz in here, with your stupid mouth and your dumb-fuck pants and think I’ll just spill everything? Jeonghan hyung nearly died, and it was by his hand. I’m not letting him near us even if I was dying.”

Seungcheol knows he should be paying attention to the vitriol Jihoon is spitting in his direction, but all he can hear is the way Jihoon was – in a backhanded way – complimenting him. He licks his lips, smirking when he sees the way Jihoon’s eyes follow the motion.

“Come on, Jihoonie,” Seungcheol cajoles, placing a tentative hand on Jihoon’s arm. The mercenary glances at the hand sharply, missing the way Seungcheol steps in closer until they’re chest to chest. When Jihoon’s eyes meet his, Seungcheol allows a predatory grin to flit across his lips before leaning down to claim Jihoon’s hot mouth.

Maybe just this once, Seungcheol tells himself as Jihoon struggles for a brief moment, before he’s opening his mouth and licking into Seungcheol’s mouth.

Jeonghan can practically smell the sex wafting off Jihoon, even if he doesn’t see the dark hickeys peeking out over Jihoon’s collar. He tends to Baby, the venomous flytrap practically purring as Jeonghan prunes the weeds from its roots.

“Looks like someone had a good night,” Jeonghan comments with a wan smile. Jihoon’s hair is sticking up all funny, although he’s not walking funny. Must not have been that good of a fuck.

“Barely,” Jihoon grumbles, swatting away the grabby leaves of a nearby grapevine as he stumbles into the kitchen. “Fucking – asshole. He gave me second-degree burns.”

Jeonghan’s hands still. He takes a deep breathe, ignoring the way his inhale is extremely shaky. “I thought you said you’d never sleep with Seungcheol again?” He pats himself on the back for how level his voice is.

“It was the only way to shut him up,” Jihoon groans, sticking his head in the fridge. There’s a meaningful pause. “He’s looking for you, by the way.”

“Seungcheol?”

“No.” Another heavy pause. “Yes. But no. Jisoo.”

Baby rustles uncomfortably, spitting out acid at the mere mention of the name – a response that’s mostly Jeonghan’s. He takes a deep breath, steadying his heart and straightening his back. “Did you tell him where I am?”

Jihoon snorts, surfacing from the fridge with a carton of carrot juice. “Of course not. But… I figured I owed him this much, to tell you that he’s looking.”

Jeonghan frowns, squinting into the distance. “He just wants what he can’t have,” he mutters.

Jihoon leans against the door jamb, reaching up to stroke Baby’s vine that’s wriggling towards him. “You know,” he says in a gentle voice that’s completely out of character, “you say that, but you still keep all the things he left for you.”

He doesn’t ask how Jihoon knows – knowing the mercenary, he’s probably been snooping around. Jisoo likes to leave little presents from his heists, always somewhere Jeonghan can find. He still has the handful of diamonds Jisoo had left behind in a recent heist, a single Juliet rose resting over the gems. The rare rose sits by Jeonghan’s bedroom window sill, flourishing from Jeonghan’s magic and sunlight. There’s a middlemist red in the greenhouse, one of the world’s rarest and most beautiful flowers in the world – it had been pilfered from a greenhouse in England and delivered to a park Jeonghan had been looking after.

Jeonghan knows Jisoo is trying to buy back his affection. It’s the only way Jisoo knows how to apologise.

They’re all pretty things. But they feel meaningless.

“I care about the plants, not him,” Jeonghan says sharply, snipping a stray weed vehemently. “He can rot in hell for all I care.”

“You don’t mean that.”

Jihoon’s right. Even when he was dying in that desert, when he was staring at Jisoo’s tense and unforgiving back, his heart still beats for that damned criminal. When Jisoo had walked in with Seungcheol in tow, his heart still fluttered like a heroine in a goddamn romance novel. He could have crushed the light out of Jisoo so easily – an eye for an eye, broken bones for broken bones – but he hadn’t.

It hadn’t mattered that Jihoon had told him no.

It mattered that he couldn’t even if he wanted to.

Don’t get him wrong; he hates Jisoo. When he thinks of him, his blood boils. Rage beats unfettered in his chest and he prays there comes a time when Jisoo rots in jail.

