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mimik-u · 3 years

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Flower Child, Ch. 18 (”Abyss”)

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The door that led into Room 11812 was already partially cracked when Blue Diamond arrived in front of it the next morning. Lost, hesitant, adrift, perpetually undone, she simply stared at it for a long while, sized it up, reified it into yet another monolith she would have to confront.

For she was surrounded by monoliths.

All the time.

They towered over her.

Mocked her.

Grief and ghosts and all those other inlaid, ingrained fears, carved deep into the marrow of her bones, muscle memory now. She was scared of everything, really: the continuance of life, the permanence of death, the human capacity for endurance, the inhuman throes of her nightmares. And how these nightmares were sometimes, maybe even oftentimes, waking dreams nowadays, stalking her far beyond the confines of a bed that was much too big for her. She was afraid of forgetting Pink Diamond and replacing her, caring for Steven Universe and losing him. Telling Yellow Diamond that she loved her. Showing it. Proving that she did. Never doing it in the end precisely because she was so afraid. (Of what? She scarcely could articulate in the labyrinthine abyss of her mind, where everything was guttural and murky and raw.) Consigning their marriage to the same grave where their daughter laid, the memory of their once great love dressed in funeral shrouds…. She was afraid of empty halls and empty penthouse suites and empty rooms where dust laid thickly on furniture that would never be touched again. Ratty hoodies, diamond quilts, pink sticky notes reminding dead twenty-one year olds to study for upcoming tests. She was afraid of living and afraid of dying, afraid of happiness and afraid of pain. She feared mornings, and she feared nights. Doorbells, sleeping pills, good days, bad days, her very shadow, her own wasted reflection. (Because fundamentally, Blue Diamond was afraid of herself most of all.)

She wasn’t particularly afraid of doors—because most of the time, a door was just a door after all—but she was afraid of this particular door on the sixth floor of a hospital. More simply, she was afraid of what was behind it. Simpler still, she was afraid of who laid in that hospital bed. Afraid of all the unspoken things that had simmered quietly in the space between them for years upon distant, aching years...

So, she simply stood there.

Lost.

Hesitant.

Adrift.

Perpetually undone.

She made a monolith out of a door.

Voices seeped from behind the narrow gap, rising and falling together in a conversation that didn’t quite make sense, try though she did to piece the snippets into a context that she could understand. Blue braced both of her hands upon the head of her cane as she leaned forward to listen, a long strand of her silvery hair falling listlessly between her eyes, curling just over her nose.

How terribly her heart beat.

How loud.

Her fingers shivered; they simply ached.

“... ouch, dammit! Don’t poke me so hard,” Yellow Diamond snapped, her abrasive voice loud, clear, unmistakable, ringing.

(She was always so pleasant to be around in the morning.)

“Then you should quit squirming around so much, Mrs. Diamond,” a voice that she recognized as belonging to Dr. Reed replied, as amused as her patient was irate. “It’s just a needle.”

“Yes, well—it’s too early in the morning for me to be especially happy about being prodded like a cow.”

“Mm,” the doctor made a noncommittal noise at the back of her throat as she continued to work, noisily shifting invisible materials around.

“So, when will I get these results back?” Yellow asked, affecting a tone that was passably casual to anyone who didn’t know her, who was unaware that she clipped her consonants more shortly than usual when she was tense, scared, strained.

“A couple of hours if I had to wager. The lab’ll want to be thorough.”

“Naturally.”

“And once we get those results back—if they say what I think they will, of course—then we’ll have to run through the whole gamut of other procedures: urological assessments, medical histories, blood pressure tests, cancer screenings, chest x-rays, EKGs... it’ll be a long process.”

“Sounds like it,” Yellow returned in that same punctuated voice, and then the two women lapsed into silence as the ground revolted beneath Blue’s feet, simply eroded.

And she was suddenly falling at the same time that she was perfectly upright, a swaying pillar tethered only to the facticity of her cane. She clung to it all the more tightly, fingers whitening from the beds of her nails downwards; it was the only bulwark she had against total collapse.

Annihilation.

Ruin.

All these tests?

What were they for?

She furrowed her silvery brow and desperately thought back to her conversation with Dr. Reed just yesterday; nothing about it had suggested that something was seriously wrong with Yellow, except a few fractures and lacerations that would clear up with time and rest... so what reasonable line of logic led from a minor car accident to cancer screenings and chest x-rays? What had happened in the unaccounted for hours when Blue had been away?

She closed her eyes as nausea suddenly rushed up the cylinder of her throat, sickness invading all her delicate senses.

The answer seemed to loom darkly ahead—only a door push away.

“Alright, Mrs. Diamond,” the doctor sighed, “I’m going to get these to the lab. I’ll draw up your discharge papers soon, too...”

Yellow must have made some sort of nonverbal reply because Blue didn’t have time to recover her face as the cracked door suddenly flung open, breaking the final divide between everything she thought she understood and all the awful things that she apparently didn’t.

“Mrs. Diamond, oh, hello! Good mornin’!”

Her wiry eyebrows hoisted high above her thin glasses, Dr. Reed looked equally surprised to see Blue Diamond standing just outside the door. The medical tray she bore in her arms jumped a little as she did, shaking a few test tubes that were filled with dark crimson.

But Blue was impatient, eager, scared most of all. (She was always scared.) Her hooded eyes involuntarily slid from the harried doctor to the test tubes to the impressively cut figure just beyond Dr. Reed’s shoulder.

For Yellow Diamond, wearing her favorite pair of silken pajamas like royal regalia, sat upon the edge of her hospital bed, simply staring at Blue from widened eyes, her cracked lips parted slightly, every line etched across her face a livid, pulsing scar.

It was an expression of contradictions, of paradoxes, of dichotomies: tender at the same time that it was strained, vulnerable and equally forbidding.

Yellow averted her gaze first, a dull flush suffusing her sharply hewn cheeks. When she turned away, the sunlight pouring in from the window eclipsed her features behind the curtain of its flaxen reach.

“Good morning, Dr. Reed,” Blue murmured, painfully wrenching her attention back to the more immediate woman. “I see you have been… busy.”

She glanced questioningly at the tray of test tubes again, but just as the doctor opened her mouth to respond, Yellow got there first, cutting across her with cold precision.

“She was just leaving,” she said pointedly, still not looking their way. She brought her left arm up—the one enmeshed in a brace—to absentmindedly skim the right where her sleeve was meticulously rolled up at the elbow, where a long piece of gauze had been nearly wrapped around the joint. “Right, Doctor?”

It was a clear dismissal, blunt and unsubtle, a maneuver of clear avoidance, of keeping those strange, private words in the dark. Blue imagined it was a tactic that would have worked exceptionally well on Poppy or Livia or one of their various other employees besides whom Yellow had already intimidated into submission, but Dr. Reed didn’t seem to be especially frazzled by Yellow Diamond at all—unbothered by her elevated status, impervious to the harsh way with which spoke, as though every word was a finely calibrated weapon. She only resigned herself with a meaningful sigh that Blue couldn’t quite miss, her wire-rimmed glasses slipping incrementally upon the bridge of her nose.

“I suppose I was,” she smiled grimly, adjusting her tray more securely in her arms. Blue counted the scarlet tubes. There were four in all. “Be sure to eat that. cookie, Mrs. Diamond”—she called over her shoulder, as calculatingly sweet as Yellow was acerbic—“and it was nice to see you again, Mrs. Diamond.”

Blue stepped to the aside to allow the doctor passage. They exchanged a final nod, charged with unspoken significance, and then, just like that, Dr. Reed was gone.

And finally, they were alone.

Blue and Yellow Diamond.

Once upon a time, this had been one of their most treasured sensations in the world.

To be alone.

With one another.

In the confines of a room.

Oh, how Blue’s slender hands had once known Yellow as intimately as they had known her own body. The curvature of her sharp jawbone. The tender column of her pulsing neckline. The feeling of their hands together, gently intertwined. Spiny knuckles. Soft palms. Brushing thumbs.

And now, eight feet stood between them.

Seven once Blue timidly dared to step into the doorway.

Merely six once she made an awkward movement to close the door behind her.

And neither of them especially knew how to breach the space between them.

The distance.

The gulf.

Yellow seemed to have finally noticed that she was massaging the place where the doctor had drawn her blood because she suddenly stopped, self-conscious, wrenching her left hand away from the spot. But the gauze was still there, wrapped around her bony elbow tightly, advertising its unspoken secret like a flag at half-mast.

“You’re having tests done,” Blue stated.

It was as bold as it was quiet.

The loudest accusation in an otherwise silent room.

“They’re nothing,” Yellow replied immediately, trying for a nonchalance that didn’t quite land. “It’s nothing. Just routine stuff.”

The lie landed between them, too, with an odd, dull plunk, and Blue felt the beginnings of something other than fear coil in the pit of her stomach for the first time all morning. A burning sensation—stinging, raw.

She squeezed her cane again tightly and absently thought that it wouldn’t surprise her if her fingers came away with indents from where she gripped the metal.

“You were drunk… you were in an accident, Yellow,” she whispered, her words acquiring an icy edge. They lashed. They lunged. They hurt. They were intended to hurt. “Are you sure there’s something you’re not telling me?”

On the ropes, cornered—she hated being cornered—Yellow’s features suddenly hardened, her nose upturning, mouth calcifying into its trademark sneer. If Blue Diamond’s cane was her defense, then Yellow Diamond’s snarl was her weapon, sharp as any saber or sword.

“You’re being paranoid, Blue—even more so than usual,” she scoffed, fingertips digging into the sheets beneath her hands. “It wasn’t as though I caused the accident. I wasn’t even driving!”

“Then why has Dr. Reed ordered such an extensive battery of tests for you? Can you answer me that at least?” She insisted, now shrill, now angry, now hoarse, now unknotted, soon to be undone—her throat wrenched with its own rage. Tears burned the corners of her eyes, gathering like rushing rivers down the skeletal curves of her cheeks. “I’m your wife, Yellow Diamond, and you—”

“And I should what exactly?” Yellow interrupted, laughing so mirthlessly that the sound was feral, almost inhuman. “Give you yet another reason to fall apart for four years? You barely survived the last time. I barely survived watching you, Blue. I—“

But she stopped short.

She realized that she had said too much.

And six feet became six hundred feet as the two women stared at each other across the empty tiles, as the words that Yellow had growled registered to them both.

Neither of them had barely survived Blue’s total dissolution.

Both of them.

Together.

Alone.

They were both so utterly alone.

“I’m sorry,” Yellow exhaled, the fight in her voice punctured. Leaking. Drained. “I… I’m—“

But what exactly she was, even she didn’t seem to know. Prodigious marshal of words that she was, she was clearly at a loss for words, her mouth quavering with its own forced silence. Yellow abruptly looked away again, and the sunlight threw the stitches across her cheek in sharp relief, the redness of them, the rawness.

Painful to even look at.

How much more painful were they then to bear?

How many other wounds besides had her wife collected in all these awful, unspooling years? Not even simply the visible ones, but all the other sundry hurts, too. The lines beneath her hawklike eyes. Her perpetual coldness, wrapped like impenetrable armor around her skin. The very way that she spoke these days, as though each word was a marionette jerked by some strict taskmaster’s violent strings.

In the night, when she was alone in that master bed that had never been intended for just one, Blue didn’t have to look at these things, didn’t have to acknowledge that there was a reason that the door to the study was perpetually cracked open, didn’t have to wonder about how her utter contempt for life reflected on others because fundamentally, there was no one other than herself; it was her and her alone.

During the day, she didn’t have to care.

Time stretched ad infinitum all around her, slipping, always slipping away.

And she remained in the mire of her own head.

Stuck.

Broken.

Sinking.

Sunken.

Gone.

“So, please, Blue Diamond… please don’t look away, Steven Universe had whispered, indicting her, condemning her entire modus operandi with seven simple words as he laid in that hospital bed, dying for everyone to see.

She had looked away from Pink Diamond, and now Pink Diamond was dead.

She had almost looked away from Steven Universe.

Even still, even after all that they had ever been through together—and they had been through quite a lot—Blue Diamond was looking away from her wife even now.

Fool, masochist, coward.

She was, she was, she was—all of these things and very likely more.

Drowning.

Save me.

Spiraling.

Always.

Sinking, sunken, gone.

But the corrective, Steven Universe implied with every word and kind deed, wasn’t in the recognition of her problem; it wasn’t even in the actual acknowledgment that there needed to be a change.

It was in action and reaction.

It was in change itself.

A sickly boy could extend a flower to her in the cemetery, but she had to be the one to accept its grace.

She had to be the one to not look away.

Six feet, not six hundred feet.

Please, Blue Diamond… please don’t look away.

Swallowing thickly, Blue forced herself to gain perspective in that tiny hospital room, narrowing the world to just the two of them and the few strips of tile which stood between them.

Six feet.

So close and yet so far.

(Their daughter was six feet under the ground.)

“We apologize to each other all the time,” Blue murmured, her voice lilting softly in her accent, “and yet… not at all. How many times have we hurt each other, Yellow? How many times have we had to repent before doing it all over again?”

“So many times,” Yellow returned automatically, and her voice was quiet, laced only with the fading dregs of bitterness. Her knuckles were white where she continued to clench the sheets balled in her fists. “Because I am sorry—every damn time, Blue. I don’t mean to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you. Hell, but I—”

As her voice rose, it was just as quickly stifled.

Choked.

A single tear glanced down the consummate businesswoman’s sharply angled face, and perhaps it was the most visible sign of her defeat that she didn’t immediately make a move to scrub it away, to pretend as though it had never existed.

And perhaps it was this gesture, or lack of a gesture, that finally did it for Blue Diamond above all.

That taught her what she needed to do.

She moved forward, one halting footstep over another, the hem of her long dress sweeping across the clinically white ground.

Clank.

Five feet.

Clank.

Four feet.

Clank.

Alerted by the telltale clangor of the cane, Yellow Diamond abruptly jerked her chin upwards, her lined eyes wide with horror and disbelief, with fear, with apprehension, with confusion, and something else, too—something almost indefinable because it had been a long time since Blue had recognized the expression in her wife’s chiseled face.

Had seen it.

Had noticed it.

Named it and reciprocated it.

Yearning, that irresistible rush of longing.

It shone painfully in her eyes, a drowning man’s golden flare shot into the dark.

Clank.

Three feet.

Clank.

Two.

“Blue, what are you—”

Clank.

One.

Scarcely twelve inches stood between them now, the air quiet, unnervingly, unnaturally still.

For everything was on a tightrope, the line just ready to snap.

Between them, individually, over twenty years of history were stored in the shared memories of their bodies, and for a moment, if only for a fleeting second, Blue felt as though if she could only reach out and touch Yellow in just the right place, that the world would just as suddenly right itself on its tilted axis, and everything would make sense once again and forevermore. They would be reconciled, reunited, restored, all of their damages undone, and they would know each other intimately, just by touch alone. They would be able to pick up where they last stopped, somewhere in the darkness, on a road that went by the wayside so long ago. Maybe, at long last, they would even join hands.

But, no.

That was simply naïveté.

Childlike belief.

A dream.

Touching Yellow Diamond would not change the fact that their daughter was dead and that four years of grief had nearly destroyed the both of them; touching Yellow Diamond was not an apology; it wouldn’t even be an adequate excuse. The touch, if such a thing were to exist, would only be a gesture, a microscopic movement towards what had heretofore been the impossible.

The beginnings of a bridge.

And one goddamn awful gulf.

But it was a start.

And that was what mattered, right?

Yes, Blue Diamond thought to herself.

Please.

Closing her eyes against the sudden vertigo—the fear, the terror, the rush—she slowly leaned over into the darkness and gently pressed her lips against Yellow Diamond’s forehead, exhaling softly as the stalwart general tensed beneath the touch, deathly still.

“I’m sorry, Blue.”

Her voice shook, a pillar cut off at its foundation, sunken to its knees.

Blue gingerly brought her hands up so that they were encircling her wife’s head, her tousled hair, the tips of her ears, her temples…

“I’m so sorry,” Yellow repeated simply; her voice cleaved itself in two; she was insisting on an apology, as though it was absolutely necessary for them to proceed.

And it was.

But so, too, was this.

“I know,” Blue whispered as Yellow’s shoulders began to silently shake. In response, in return, because she wanted to, because she desperately needed to, she began to absently skim her thumb through the woman’s hair.

“I’m sorry, too.”

Three words still hung—unspoken—in the sterile air.

Suspended.

On the tips of fearful tongues.

ii.

Priyanka brought them all back to the slaughterhouse again because there was nowhere else left to go. There were five of them in total, so they couldn’t very well have their daily harrowing conversation out in the hallway. They were adults, and Steven was a child, Steven was fourteen, so they couldn’t baldly discuss his mortality in his hospital room, where he laid in a bed, hooked up to so many whirring machines. Her office was cramped, and the chapel was somber. The cafeteria was too noisy, the hospital’s atrium just the same.

And so, that left only one option.

The conference room on the fourth floor.

The slaughterhouse.

They all took seats at that long, long table and did their best not to look at each other, at the griefs laid bare in all of their tired faces.

“I’m sorry,” Priyanka said abruptly, “for yesterday. I got your hopes up. I got my own up, and I... I should have been more circumspect.”

She stared at her lined hands, at how they were templed neatly upon the smooth surface of the table. Even sidled up next to each other, brushing, her palms felt bitingly cold.

“I knew better, and that—irrefutably—is on me.”

“Aw, come off it, Doc,” Amethyst shrugged dully from the other side of Greg. “You couldn’t have known.”

“You told us best yourself, Priyanka,” Pearl agreed, her voice an almost passable imitation of prim. She was sitting in the chair opposite to Amethyst, delicately massaging her temples with the tips of her long fingers. “That damage wouldn’t have shown up on the scans... we don’t fault you for that.”

“We won’t,” Garnet added pointedly, never moving her bicolored gaze away from the empty air just above Greg’s shoulder.

“We would never,” Greg finished kindly, and when Priyanka dared to look up at him—he was sitting to her immediate left—she was appalled to see a weak smile quivering on his bearded mouth. Of all the things she didn’t deserve, a smile was high on that list which seemed to grow longer with every passing day that Steven Universe was in her care.

“You’re all being far too nice to me,” she insisted in that same blunt tone, though she knew it was a losing battle, four against one, the weapons of their affection all drawn. “I made that child—I made all of you—a promise. And doctors don’t make promises.”

Take care of my baby for me... please.

You have my word.

“Not unless they’re arrogant,” she concluded coldly, glancing away. “Foolish.”

And she was a fool—assuredly. A jester in a white lab coat. All she needed was the hat. In the slaughterhouse, she half-demanded that the people around her admitted to it, that the victims of her fault had their chance to cleave her apart on the altar, too.

But because they were kind and good and everything that was compassionate in the world, not a single one of them did.

Garnet even reached over and briefly placed a warm hand on Priyanka’s arm.

“It’s a good thing you’re neither then.”

And of course, here was yet another thing she didn’t deserve—a consolatory touch—but the doctor did not have the heart to shake it off, not now—not when there were dark circles beneath Garnet’s eyes that spoke to yet another sleepless night in a long row of likely many.

“Yes, well, at any rate”—she hurried away from the subject, desperate to escape their kindness, goodness, their sympathetic gazes—“I’ve called you here to give a progress report… we potentially have another donor candidate… a live donor this time.”

Priyanka enunciated each word as though she was announcing the presence of a ticking time bomb, and it registered as much in the faces of her captive audience. Garnet withdrew her hand quickly, as though stung, and they all stared at the nephrologist, each and every one of them, with a naked disbelief that was a far cry from the unadulterated joy of yesterday’s declaration. They had been briefly happy, and then they’d been so quickly, so mercilessly burnt; it was no wonder then that they were skeptical.

It was painfully obvious that they were still licking their damn wounds.

“A patient at this very hospital,” she continued haltingly, precise in every word. She had to be careful here not to let something slip up, not to betray a word that would drive the blades sticking into these people’s chests in just one inch more. She wanted to be fastidious this time; she intended to be sure. “Their blood type is likely a match for Steven’s, but we’re checking again just to make sure… and even if that’s a certainty, there are so many other tests besides that we’ll have to do just to make sure their body is healthy enough to undergo a transplant… it could take weeks…”

She spoke into thick silence, excruciating to the last as each word was wrenched free from her teeth in some poor facsimile of her usual brusque fashion.