But… deep down, he loves him too. He dreams of him, dreams of a life they might have had, if they were both normal. He yearns and he wants.

But he cannot forgive. He craves revenge.

That’s the only thing that’s stopping him.

[alltheworldsinmyhead]

#royaiweek2018 day 1.: Parental!Royai

like the dawn you broke the dark

ao3/ff.net

If only you knew

The sunlight shines a little brighter,

The weight of the world’s a little lighter,

The stars lean in a little closer

All because of you.

-          Sleeping at Last “Daughter”

The calmness of those early hours of the day amazes him.

It’s almost as if the world took its collective breath and held it, too enchanted with its own beauty to let it out. Stillness, quietness; the sky turning light blue and the pink and then soft yellow, the sun still not visible on the horizon but its light already shining through the darkness of the night.

His daughter stirs in her sleep, stretches out in her blanket, small wrinkle appearing between her brows. She’s a good baby, a calm baby, almost sleeping through whole nights already, but she likes to be held, to feel one of her parents with her at all times or else she gets restless. And he doesn’t mind that, would never complain about that; if there’s even such a thing as peace in this world, he has never been closer to it than like this – at 5 a.m., with Elizabeth in his arms, Riza curled and breathing evenly by his side. He’s not a believer of a faith of any sort and he’s not exactly sure that humans get anything more than this one life, but if he could pick-and-choose, he would choose this moment to stay in for the whole eternity.  

He hums a lullaby under his breath, rocking the baby in his arms gently to lull her back to sleep. The lines on her little face smooth out instantly and then she yawns; something like a small smile appears on her face before she calms down again.

He caresses her cheek with his thumb – god, she’s just so tiny – and starts to wonder, for the millionth time, what does this wonderful, cruel world have in store for her. This fair-haired, dark-eyed little baby born out of a bond that stretches decades, out of love and loyalty and bloodsheds. She is held by the hands that killed, comforted by the smell of gunpowder in her mother’s hair, tickled by fingers who snapped and obliterated everything in her father’s wake. And how does she fit into all of this, how will she grow up with this kind of heritage?

How can he protect her from the mistakes that he’s made? How can he keep her frozen in time, innocent and unspoiled and golden? There will be a time, and it’s coming soon when it will take more than a few notes of a lullaby to soothe her. All he wants is for her to stay safe and sound and how he’s supposed to do that?

“ You’re doing this again.”

A soft, sleepy voice derails his train of thoughts; without looking,  he can feel her shifting beside him and sitting up, leaning her head on his shoulder. So early in the morning, she’s younger; stripped out of her old uniform and all the years of discipline and yearning and cruelty. With her blond hair unbound and eyes half-open she could as well be no older than this pretty village girl he has left standing alone on the train station in a different lifetime.

“What exactly am I doing?” he asks her with a hint of amusement in his voice, because, well, he already knows the answer.

“ Overthinking everything”

“ I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She shakes her head, clicking her tongue in annoyance and taking Eli from his arms; she lifts her up to kiss the baby’s forehead.

“ She’s not hungry yet, you should sleep.” He grumbles, looping an arm around Riza’s waist to press them both closer to him. She props her chin up on his collarbone and looks up at him; cognac-eyes, messy-haired, with pillow wrinkles on her cheek, milk stains on her shirt and holding their baby… she takes his breath away.

“ Well, you’re not sleeping either, so-“ she lets the unspoken question of “why aren’t you” hanging in the air. She’s not going to ask it because they both know the answer. It’s embarrassing and it’s true; he can’t stop thinking that as soon as he’ll fall asleep, it will all disappear.

The nursery next to their bedroom, the bedroom itself, Riza from his side and Elizabeth from his arms. And he’ll wake up in his old apartment again, with the stale taste on whiskey in his mouth and this bitter, bitter ache in his chest, as if he was missing something vital and didn’t know what.

And he knows that and she knows that, and he knows that she’s afraid of that too; that this life they have now is just some cruel joke of a universe, a coma dream, a mist and a mirage. That it’s not real and it will not last.

He raises her left hand to his mouth, kissing the cold, metal band of her wedding ring and lies.

“ I don’t know, I’m just not sleepy. “

Riza nods her head knowingly, sending him a sad smile before looking down at their daughter again.  She caresses the pink bud of the baby’s lips with the tip of her finger, watching as Eli scrunches her button nose in displeasure.