Pearl and Garnet exchanged a pregnant look across the table, but it was Amethyst who spoke the meaning aloud; she was always the one who seemed to be the best at translating what everyone was secretly thinking into words, what they were all too fearful to say.

“So we shouldn’t get our hopes up yet, huh?” She asked candidly. “That’s what you’re saying… isn’t it?”

“Something to that effect, yes,” Priyanka returned with a slow nod of her head. “I just don’t want to… I would rather not…”

But she struggled to find the right words, to strangle all her emotions into sentences that didn’t complicate the professionalism to which she was called.

Because she couldn’t break down.

She couldn’t flinch.

She was the doctor in the room for goodness’s sake, and that meant something.

But again, Amethyst stepped in so she didn’t have to—blunt, plain, merciful.

“… hurt him again,” she mumbled, her lavender hair forming a curtain around her lowered head. The young woman swiped her arm roughly across her face in a gesture that was lost on precisely no one. “Yeah, I guess that’s for the best…”

The ensuing silence was somehow worse than the last.

It seemed to chafe at them all, rubbing their skins raw.

Greg Universe shifted in his chair.

He looked less man than mountain, carved ruggedly against a bleak, gray sky—hunched in on himself, avalanched, collapsing all over.

(When she’d first met the man some fifteen years ago, he’d still had all of his hair.)

(A kid having a kid.)

“He hasn’t said more than a few words today, Dr. M,” the mountain whispered, his voice eroding in all the right places, crumbling. “He barely even looks at us.”

Priyanka didn’t know what to say.

She wasn’t naturally warm like Maisie Reed.

Wasn’t soft.

Wasn’t encouraging.

Being a doctor didn’t require any of those epithets, even though she knew cerebrally, intimately, that being a human did.

“It’s hard being sick,” she finally said.

It was the easiest way to utter an even harder truth.

(Sometimes, her patients found it unbearable.)

iii.

“And Archimicarus preened his feathers haughtily, all the while keeping one amber eye on Captain Bonham, whose apparent warmth wasn’t enough to stop the falcon from being wary of the witch’s eccentricities: the dual pistols she wore in the holsters on either side of her waist, the long knife handle jutting just above the ribs of her corset, and most ominously of all, the necklace she wore around her neck—a leather cord threaded through the skull of a baby bird,” Connie read aloud, adopting her most suspenseful voice for one of the most tense chapters in the book—Lisa and Archimicarus meeting Valentine Bonham, famed pirate witch of the jewel-bright seas, and her serpentine familiar Scyllane.

Of course, Valentine would prove to be one of Lisa’s most beloved companions by the end of the book, a swashbuckling mentor with a semi-tragic backstory, a kind of mother figure who had a penchant for committing petty theft and tax fraud against the despotic king.

But Steven didn’t know that yet.

“Skyllane,” Connie continued, “her silvery scales glimmering beneath the midday sun, hissed her amusement at Archimicarus’s obvious discomfort as she coiled herself sinuously around Valentine’s neck. Show off, the falcon thought savagely…”

Her mouth twitched into a reflexive smile at this part, nostalgic at Archimicarus’s occasional petty asides, and she looked up automatically, hoping to see the same amusement reflected in the face of her one-person audience… but Steven… Steven obviously wasn’t feeling it.

He didn’t seem like he was feeling much of anything, really.

When she’d come in with her mother that morning, he had tried to hide it, insisting that she open The Unfamiliar Familiar again, that they could pick up where they had last left off like everything was fine and good and normal and dandy.

But it wasn’t.

And perhaps pretending was only adding insult to injury, salt to an already agonizing wound.

Her mother’s famously steady hands had been shaking all day. They shook around around the leather of her steering wheel; they shook around the circumference of her coffee tumbler; they shook as she fumbled with her keys to lock the sedan’s door. She dropped them. Connie picked them up and didn’t comment on the incident, just as her mother didn’t comment on the event except to proffer a perfunctory thank you. And still, her mother’s hands continued to shake as she ushered Connie through the double doors that led into the Truman Ward, where only the nephrologist’s most dire patients were hospitalized.

On the ride to the hospital that morning, she had laid out the bare bones as best and well as she could to her daughter—Steven had been going to get kidneys, and then he just as suddenly wasn’t.

Steven’s life had miraculously stretched before him, and then the ribbon was abruptly, cruelly cut.

And his heart is tired, Connie, her mom had whispered—very quietly, with evident strain. As though she was scarcely able to comprehend it herself. So tired. And his lungs are doing their best to keep up…

Connie did not think it was necessary to ask what happened to tired hearts.

Staring at Steven, who wasn’t staring at her but rather at a fixed point upon the ceiling, she instinctively understood that there was only one thing tired hearts could do.

And that was shatter.

Break.

“Hey… Steven?” She asked tentatively, replacing the straw wrapper bookmark in the place where she had last left off. (She didn’t quite close the book—not yet. There was a finality in that action, mundane though it was, that suddenly scared her.) “Are you… okay?”

Seconds dripped before anything happened. Surrounded by a nest of tangled wires and tubes, Steven was deathly still in their embrace, less subject than object, less object than tangible ghost. From her vantage point—the chair next to his bed—she couldn’t see his face, the expression in it, perhaps even the lack of one. But she observed the way that his right hand laid feebly on top of his stomach, fingers lightly curled into a ball. And she saw the feeble rise and fall of his chest, how it stuttered every so often with each arrhythmic movement that found its companion in a staccato beat on his heart monitor.

And here was yet another thing that scared the twelve-year old.

She surmised that all these signs and symbols had something to do with finality, too.

Endings.

She hated those.

Sometimes, when she was reading a really good book, she would stop just before the last chapter to steel herself for what was to come.

“Yes,” came a mechanical reply. “Just tired…”

“I can imagine,” Connie said. (She couldn’t imagine it all. She could barely reconcile that this was the same boy she had laughed and laughed with only so many days ago on the first floor of this very hospital. He had smiled at her so kindly, eyes shining with their own paradoxical aliveness. And she’d thought to herself, even then, how miraculous he surely was, how extraordinary.) “We can stop right here for now if you want to take a nap or something…?”

“I don’t like naps,” Steven immediately said in that same colorless tone, and yet, there was a slight edge to his voice that wasn’t exactly anger, but rather defiance, argumentative, defensive, self-directed—as though it was aimed towards himself. His chubby fingers tensed on his stomach, crumpling the paisley-studded fabric there.

Connie did not think it was necessary to ask why he didn’t like naps.

Or, maybe, it was entirely necessary.

Maybe it was one of those very human statements that required an equally human reply: comfort, consolation, concern.

But she lapsed into silence rather than pursue it, the weight of her book pressing heavily upon her knees, the weight of the moment overwhelming her in all of her twelve-year-oldish-ness. She glanced emptily at the page where the spine was cracked open and realized that they hadn’t even reached the halfway point yet.

There were still so many pages to go.

Hundreds.

“… how does it end?”

But now, very suddenly, with all the air of a startled cat, she glanced up, and saw that Steven had painstakingly tilted his head in her direction. And he was simply watching her, the expression in his dark eyes impenetrable and distant, even though he was so close, quite close enough to reach out and actually touch.

Her literary mind worked ahead of her.

There was a metaphor in there somewhere.

“The chapter?” Connie asked, wondering if he was implicitly asking her to keep reading.

“No.” The line of Steven’s pale mouth barely moved. “The book.”

It registered with her immediately—he was asking for an entirely different thing besides.

Cold collapsed down her spine, settling somewhere in her stomach.

Icy.

Hard.

“Don’t be silly,” she returned numbly, as though it was just a game they were still playing. It was not in fact a game. It wasn’t even close to one. “You’ll have to wait for me to read the rest of the book to find out. We haven’t even reached Chapter Eight yet.”

There were twenty-one chapters total.

Epilogue included.

Steven was silent for a long time, but never entirely; the various machines invading him did all of the talking in his place: whirring, beeping, stuttering on.

“I guess we better keep going then.”

“Yeah…”

Connie removed her straw wrapper bookmark again and began to read.

She read very quickly now, as though something depended upon it.

iv.

A little before noon, Dr. Maheswaran briefly came in to disconnect Steven from the portable dialysis machine and send Connie downstairs to be picked up by her father for tennis practice. Garnet watched him as he seemingly watched nothing. He looked away when the nephrologist gently disconnected the machine’s tubing from the central line grafted into his neck. He closed his dark eyes when she replaced the oxygen mask over his mouth for one of those quick albuterol treatments. (Ever since his episode last night, his breathing had been a little too stilted for the doctor’s liking, a little too short.) He barely opened them again when Connie said her tentative goodbye, placing a hand on Steven’s arm as Dr. Maheswaran placed a consoling arm around her daughter’s shoulder.

Through his mask, he couldn’t say anything, so he only blinked slowly, the shadows turning beneath his eyes starkly pronounced. He coughed once. The feeble sound rattled across his chest.

It shivered his whole body.

It shivered the entire room.

When Connie withdrew her hand, fear flashed across her face.

(For she was shivering, too.)

The Maheswarans left, and Garnet and Steven were left alone in that tiny hospital room that was filled with golden sunlight. It leaned through the window with a light, mocking smile, teasing a warmth that the gym trainer couldn’t feel as she continued to watch Steven.

Vigilantly.

With no little obsession.

Afraid to miss something.

(Maybe even more afraid to stay.)

Hunched over in the uncomfortable chair next to his bed, she curled the fingers of her right hand over her clenched left fist, gingerly rubbing her knuckles, and she stared plainly at the punctuated rise and fall of his chest as albuterol vapor leaked beneath his mask, spiraling into the air like fading smoke. The machine hissed pneumatically, nearly overwhelming the sound of Steven’s beating heart, which was measured out in shrill noise, clangorous noise.

Beep…

Beep...

Beep…

Garnet hated this sound and she was simultaneously desperate to keep hearing it.

A nurse came in some ten minutes later to remove the mask and readjust the oxygenated cannulas in their former place, gently threading the tubes around Steven’s ears, maneuvering the tiny nubs into his nose. He kept his eyes closed, but Garnet was almost positive that he wasn’t sleeping.

It was subtle, but she knew the signs, having studied them night after night for almost nine months now—all those times she had curled up beside him in bed, resting her chin on top of his curly, black hair, keeping a vigilant eye out for all the demons she couldn’t exactly see.

The shadows that lurked around and about them never quite materialized into foes she could punch, kick, or destroy, so she memorized all the telltale signs of his aliveness instead, committing each trait to memory as though her own sanity depended on it.

The slight furrow in his dark brow.

The twitch in his nose.

The grim press of his lips.

(When he was truly asleep, he had the tendency to snore, mouth lazily lolled open in unguarded torpor.)

But the nurse didn’t know him, so they only said poor kiddo before leaving too, and the room suddenly felt so much more vacant without the hiss of the albuterol to fill all the empty crevices—the silence, the all-consuming nothingness, the barefaced, omnipresent pain.

Beep…

Steven slowly opened his eyes as the nurse’s footsteps died away from the room.

And Garnet watched him as he seemingly watched nothing, as he stared, very quietly, at the ceiling, without so much as moving a limb. She drank every micro-gesture in, as though every micro-gesture meant something in the wide cosmos of the universe. Every breath became consequential in this barebones theology, a butterfly’s wings rippling through space and time to matter in ways both big and small.

It mattered—fundamentally—that Steven continued to breathe.

Beep…

“Garnet?” He asked quietly. His voice was small, weak—the mewling rasp of an injured animal. She thought fleetingly of Cat Steven, of how they had found that tiny, defenseless kitten shivering in the pouring rain. If only Garnet could scoop his namesake into her strong arms just the same and keep him safe, holding him very quietly, very gently, against her chest.

“… yes, Steven?”

“Was my mom… was she ever scared, too?”

The question was simple enough, and it simply unmoored her.

Skewered her through.

Because they didn’t really talk about Rose.

Not really.

They referenced her obliquely, in passing mention, if they absolutely had to; her portrait loomed above the door leading into the beach house; every year, on her birthday, they laid flowers upon her grave and tried not to think about young she would have been had she never died.

And yet, here Steven was, trespassing that unspoken rule and doubling down upon it.

As little as they ever discussed Rose Quartz, they touched upon her illness even less.

So many memories.

Too painful.

Too raw.

Never healed, buried deep within their skins, buried six feet under the ground.

“…I think she might have been,” Garnet answered slowly, “but I can’t say for sure. She was good at pushing down her feelings for us… for our sakes.”

Which in turn made her an excellent leader.

(And an inscrutable friend.)

Steven seemed to silently grapple with this for a few moments, his expression complex, as though there were cloud shadows roaming across his eyes and mouth, threatening rain but never delivering.

“I dreamt of her last night,” Steven said, an explanatory note in his voice. Justificatory. He wasn’t bringing up his mother for just any random reason. “My mom.”

Garnet’s heart shriveled somewhere inside her throat.

“Mm.” She attempted to be calm anyway. “Tell me about it.”

“We… we were in a pink room full of swirling clouds,” the child whispered. “We played football together. And video games. And she told me that she was proud of me… that she loved me…”

What Steven knew of Rose came from stories and anecdotes, from picture albums and yellowed newspaper clippings, from the few videotapes she had left behind—from the one video she had explicitly recorded for Steven scarcely a month before she had delivered him.

It wasn’t a lot, but still, maybe it was just enough.

Because that sounded like Rose.

Her kindness.

Her warmth.

Her fun.

For she had loved, more than anything, to play.

“And then what happened?” She asked, her voice almost even.

“… I woke up.”

And Garnet watched, helpless, as a single tear wriggled itself loose from the corner of Steven’s eye, slipping gracelessly down his cheek and away.

He was silent after that.

She was almost positive, though, that he wasn’t asleep.

“C’mon, Ste-man,” Amethyst wheedled, wafting the milkshake temptingly just below his nose. She’d walked nearly a block away from the hospital just to get the damn thing—a specialty of Stacey’s, the little retro milkshake bar on the corner of Pin Avenue and 32nd. The staff dressed up like they were from The Jetsons and everything. When Steven hadn’t been… when things hadn’t been so bad… they’d sometimes shlepped over there after his dialysis treatments to slam burgers and milkshakes as the jukebox played the Heaven Beetles’ greatest hits. One time, all five of them went together and sung shitty karaoke ’til Pearl was laughing so hard that strawberry milkshake shot out of her nose. “It’s got Reece’s Pieces in it—your faaaavorite…”

“I’m not thirsty, Amethyst,” he returned dully, turning his face away from her. “Sorry.”

His pale neck exposed to her in the gesture, Amethyst could now clearly see the livid bruises that crept vine-like out of the collar of his hospital gown, blooming blue and purple near the place where his central line was inserted just next to his collarbone.

If she could have, if it would have made sense, Amethyst would have crushed that stupid styrofoam cup between her fingers right then and there and enjoyed the feeling of milkshake pouring all over her shaking fingers.

She would have reveled in the destruction of the act.

The cathartic release.

Very probably, she would have begun to cry.

But Steven didn’t need that.

He didn’t need to see her lose her shit.

So, she only collapsed backwards on her feet and into the chair pulled up next to Steven’s bed. She was ginger, notably careful, as she placed the milkshake on the nearby tray, where it’d melt into itself between the hours and the blazing sun.

For the sun burned today, like golden fire, through the square window.

It scorched.

“You… you haven’t eaten in, like, days, my dude,” Amethyst stated plainly, as if he didn’t know that better than anyone else who cared to know. “Dr. M’s worried ‘bout you. If ya don’t get enough nutrients…”

But Steven cut across her bluntly then, still not looking at her. “… then they’ll have to put a feeding tube in me… I know. I heard Dr. Maheswaran and Pearl talking about it the other day.”

She supposed it should have surprised her that he already knew; maybe if she’d been Pearl, she would have jumped to try to sugarcoat the blow with something soft, something comforting, something consolatory.

But the truth of the matter was that there was nothing soft nor comforting nor consolatory about the ugly reality that reared its head above them, ten feet tall and ready to fucking strike.

He was fourteen, not ten.

He’d long stopped believing in magic.

“Doesn’t that scare you?” She asked him, frustration edging the rims of her scratchy voice, and she knew, even as she spoke, that she was being hella unfair. The poor kid couldn’t help the fact that he was puking his guts up left and right, but he was just laying there, lifeless, like he’d already accepted the inevitability of the stars that had spelled out his fate.

And it maddened Amethyst.

Sickened her.

She really want to pummel that goddamn milkshake cup into smithereens; she clenched her fists tightly on top of her knees to try and stop them from shaking.

She reminded herself—painfully—that it was only yesterday that happiness had been given to the kid before it was so brutally ripped away.

She told herself that even grown ass adults had trouble with that.

The volatility, the utter unpredictability of life.

“Of course it scares me, Amethyst,” Steven replied, his broken voice barely a whisper as he finally turned to look at her, his brown eyes drowning in the black bags which encased them. Grooved them. Hollowed them. “I don’t wanna have another surgery… but what do I… how can I do anything? I… I don’t know if I… I can’t stop this. I can’t.”

He seemed to struggle for the words, each one wrenched from him with a punishing drag of air.

And it struck Amethyst then and precisely there, with all the sharpness of a knife, that she took it for granted.

How easy it was for her to simply breathe.

“Catch your breath,” she implored him wildly, leaning forward in her chair. “Shh, shh, it’s okay, Steven.”

“B-but it’s not okay,” he insisted fiercely, sniffing. A single tear slanted out of the corners of one of his eyes and down the hollow of his face, slipping beneath the oxygenated cannulas, following the gentle curve of his beaten, world-weary face. “Don’t say that it’s okay. Please. I can’t take that anymore.”

“Okay, fine!” The awful words exploded out from her, tumbled and rushed and spilled from her mouth headlong on their hands and knees. Amethyst would say anything to make him calm down, and because she had no filter, because she’d never known how to mince the truth, she would mean every damn syllable. “Everything isn’t okay. Everything isn’t fine. Is that better? Are you happy now?”

But to her utter horror, to her staggering discontent, the answer was apparently—

“Yeah,” Steven sighed, closing his eyes in visible relief. “Yes.”

He laid there quietly for a handful of seconds to take in deep gulps of air.

It looked painful.

Excruciating.

“… I just wanna be on the same page,” he eventually finished, his voice a barely distinguishable mumble, distant and muffled.

Amethyst’s entire chest seized with fear unlike that she’d ever felt in a lifetime full of fear; it gripped her, and it wrestled with her.

Put its hands ‘round her throat and squeezed.

“And what page would that be, buddy?” She tried to keep her voice even anyway, though. Steven had yet to reopen his eyes. “Enlighten me.”

But there was no forthcoming reply.

His outburst had exhausted him, and sleep was merciless.

It stole him away.

vi.

They worked together in tentative silence, Greg and Pearl, taking damp washcloths and running them along the parts of Steven’s body that they could reach beneath all the medical apparatus: the column of his neck, his pale face, his arms, his leaden legs. He was too weak to take a shower in the bathroom attached to his hospital room, and they wouldn’t have been able to get a few of his lines wet anyway for the fear of clogging them up.

So a nurse provided them with a basin of soapy water, and they each picked up a rag, gliding the rough fabric as gently as possible across his skin as he laid beneath them like a doll, limp and lifeless.

Staring up at them from dark, button eyes.

Greg pulled his own cloth around Steven’s left ear, now rubbing the tip of it, now gently scraping behind, and tried not to think about how he’d done the very same when the kid was just a baby, so tiny in his arms, so helpless. He’d been afraid then, desperately so, to make just one wrong move. What if he accidentally hurt the little tyke? Rubbed his head a little too hard? Accidentally got soap in his eyes? What if he fucked up? (He was so good at fucking up.)

He’d miss Rose the most then, in those far too common moments, when he was at his lowest.

He’d miss the way she used to wrap her warm arms around his shoulders and show him, without so much as saying a word, what he looked like in her eyes.

Like he was someone worth loving in spite of everything.

In the face of it all.

Fourteen-years later, Steven was tiny beneath his arms.

Helpless.

And Greg missed Rose.

(He would always miss Rose.)

Pearl’s hands trembled as she gingerly lifted Steven’s left arm, weaving her cloth through the gaps between each of his fingers, swiping its breadth across his sweat-stickied palm. Greg followed his hooded gaze to where it settled somewhere on Pearl’s face, where there were faint circles cradling the spaces beneath her eyes, where there was a recent gauntness in the pointed architecture of her cheeks.