“ I count on her fingers” she whispers, her voice barely loud enough for him to hear them, even in the quietness of the morning. “ When she’s eating. I count on her fingers just to know she is real.”

His arm tightens around her waist involuntary. There is a heavy burden they both have to carry; how can you cope with having a happy ending after spending your whole life believing that you don’t deserve one?

“ And you know, she is. She is real. It is real. Although it’s hard to believe it sometimes.” She tugs at his heartstrings with each and every syllable. He kisses the crown of her hair, wordlessly assuring her that yes, I know that and she sighs deeply, snuggling closer to him and leaning her head on his chest.

It’s getting lighter outside; early sun rays are spilling into the room, basking everything in this ethereal pinkish glow. The white curtains are billowing on the summer breeze, which carries the smell of fresh cut grass and peonies growing in the pot on their balcony. The birds are chirping cheerfully, getting louder and louder with every passing minute. He can hear the sound of Hayate switching position in his wicker basket downstairs; a  few years ago Riza would probably already be on the morning walk with him, but now the dog has finally gotten used to the new routine and stopped waking them up with pitiful wining at the crack of dawn.

Soft snore echoes in the room and he realizes that Riza has fallen back asleep on his chest, with Eli tucked in the crook of her elbow and her small head cushioned on Riza’s breast. As they lay like that together, mother and daughter, with their golden hair and fair skin and faint freckles scattered on the bridges of their noses, they are the epitome of serenity older than time.

He could stare at them forever, stay like that forever with them in his arms and never get bored, never have enough of it.

The clock chimes half past five and he realizes he could actually let his girls sleep, get out of bed and start a day now. Make himself a cup of coffee, eat a toast, walk Hayate. There is a thick stack of papers on his desk, all very urgent and he has a few important meeting in the afternoon that he has to prepare for.

He could start a day now. But he won’t.

Instead, he leans his head down, burying his nose in Riza’s hair ( all he can smell is her mint shampoo and baby powder, nothing, nothing else) and breaths out. He gently nudges Eli’s palm with his index finger and watches, transfixed, as her tiny fingers wrap around his much larger one.

He counts down all of his blessings; all millions of them contained in two.

[allmothered]

- ̗̀  —-  ➸     olympian aesthetics

aphrodite         laughter-loving, sweet smiles, dressed in silk and satin, flower in their hair, thrives on attention, sees the world as a runway, unapologetically sexual, the sea washing their ankles, in love with love, stirrer of passion, cunning concealed by painted lips, secret daggers, doves, revolution in their kiss, delighting in the waves, flirtatious winks, strolling along the beach, staring wistfully from a balcony, this is how to be a heartbreaker, your girlfriend thinks they’re attractive, wants to be adored, gets turned on by danger

apollo         glitz and glamour, art galleries, turning the volume up, being made of gold, neatly-organized music sheets, notebooks filled with poetry, bathing in the sunlight, the powerful urge to create, collecting vinyl records, beautiful cover of wonderwall, playing multiple instruments, tasting like sunshine, healing touch, speaking in prophecies, smile mingled wrath, shunning lies, sporting shades, hanging out at music festivals with their friends, sleeps naked, arrow to the heart, paint brushes, probably has a tinder account

ares          armed for battle, wants to raise a dog with their significant other, soft spot for children, gives piggyback rides, scarred body, blood on their hands and face, willing to fight the world for the ones they love, fights against injustice, warm hugs, well-worn combat boots, boxing gloves, bandages wrapped around bruised knuckles, fist raised in protest, ignites revolutions, fear is a prison, more sensitive than what their tough shell will make you think, exhausted, damaged goods, force to be reckoned with, red roses, curses under their breath

artemis         keen sense of a hunter, freckles like constellations on their skin, piercing eyes, disheveled braid, moonlight peeking through the shadows, the calm of the forest at night, lying on the grass and staring at the stars, mother doe and her fawn, protecting their kin, the moon shimmering on a still lake, quiver full of arrows resting against the bark of a tree, running with wolves, bonding while circled around a campfire, not being much of a people person, arrow hitting a target, popping egos, patience on 3%, touches heaven and returns howling