She must have noticed, too, because she blinked quickly, self-consciously, pausing her ministrations.

“Are you okay, Steven? I-I’m not hurting you, am I?”

Because that was the most important thing after all—neither of them wanted to hurt him anymore than he was already irrevocably damaged.

Couldn’t bear to even leave so much as a bruise.

“No,” came his simple reply.

It was the monosyllabism that was somehow the most dreadful above all.

Pearl also caught onto this, swiftly folding her slender fingers over Steven’s knuckles, her rag dangling like a white-sheeted ghost from her fingertips.

“Are you sure? You… you haven’t been yourself all day.”

He was silent at this, and Greg was pretty sure it was because the answer was obvious, painfully so.

(He hadn’t been himself in eight months now.)

The man swallowed thickly and turned away, dipping his rag in the basin on the nearby tray; the lukewarm water slushed around his wrists. He made a meal out of squeezing the cloth out, hoping that when he faced Steven and Pearl again, the moment would have passed, the unspoken things remaining unspoken.

But it was the very absence of a reply that seemed to gall Pearl, spiral her, and Greg could see, when he turned back to them, that she was utterly ruined.

She couldn’t hide it; it shone in the over-bright lights of her eyes.

“A-a kidney is bound to turn up,” she said, speaking in that rapid way she always did when she was upset (and trying not to let people see). “Dr. Maheswaran is looking for one even now, and… and… she thinks she might be able to secure a live donor kidney this time because, y-you know, the numbers and everything. Your numbers. Not that they’re abysmal. I mean, they’re bad, but—”

Greg tried to step in, tried to rescue her, before she got in too deep.

“I know it’s hard, Shtu-ball… but chin up,” he said gently as he maneuvered his washcloth beneath the kid’s neck. He skated around the bruises when he could. (There were so many new bruises, erupting like angry supernovas all across his tender skin.)

“Pearl’s right”—she shot him a grateful glance—“Dr. M’s not gonna give up, and neither are we.”

The silence stretched again.

It absolutely groaned.

And Steven finally moved his gaze away from Pearl and back to the bare ceiling.

Apparently, he’d been staring at the ceiling a lot today, divining something in it that no one else could see.

“Were you guys this scared… when Mom… when she was…”

But before he had ever gotten the words out, before he could finish another word let alone the whole sentence, Pearl abruptly extricated herself from Steven, gently setting his hand back on the bed, gently throwing her white cloth of a flag down.

“Excuse me,” she muttered feverishly. “I’ve got to… I can’t—restroom.”

But rather than flee into the door that led to the ensuite bathroom, she swung through the adjacent door, the one that led out into the hall, and Steven watched the place where her lithe form disappeared with cavernous eyes.

Sunken eyes.

Dull.

His mouth still partially open where he was still forming the words.

“I… I was so scared, buddy,” Greg said quietly, his throat constricting with all the surging memories. Her big, brown eyes. The tubes running through her skin. How he held her hand at the end, when Dr. Howard unplugged the machines, so she didn’t have to be alone.

Pearl, of course, held the other.

And there they were, the three of them.

And then, just the two of them.

Alone.

Steven’s eyes, so much like his mother’s own, turned to capture him now, penetrating his father somewhere deep in the muck and mire of his soul.

“… are you scared now?”

He choked back a sob.

“Yeah, buddy. I am.”

vii.

They sat together on Yellow’s hospital bed for a long time, not exactly talking, but communicating in other ways—in the brush of their nearly touching shoulders, in the painful glances they would occasionally shift each other from the corners of their eyes, in the way that Yellow’s pinky finger rested on top of Blue’s wrist where their hands were placed on top of the sheets in the microscopic space between them.

Now once more armored in a button-down shirt and a pair of slacks, Yellow Diamond almost looked herself—brilliant and impressive, striking to the last.

And then she would look to the side again, revealing the raw cuts now laced into her sculpted cheeks.

And Blue would fantasize about gently touching one, running her fingers across one of those tentatively scabbed lines, capturing the measure of her wife’s face, relearning it all over again.

But in the end, she didn’t dare.

Because for right now, this was simply enough.

To be sitting next to Yellow Diamond.

To simply be.

Together.

For once, not entirely alone, even though so many unvoiced things still remained.

Three words.

Mountains of griefs.

And something else now, too.

I don’t want to commit to claiming anything about these tests, Yellow had explained earlier, her usually gruff voice working itself into something gentle, a little more kind. Not until I know something for sure…

You don’t believe I can take it? Blue’s tone was as gentle as it was accusatory in that devastatingly contradictory way of hers.

Frankly, her wife returned quietly, no.

And somehow, it was the truthfulness in the other’s expression which made Blue stop short of pressing for more, for she could see, in the lines beneath Yellow Diamond’s golden eyes, just what these past four years had done to her.

You barely survived the last time. I barely survived watching you, Blue.

It was a miracle that they were even sitting here.

Barely touching, barely talking, but still… it was a start.

It was something simply to be breathing the same air.

Around three, Dr. Reed finally dropped by with Yellow’s discharge papers and another doctor whose name Blue didn’t quite catch; she was a tired-looking lady, though, with a fiercely drawn face. Salt-and-pepper hair. Hands shoved in the pockets of her lab coat. They asked if Yellow would come with them. It’d maybe take an hour or so.

The businesswoman made to get up, but Blue stopped her with a withered hand on her arm.

“Wait,” she murmured. “Your collar is crooked.”

She reached upwards to adjust the crumpled white band, straightening the crease between her delicate fingers.

And Yellow stared at her silently—with open tenderness and rawness and aching disbelief.

And when she swallowed, Blue could see every cord convulse in the smooth column of her throat.

“Would you wait for me, Blue?”

But she must have realized how vulnerable that sounded because she quickly tried to amend herself, always aware of her audience, that there were people watching. She stood up abruptly and a little awkwardly; it was clear that one of her legs was killing her.

“In the town car, I mean?”

“Yes,” Blue returned softly. “Of course.”

Yes.

A complicated expression quivered across Yellow Diamond’s plump lips then; it was hesitant and rich, stiff and almost unbearably visceral in its reluctant vulnerability.

It wasn’t necessarily a smile, but it was something.

It was a start.

viii.

Pearl would have done something, anything, to escape her own body, but it clung to her stubbornly as she half-ran through the hospital’s halls—down Truman Ward and down the glass-encased skywalk, down the elevator, down some forsaken hallway and then another, the turns she took arbitrary and varied.

Anywhere but Room 11037.

Horror clawed its way up her throat—shame and awfulness and terrible, maddening grief—until she could hardly breathe for its presence in her mouth. The nausea was overwhelming. The memories she usually kept carefully tucked away surged forth, frothing like foam on the waves that skimmed the shore near their home.

Just the mention of Rose.

That alone was enough to undo her on any regular day.

But context mattered, too.

Steven had brought up his mother so readily, as though they and their situations were one in the same.

Like they were both—

But she couldn’t complete the thought, even to herself, because fundamentally, Pearl couldn’t accept the inevitable—not when Rose Quartz had once taught her what it was to touch the stars.

Blindly, haphazardly, unintentionally, she found herself in one of the larger hallways in the hospital, and she immediately knew, from experience, that she had made her way down to the first floor. This particular corridor emptied out into the larger atrium and housed many of the administrative offices and various waiting rooms.

It was fairly empty. A few people in olive colored scrubs walked by and paid the woman no attention, her total disintegration invisible to them.

Unseen.

And somehow, the fact of this was soothing to Pearl.

Comforting.

So she swiped a delicate hand across her face and moved forward until a sight towards the end of the hall stopped her short, like a blow to the stomach without being half as neat—so uncomplicated and yet so devastatingly simple.

A silver-haired woman wearing a dark blue dress.

Hands poised on a metallic cane.

Staring inscrutably at a pair of nondescript double doors.

Her heavy braid fell thickly across her shoulder.

ix.

Blue Diamond had been on her way out to the car when she noticed a half-open door in a dyad of two on the first floor of the hospital. Golden light spilled from the room upon the bare, white tiles, submerging them in a brightness, a warmth.

The brass label on the adjacent wall gleamed at her invitingly.

The chapel.

Because naturally, hospitals possessed chapels—sanctified spaces where people could pray to their gods and hope they would intercede on the behalves of their loved ones. There was something psychologically comforting in the gesture, she supposed—to do something in a situation where it felt like nothing else could be done, to speak to the Divine and take comfort in the fact that they were not alone because the Divine was omnipresent, and the Divine was all-encompassing, and the Divine loved them powerfully.

She stood in front of those doors for what seemed like an eternity and remembered painfully when she had once loved God.

She’d grown up with a Rosary woven between her fingers, singing Alleluia every Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday at Mass until her daughter was murdered, and every theological comfort she had ever held dear scattered to the floor like beads.

She supposed it was only nostalgia then, which drove her to lightly press on that already half-opened door.

But as to what made her go in, the former headmistress could hardly articulate.

Her fingers wrapped themselves tightly around the head of her cane.

Clank, she proceeded forward.

Clank.

Above all, Pearl didn’t know what made her do it—it was almost as though a sense of daring reckless gripped her and propelled her forward, step over unthinking step. She approached the spot where Blue Diamond had only recently disappeared, her pale eyes flicking upwards to the label which named the room for what it was, and then back to the double doors again, which hadn’t been completely shuttered to a close since the entrance of its last visitor.

It was a small chapel from what Pearl could tell at a cursory glance, only offering the essential trifecta of artifacts—a couple of pews, a tiny altar, and what appeared to be the portrait of a dove, spreading its elegant wings across the back wall.

And there, sitting in the middle of the front row, was Blue Diamond, her head defiantly lifted.

As though determinedly not in prayer.

Her concentrated gaze seemed to be trained upwards, directed at the beautifully painted mural, upon which the gentle lighting threw its warm, amber glow, casting the bird in molten gold.

That same feeling of daring propitiated her again, and it was with her arms tucked neatly over her chest that Pearl impulsively drew closer, stepping across the boundary of the threshold with tender steps, ballerina movements. Her footfalls were light by nature, and in the thin carpet, they were hushed to the point that the older woman didn’t seem to be aware that she had company at all.

Her cane stood, temporarily abandoned, on the side of the row.

Though her head was high, her shoulders were hunched in on themselves.

Caved.

When Pearl reached the pew directly behind her, she skimmed her knuckles against the grains of the wooden armrest, producing a low, plaintive note as a means of attracting her attention without entirely startling her.

And it was with painful slowness, a certain gracefulness, too, that Blue Diamond finally turned her head to look Pearl’s way, her shadowed eyes wide with surprise and melancholy, with curiosity and well-practiced temperance.

Pearl’s thin brow furrowed.

She bit her lower lip.

xi.

“May I sit?” The Crystal Gem asked, and there was a brusqueness in her otherwise smooth voice that reminded Blue Diamond of yet another encounter with one of Steven’s motley guardians—the one who had stood in front of the door, the muscled woman with bicolored eyes.

She had warned her against hurting Steven.

She, too, had looked at Blue with quiet disdain.

Perhaps loathing was the more fitting word.

“Be my guest…?” Blue returned, allowing a pause by which the woman could introduce herself.

“Pearl,” she curtly supplied as she lowered herself to the end of the pew and sat rather primly, with one ankle crossed daintily over the other.

“Pearl,” Blue echoed gently, trying the name on her tongue. It was a lyrical number, assonant and delicate, much like the person to which it belonged.

For she was slight—as willowy as the other Crystal Gem had been powerfully built. Simply put, she looked as though one puff of wind would blow her over, bending her back like the breeze did stalks of long reeds, rending her, bifurcating her, snapping her in two. And just as Yellow and Blue’s physiognomies told the stories of their griefs, so, too, did the lines beneath Pearl’s eyes announce her own.

There was a boy in the hospital bed.

There was a wasting disease.

“May I assume,” she continued tentatively, “by the expression in your face, that you already know who I am?”

“Yes,” Pearl replied certainly, but then just as immediately said, “No. I don’t know.”

She closed her pale eyes against some inner turmoil as the ambient lighting gently kissed her beaten face, caressing her cheeks in honeyed gold.

“I know your name, and I know what your family’s company has done,” she continued, “but I suppose that isn’t the same thing as knowing you, is it? Understanding why my… why he… why Steven loves you.”

There was it again—that same oblique indictment that the other Crystal Gem had leveled at Diamond Electric, silently condemning her for all sorts of untold flaws, and Blue Diamond frowned, sucking a little on her lip as the charge did what it was intended to do—level a finger directly at her chest, pressing neatly upon her sternum.

Perhaps these activists were not as inconsequential as she had wanted them to be after all.

Perhaps they had something important to say.

Perhaps here was yet another instant in which Blue had looked away, painstakingly ignoring all of the uncouth things in order to more capably realize the vision of her perfect, invulnerable, tableau of an ugly, imperfect, sheltered life.

She accused Yellow of shoving Pink Diamond in a drawer, but perhaps Blue had always made sure to be in another room when all the shoving was being done.

“Because he loves you,” Pearl finished quietly, “and I’m trying to… I can’t quite figure it out.”

She turned to Blue directly then, appealing to her simply with her over-bright eyes and her slightly parted mouth, with the shadows all over her face.

So many premature lines.

And Blue Diamond returned the gaze as steadily as she could.

Perhaps she even mirrored it.

Lines and shadows and lines.

xii.

“I don’t think… I don’t imagine that I’ve been good at love in a very long time,” Blue began, each word slow and precise, maneuvered carefully on her lilting tongue like a hand-rolled cigarette wheeled between expert fingertips. “Giving, receiving it… showing it… even with my daughter… even before she—”

But the woman could not complete the sentence.

And Pearl found that she didn’t want her to.

The unspoken conclusion sat in the space between them—a little girl Pearl imagined her to be, arranged in a pretty pink dress, dangling her Mary-Jane enclosed feet from the crimson pew.

“But Steven Universe,” she continued, and even at his very name, the mere mention of him, the older woman’s expression seemed to subtly transform, the heaviness in it unfurling.

Incrementally lightening.

Surely.

“He extended a flower and smile to me that day in the cemetery. He noticed that I was sad. And that taught me a lesson I had never thought to learn in all of these many staggering years…”

Pearl couldn’t help herself then; a breathless question fell impatiently from her lips.

“And what would that be?”

Blue Diamond arched a dark brow at her that would have been haughty were it not for the tears glistening in her eyes, threatening to exceed their sunken edges.

“That there is such kindness, such… such love, in your troubles being seen, identified, and acted upon. He saw my sadness, and he named it. He gave me that tiny hibiscus and showed me, wordlessly, that I was not alone.”

She glided a skeletal hand across the side of her face, her palm capturing the beginnings of those now falling tears.

“I was being seen, Pearl, for the first time in I cannot tell you when… and it made me realize that this is what I wanted most of all, that perhaps, this is what all humans really want in the end.”

“To be seen,” Pearl repeated, her voice constricted, so many emotions thick.

“Yes,” Blue Diamond whispered with a gracious nod of her head, disturbing the heaviness of her silvery braid, “and to be loved by another.”

“Is that what he wants?” She pressed insistently, but deep down, the answer was already known to her, spelled out to her in the rush of so many memories. How many times alone in the past couple of days had he told them as much, both with words and without them? How many times had he asked them all not to look away? Amethyst opened a window for him so he could hear the words they’d all been too cowardly to utter in his presence. In a hospital room, in the dead of night, he told her to rip the bandaid off, to confirm that which everyone already knew and tiptoed around instead of saying.

You’re very sick, sweetheart.

I know.

And even still, even after all these horrible and unsubtle signs, she’d already done the damn thing and run away from him again anyway.

He asked if she’d been scared when Rose had been in the same place, laying in a hospital bed.

Sick.

Dying.

And yes, the answer so clearly, so blatantly was.

“Yes,” Blue Diamond murmured, her quiet voice tender.

And almost, if not entirely, kind.

“I think that is what he has desired all along.”

Pearl had no other recourse then, no semblance of a facade left by which to cling to, to desperately hold onto in a chapel where two entirely different women sat side by side, utterly undone by the same boy.

She brought both of her hands up to her mouth then and began to weep.

xiii.

Blue allowed the woman her moment of private grief, turning her head away from the sight, even though the sounds weren’t as easily escapable.

The sobs.

The keening.

The primality of it all.

Tears gathered in her own eyes, but she refused to let them fall, she swept them all away—because she understood intimately, viscerally, somehow without really knowing it—that this wasn’t her moment, her child, her bone deep, unbearable, unlivable grief.

Though it had once had been.

And it still was.

But not for this child.

Not for Steven Universe.

She’d lost a child; she wasn’t currently losing one.

And there was a fundamental difference in the fact.

There was primacy.

Five minutes passed, maybe ten, and Pearl gathered herself, collected all her tiny, fragmented pieces into a frame that wasn’t entirely shaking with its own reckoning anymore. And Blue finally looked over to see that the woman was leaned forward on the edge of her pew, the heels of her hands pressed against her eyes.

“He’s not doing well,” she said faintly.

If Blue hadn’t been staring at the movement of her thin mouth, she wouldn’t have known where the words had come from.

Perhaps she wouldn’t have even believed them.

They struck cleanly, like a slap to the face.

“Yesterday’s… disappointment”—disappointment was not the correct word—“hurt him badly, and he’s shutting down. Closing off.”

Each word was painful, razor sharp in clarity, dragged from Pearl’s teeth against her will. She dragged her fingers in lines down her wet face, now reaching the point of her chin, now cupping them into fists on either side of her jaw.

“We can’t get through to him,” she finished quietly. “We’ve all tried.”

And tried and tried and tried—Blue could see every failed attempt scrawled in the lines all over the woman’s tired face. The devastation bruised her black and blue.

“I’m sorry,” she offered simply. “I’m so… sorry.”

But Pearl, with all suddenness, with an aspect of barely repressible contempt, leveled her an incredulous look as though to say, What good will sorry do?

She had an excellent point.

“You should talk to him sometime,” she went on to say, turning away from Blue now. A series of conflicted emotions seemed to be playing out in real time across her pale, sky-colored eyes—disdain warring with grief warring with loathing warring with grudging respect.

It wasn’t quite endearment, though.

And Blue Diamond had a sneaking suspicion that it never would be.

“Maybe not today… he’s tired… hurt… but some day… you should visit him. He would like that.”

It was Blue’s turn to stare at the other woman incredulously now, her mouth slightly open as she awaited a punchline that never quite came. Pearl obstinately refused to meet her gaze, fingertips templed just next to her trembling lips.

“I… I have nothing to offer him,” she whispered, a trembling note in her voice as she tried to convey exactly just how serious she was being. “I’m hardly… I mean, he was the one who saved me. I don’t know what I could ever give him in equal return.”

But somehow, without really knowing why, how, or all the sundry explanatory variables in-between, she knew that this was perfectly untrue.

And Pearl seemed to know it, too, for the corner of her lip slightly lifted in the sliver of a sardonic smile.

“Start with a flower and a smile, perhaps.”

#bellow diamond #blue diamond #yellow diamond #steven universe #pearl #garnet #amethyst #priyanka maheswaran #greg universe #connie maheswaran #rose quartz #pink diamond #flower child #mimiku #oh my god #this chapter is a monster

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con-fection · 3 years

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ASHES TO ASHES | jim moriarty x reader | part 1/13

Summary:

Jim Moriarty has always loved fairytales. In particular, grim, macabre ones that end in bloodshed. You've been abused by your step-family for years - in every meaningful way, you embody the story of Cinderella. Except, in your version, Cinderella murders her family and burns the house down. When Sherlock Holmes is assigned to find the killers of your step-family, he inadvertently becomes obsessed with you. And when Sherlock is obsessed, Jim Moriarty becomes a man intrigued.Word Count: 4k

Most fairy tales follow the same format. A lovely, picturesque life, subsequently followed by a tragedy, a period of hardship, all of which is solved by the power of love. The dashing prince saves the damsel in distress, and they remain happy and in love forever, having easily recovered from the trauma of the tragedy and hardship.

Originally, fairy tales did not end quite so nicely. They were macabre, morbid and horrifying. Just as real-life has a tendency to be. They weren't an idyllic escape from everyday life. They were nightmarish stories that reflected the fears of society.

By 1815, The Brothers Grimm had compiled several stories, among them The Frog Prince, Hansel and Gretel, Little Red Riding Hood, Rapunzel... and Cinderella.