athena          discerning gaze, unreadable face, the patience of a lifelong teacher, quiet museums, owl perched on their finger, armor that intimidates, eye for architecture, plays the sims for the sole purpose of building houses, studied the blade while everyone else was busy getting laid, big fan of logic, loves brain teasers, go-getter, balls of wool displayed on shelves, ancient buildings, sweaters in neutrals and cool colors, hair done up, can kill you with their brain, heads to the library often to research, sharpened pencils, abs that can cut steel, stoic statues, pottery classes  

demeter          soil-covered hands, smile that can bloom flowers, skin loved by the sun, being the mom-friend, can lift you and your friends, flowers kept in the pockets of overalls, takes pride in their beautiful garden, speaks to their plants, leaves rustling in the wind, stalks of wheat, picking fruit, greenhouses, heart as strong as a mountain, values simplicity, daisies dotted across a collarbone, curls crowned with flowers, folded pile of sweaters in warm hues, pulling out fresh-baked bread out of the oven and the smell wafting through the air

dionysus         drunk shitposter, on their sixth glass of wine before you’ve even finished your second, seductive smirks, untamed curls, rich fabrics on dark skin, sleek-furred panthers, theater masks, stage productions, receiving a standing ovation, rose caught between their teeth, being the baby of the bunch, wild parties that last from sundown to sunup, creeping vines, inspiring loyalty, grand opera houses, masquerade balls, rolls of film, shattered chandeliers with broken glass scattered across the wine-spilled floor, pouring champagne into flutes, lives for the applause

hephaestus         the calloused hands of someone who knows labor, sweaty brow, flame burning in their eyes, inventive mind, broad shoulders, steampunk goggles, nuts and bolts stored away in little boxes, ashes, striking a match, blueprints for future projects, fixing up a busted up car and giving it cool upgrades, wrestles with bitterness, work boots have seen better years, wrinkled plaid shirts, iron melted in blazing fire, huge jackets , crafting masterpieces, greased-stained overalls, fascination with robotics, pain is fuel, stack of weaponry, even their muscles have muscles

hera         resting bitch face, dressed to the nines, cows grazing on a pasture, cool rain, loving and hating fiercely, hand clutching a string of pearls, large chandelier with glittering crystals, plays the sims for the sole purpose of killing off their sims, romance to realism, pictures of the sky while flying on a plane, files that under fuck it, downs glasses of wine as they relax with a scented bubble bath and netflix, like their selfie or you’re grounded, knows 57 convenient ways to murder a man, dark eyes that penetrate your soul, marble and gold

hermes         devil-may-care smile, ink-stained hands, always up-to-date on the latest technology, will steal your french fries, does it for the vine, shitposter, puts googly eyes on everything, meme hoarder, long drives on the highway, ma and pop diners, spontaneous road trips, folded maps, fingers dancing across the keyboard of a laptop, shooting hoops on the basketball court, chatting up strangers as you all journey to your own destinations, goes jogging in the morning, mixes redbull with coffee, menace on april fool’s, hoodies and sneakers

poseidon         storm with skin, colorful coral reefs, waves crashing against the shore, the sea casting its spell, stroking the soft fur of a cat, their heart pounding as their horse’s gentle trot speeds into a gallop, tousled locks, clothes smeared with paint, owns several sketchbooks yet always yearns for more, leather jackets, fondness for diy projects, handwriting that flows across the page, nimble fingers playing the strings of a violin, velvety singing voice that haunts your dreams, mood as ever-changing as the sea, the roar of a motorcycle, compass with a spinning arrow

zeus          thunder in their heart, running on coffee, flash of lightning, natural charisma, eloquence, badass in a nice suit, aficionado of history, force of nature, lenny face, pretends they don’t have feelings but they do, nightmare-filled nights, proud arm around their lover’s waist, high-rise buildings, planes soaring through a cloudless sky, technician on the piano, maintains order, strong handshake, juggling multiple events on their busy schedule with ease, most likely to be voted class president out of their peers (even when he didn’t enter himself), expensive watch

tagged by: stole from @trianimo <3

tagging: @eaglebared , @odyzei , @cultshaped , @solardown / @spartanshaped ( did I just tag all the odyssey blogs why yes I did binch )