The latter had always, always been your favourite. You had memorised every line, every word, every single mark of punctuation. You could recite every single version of the story off-by-heart. All of the variations sparked a deep-rooted curiosity in you.

How could the same story end so differently?

All that changed was the person reciting the story - and they would chip away at it, changing it piece by piece, passing it down orally, until it was barely recognisable. In some versions, the characters got their happy ending. Cinderella would marry her Prince Charming with the help of her Fairy Godmother. In others, they didn't. One of her vile step-sisters will hack off parts of their feet and marry Prince Charming, and Cinderella would be left alone.

Sometimes minor aspects of the story would change. Different variations would feature doves, her dead Mother, fairies, and occasionally, the glass slipper would be golden.

Your version was entirely different to anything imagined before.

...unbeknownst to you, however, was the fact that you weren't the only person that liked grim fairytales.

---

Your mother's battle with her myriad of diseases had been one that had defined your childhood. She had been ever-so frail, perpetually in and out of hospitals, constantly deteriorating. There was more than one occasion where you had watched her drop to the floor, her body entirely limp, and you had to be the one to call the ambulance. There were always, always, blood-soaked handkerchiefs strewn around the house.

She was plagued by illness, and in some ways you were suffering just as much as she was. Most children were afforded the luxury of not having to confront the idea of death - often they simply could not even comprehend it. You weren't so lucky as to experience that naivety.

There had been no play-dates for you, there was no time to entertain any other children when each moment had the potential to be her last. Every single waking moment was occupied with the crippling, gut-wrenching fear that one day she might fall down and that the paramedics wouldn't be able to find a pulse.

Every night you would go to bed praying that she would be there in the morning, that she would get her happy ending, that she could read your favourite fairy-tale to you night after night.

"And Cinderella and Prince Charming lived happily ever after, the end!" She would say, smiling brightly as if she hadn't read this to you so many times that she was bored of it. Your mother could probably recite it by heart now, too.

"Do we get a happily ever after, Mommy?" You had asked one night, right after your mother had set the book of fairy-tales down on your bedside table.

"If you pray, God will answer." She replied, ever-so-vaguely, fiddling with the little golden cross necklace dangling between her collarbones. Now you can recognise that she didn't look surprised by your question, rather, she was in the throes of longing for that happily ever after.

You liked 'happily ever after'. It was a comforting lie that you would willingly believe. In 'happily ever after' there was no pain - in your idea of a happy ending, your mother would recover and you wouldn't burst into tears the moment she staggered out of the room.

But 'happily ever after' had to come after years of torment and misery. It always did. There was no story in which the protagonist began happy and remained that way for all eternity. That would be dreadfully boring, and yet it was what you yearned for the most. Boring and happy would be good.

Her death was a mercy - quick and painless, in her sleep. Her funeral was equally as brief as her life, a bleak affair that you can hardly recall. You had been so, so young then, and the tears just wouldn't stop coming, rolling down your face as your chest wracked with sobs. You can't remember much about it, other than the feeling of your father's hand on your shoulder and the awful, almighty bitterness that threatened to send you to your knees.

Naturally, your mother's funeral had been one of the worst days of your life. She looked so small, so ashen in her casket. Her lips were completely unmoving, drawn into a thin line. Never again would she recite your favourite bedtime story. She didn't look like she was sleeping, not when all vibrancy had been removed from her skin, to the point where it was practically grey and she smelled like a chemical preservative that made you wrinkle your nose and sob even harder.

But, even worse than the funeral had been the wedding.

It had been horrifically easy for your father to move on, and to find comfort in your step-mother, Verona. You had only met her once before they were married.

"Honey, I want you to meet somebody." Your father had said. He looked so happy, smiling in a way that you hadn't seen him do since before your mother died, his lips curved upwards and a strange look in his eyes. "This is Verona, and she means a lot to me."

He looked at Verona the same way that you looked at your fairy-tales. They were an escape, a place where you could pretend that things were different and that you were happy. Verona, with her perfectly curled hair and pearly-white teeth, was his escape, his happy ending. You wanted so badly for her to be yours, as well. It wasn't to be.

"Hello," She cooed down at you. She could smile so sweetly, her peach-pink lips drawn upwards to reveal just a flash of white teeth. It was so saccharine, so lovely. Her voice could take on this mellow, melodic tone. It reminded you terribly of a siren's call - beautiful, and so, so alluring, but it wasn't something that you should put your trust in unless you wanted to drown. Verona always looked down at you - there never came a point where you were to be considered an equal. Never.

There was something about her that made your skin crawl. She was a vile lady, with a wicked grin, honey-blonde hair and long nails that looked like talons. To you as a child, you came to view her as practically a witch, clawing her way into your life just to destroy it for her own amusement. Your father was completely and utterly blind, incapable of seeing any flaw within her.

Now that you were older, you could see her as more than a one-dimensional figure that was simply labelled 'the villain'. She wasn't a nice person, not by your account, but she was complex. Verona was always distant from you, eternally glacial and condescending whenever nobody was watching. She wasn't like that to everybody, though.

Along with the step-mother came two of what you had assumed to be Satan's most accomplished demons. They had inherited a fascinating ability from their mother. The instant your father was in the room, all torment would cease. Whether it be pulling your hair, or vandalising your possessions, they had an innate ability to tell whenever your father was close by.

Verona loved them. It was the only time where she seemed to be genuine in her affection. She would dote on them constantly, cooing at them and reading them stories in the same way that your mother had once done for you. She could pretend to tolerate you in public, and at first, you had lapped it up, basking in her siren's call voice and gazing upon her like she could be your escape, too, like she was something to be cherished, to be worshipped.

She bombarded you with an eternal cycle of love - so much love that you couldn't even feel the pain of losing your mother. She would treat you like you were her own daughter. She would pat you on the head and speak to you so sweetly. And after, would always come the abuse. The screaming, the slapping, the hissed remarks, the threats.

It was hard to deify her after that. So, Verona became the villain, the terrible step-mother who was always there to hold you down.

The wedding itself had been hosted at the very same church your parents had been married in. Their vows were exchanged between what you remembered to be Verona's awful giggles, and you yourself had been a flower girl, along with your step-sisters.

Somehow you managed to feel even worse than you had at your mother's funeral. It wasn't really acceptable to scream and cry at a wedding, so you did your best to look at the very least neutral.

You had spent most of the day staring at the gaudy paper garlands strung from the ceiling, doing your best to avoid thinking about the three women joining the family.

Everybody seemed to adore your step-sisters. They were perfect when they had to be, blonde angels with blue eyes and the sweetest disposition. Aubrey and Alora - twins that were identical in every sense of the word. Your father loved these girls, and he loved his new wife. It was like his previous one, and his first, biological daughter had simply been discarded and pushed to the periphery.

There were no more blood-speckled handkerchiefs strewn about the house, no more pills stashed above the sink, and no more quick trips to the hospital. Instead, there were Verona's lipsticks, and your step-sisters' toys. Pictures of them dominated the mantle place. Their achievements were the ones to be celebrated.

"Well done, Alora. We're so proud of you."

"Oh, Aubrey, you're so smart!"

Any incidents of your step-family's cruelty that you did manage to complain to your father about were either dismissed as the lies of a girl acting out as a result of her grief, or as some minor sibling rivalry that you would get over in time. In fact, your father seemed delighted when he interpreted it as the latter. Sibling rivalry meant that you were coming to see each other as sisters.

"You know, one day, when you grow up, I bet you're doing to be so glad to have Aubrey and Alora. I know that you girls don't always get along, but this is a good thing. They're your sisters." Your father had said, so gently, so softly that you wished for a moment you could believe it - that it was true and you could bring yourself to be thankful.

It flooded you with some kind of resentment - that he could be so passive, so enchanted by Verona and her perfect daughters, that you could become practically irrelevant. That of all of them, your concerns were the ones to be disregarded.

That resentment didn't fade when he died.

It had been an accident - a car-crash. It hadn't even been his fault. He had been on his way home to you, and some maniac had run him off the road. It could have happened to anybody. It should have happened to somebody else. It should have been something you saw on the news and thought about briefly. Instead, you were left an orphan.

His body was far too mangled for any kind of open-casket funeral. By the age of twelve, you had been to two funerals - one for each parent. What most children would do is to hope they were happy together, reunited in heaven. That's what you should have hoped for. Instead, you would pray, over and over again, every single fucking night, that they were burning. That they were being roasted in the flames of hell, and that they were screaming out for your forgiveness.

God hadn't listened when you had asked for your mother to get well and recover from her illnesses, nor when you asked for her to come back to you. Life had been so cruel, and so, you reasoned that its creator must be cruel, too. Perhaps God would listen if you wanted to inflict pain, instead.

The resentment didn't fade - rather, it intensified. After that, you really didn't need anybody to read Cinderella to you.

You had lived it.

---

The first person to rise was always you. It had been that way for years, the beginning of your well-established daily routine.

It was so cold, down in the basement. It wasn't given the same insulation as the rest of the house - and why would it have been? Your parents had mostly used it for storage, primarily for things like your bike, tools, and those family picture albums that you couldn't even bring yourself to open. At the time, there was nothing down there that had really deserved to be kept warm.

It was in rather poor condition. The bricks that comprised the walls were all cracked, and the black paint covering them was chipped and unevenly applied, the shelves looked liable to fall down any minute, and there were piles and piles of things everywhere. There is a saw lying on the ground, next to a few planks of wood that your father had never had an opportunity to use for anything and a stack of cannisters of gasoline that you eye affectionately.

There was always a breeze blowing through the basement, too. Your parents had discarded what they didn't need and stored it in the basement, and once they were both dead and buried, your step-mother had done the same to you.

Your old bedroom, where your mother used to read you bedtime stories and you would fret over her health, had been stripped bare and subsequently turned into Verona's walk-in wardrobe. You had been relegated to the basement, left to freeze whilst fur-coats and cocktail dresses got to enjoy central heating.

To keep warm, you would bundle yourself up in whatever shoddy blankets you could find. They would scratch at your skin and you would shiver against them, grinding your teeth together and hissing at the cold, silently cursing at Verona. It wasn't entirely uncommon for you to wake up and discover your lips had turned blue. It would worry you sometimes, that if it got too cold, you would simply die in the night and there would be nobody to notice.

It was early enough that you could hear the birds cooing sweetly outside, singing to one another as they flit through the branches in the trees outside. It was such a lovely thing to watch, and even lovelier to hear. It's such a pretty sound. You're not entirely sure that your step-family have ever woken early enough to hear it. If they hadn't before, then by now they had certainly missed their chance.

This was meant to be when you would start your chores. Your step-mother had left you to take on a maid role in the house, cooking and cleaning for them, waiting on them hand and foot, scrubbing the floors and surfaces until they shined. It filled you with rage.

Of the four of you, you were by far the best in every measurable way. Verona and her daughters were harpies, beasts with perfect faces that managed to fool just about everybody they came into contact with. Your father had been just one of many that was too naive to see it. They didn't bother with the pretenses around you - you had always seen them for what they were.

By now, you should be starting to sweep the bottom floor of the house, and making breakfast. But today would be different.

You creep up the stairs, your eyes constantly darting around the house, searching for any sign of the other inhabitants. They aren't awake, and you don't expect them to be, but it's always good to check, just in case.

Verona's left her purse on the countertop, next to a wine glass with a pink smudge on its rim and a pair of black elbow-length gloves she'd worn to a dinner the night before. The mere sight of it makes your lips curve up into a sneer. It's the ugliest shade of pink lipstick - vibrant and bold in all the wrong ways, but she somehow makes it look good. Of course she does - it's a talent of hers, really, to make the worst things seem not simply palatable, but also tempting.

You leave the wine glass, there will be no need to clean it today. With a sharp intake of breath, you open the purse, snatching all the money you can from it. Fortunately, Verona likes to keep most of her money in cash, so there's a decent amount. There's enough, at the very least.

The kitchen is obsessively cleaned - every surface shines from your efforts. It's clinical, sterile even, and the smell of cleaning products still permeates the air. There's a broom in the parlour, but you won't be using it.

Never before had you done anything like this. Today was a day that you had fantasised about for years, exploring and navigating different variations of it before constructing the master plan. These steps you were taking had been carefully considered, each and every action poured over obsessively, to the point of madness. All aspects of the plan were to be treated with reverence - they had practically become holy, and you recited them more often than you would prayers.

Already, you were breathing too quickly. There was adrenaline in your system, and your hands were slightly clammy. Nerves - but you weren't nervous. Not really. This was a burning, scalding anticipation that writhed around in your gut and clawed at your insides.

You allow yourself a brief moment to try and relax, letting your eyes flutter shut and letting your shoulders drop. There is a need to be tense - everything hinges on today, on whether or not you accomplish the plan.

When your eyes open, you immediately gravitate towards the knives. Before you select one, you go for Verona's black silk gloves, putting them on and admiring the way they look against your skin, and how smooth they are. They're the kind that's awfully expensive, but they look glamorous. She had worn them just the night prior, when she went to some fancy dinner.

They're hauntingly elegant, a mark of sophistication that contrasts so nicely with what you're about to do. They're a rather lovely way of ensuring that there's no fingerprints left in the house.

It's then that you pick a knife - a weighty silver meat cleaver with dark grey indentations on the handle. They make it look almost porous, and you know that the knife had been part of a set, a gift from one of Verona's friends who was into the culinary arts.

It's heavy, and you test the weight, passing it between your hands, looking at it reverently. The birds are still singing, chirping in harmony, nature's soundtrack to what is about to become a horrific crime. Whether the birdsong will harmonise with screams has yet to be determined. It has the potential to sound like a symphony - a completely lovely cacophony of everything you enjoy.

The meat cleaver shines in the soft sunlight - simply holding it makes you feel assured.

---

You create your own version of Cinderella. One where the house burns down.

The evil step-mother and bratty step-sisters are already dead when the match hits the gasoline that's long-since soaked into the floors. They had been hacked to pieces, their throats split open, almost to the point of decapitation. The blood would seep from the gaping wounds, spilling onto the bed sheets and staining their blonde hair red. They had looked so human in their sleep, so unsuspecting.

There wasn't even any time for them to awake and feel terror, or shock. That, at the very least, is a mercy. You had never really intended for it to be - it was more of a practicality than a fantasy. In the fantasies, the executions had lasted far, far longer.

As a child, experiencing the pains of loss, you had prayed for your parents to burn, so that they may feel as much pain as you. There was no way of knowing whether or not God would come to answer your prayers, so you decide instead to burn the people you can reach.

The meat cleaver is placed back into the kitchen - there's a chance that the wooden knife block may burn and char it and obscure the fact that it was the murder weapon. You keep Verona's gloves and you keep the cash.

There's something so beautiful, so incredibly vindicating about watching it all go up in smoke.

The house burns so beautifully. Flames dance in the windows, consuming the lacey white curtains, creeping their way up the ceiling until the roof catches fire and slowly caves in on itself, the slate-grey tiles becoming charred, crumbling and sliding over one another.

The birds stop singing. They squawk in agitation, fleeing from the nearby trees and taking to the skies. They, much like you, evacuate and watch the show from afar. They start their birdsong afresh once they're out of danger, singing proudly.

Plumes of smoke take to the air, contaminating and invading the morning sky. It's so dark, so thick that it's liable to block out the sun. The smoke's descending to the ground, too, sweeping over the grass like a terrible, ominous fog, rolling over the street and barrelling towards you in waves.

Your eyes and throat burn - you can feel the heat, even from a distance. You're breathing in wisps of the smoke - it's so strong that you feel simultaneously feel like you're choking, juxtaposed with this great, overwhelming sense of freedom. It smells so horrible you want to gag - it's not like the comforting smell from whenever your father would barbeque. It's stifling, oppressive, even.

And yet, despite your eyes watering and the feeling of nausea that the smell inspires within you, you doubt there has ever been a sweeter smell.

The flames flicker so brightly, swaying in tandem in a variety of oranges, reds, yellows and even a flash of white. They're so bright you can see it reflected on your skin.

The plan has been completed. You're entirely satisfied, and yet you're left directionless. Everything has amounted to this moment - to the burning of the monsters. This is your happy ever after, you think.

You stand there, bathed in an orange hue, simply watching, for as long as you're able.

Inevitably, you have to leave. You're rather tempted to dash back across the street and take Verona's car, if only to steal away another thing she loved. Her daughters, her life, her car. But you don't, as much as you would like to. It's another whim, another fleeting fantasy that has to be sacrificed for the sake of your freedom. Perhaps the car would burn, too. It's relatively close to the house.

Getting caught would simply transfer you from one life of imprisonment to another. The inner city of London seems as good a destination as any - it's not too far, and there nobody will know your name.

#jim moriarty #jim moriarty x reader #bbc sherlock

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ajokeformur-ray · 4 years

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Forever is in your eyes // J x Lilith // comfort, angst, fluff.

Summary: Joker has a nightmare which triggers his PTSD. You have no choice but to reach into the roiling, murky waters of his psyche and pull him out. You remind him of his humanity, again and again, and nothing he could ever say could ever thank you enough for it. In the end, he need not speak. You look at him and you just... know.

Warnings: PTSD mentions (briefly), nightmares, reader + Joker crying, blood mentions (not within the piece but is spoken about), some heavy sensual stuff (kissing and grinding). If I’ve missed anything, let me know and I’ll add them here <3

Personalised gift for @jokershyena; I’m spoiling you today, darling, because it’s what you deserve. I hope you like this; I know we already spoke about it but I wanted to immortalise it for you. Female pronouns and ‘Lilith’ is used for the name, personal details included with full permission.

Word count: 3, 743.

3 AM.

You needed total darkness to sleep and so the room was suspended in pitch black which was so deep that you couldn’t even see your hand an inch from your face, your skin just ghosting across the surface of your nose. You took comfort in your own touch. It proved to you that though you felt disembodied within the penetrating night, you were still very much alive. Safe. Whole. Awake.

Used were you to being awake during the early (or was it late?) hours that you thought little of being awoken by something which was not yet clear to you. Still... you could feel the heavy presence of J beside you on the bed and you wanted to lean into the warmth which was radiating off of his body so strongly that you almost didn’t need the duvet to keep you protected from the natural chill of the apartment. You were never careful about touching J when he was sleeping, for he was at liberty to do the same to you, but something just felt... wrong this night. Subconsciously had you picked up on something which was in the room; not a physical entity and nothing tied to your horrific experiences with sleep paralysis or even your nightmares, but there was a feeling that you had, and you needed to listen to it.

Resolving to not fall back asleep just yet, so strong was that feeling, but not wanting to keep your eyes open for much longer, for you knew how easily your mind could play tricks on you if you stared into the dark for too long; you closed your eyes and settled back into the night, which surrounded you like a cloak. Light snores punctuated the steady deep, comforting and familiar sound of J’s breathing, and you shuffled forward slightly, just wanting to surround yourself so completely with everything that J was that the rest of the world slipped away, and faded into obscurity.

You still knew not what had woken you as you settled back down into the warm cocoon that was your duvet, perfectly fallen over your slumbering form was it to protect you from the natural chill of the night. As you shifted and turned over to face J in the hopes of getting some more sleep before you had to be awake for college, you heard the first sign of the incoming storm:

A small whimper.

“J?” You whispered, reaching a blind hand out into the impenetrable darkness which so often mirrored your Joker’s mind; impossible to see through, harder still to navigate, and yet did it offer you comfort to be shielded so completely from the world. “J?” Your hand landed upon a warm patch of skin and you cautiously felt around for an indication of which body part you were touching; if it was anything other than innocent, you would keep going but you still wanted to know what you were touching. How else were you going to get ideas on how to wake him up?

You followed the patch upward onto a curve, which was near slightly greasy strands of hair... You were touching his arm. Oh, help you, you were slightly disappointed. With a firmer grip did you lightly squeeze, to reassure your sleeping partner of your presence even in his sleep. So light a sleeper was he that he would feel you, this you knew, even if he didn’t wake.

Another whimper, though this time was it a bit more drawn out in length, the pitch a little higher. You couldn’t see but you could feel that J was moving his head back and forth on the pillow. His movements were slow, but he was definitely having a fitful rest and your stomach was beginning to sink low as realisation set in. All at once did you feel sick, helpless... but not hopeless.

You trailed your hand down, down, to slide your fingers between the spaces of his own, feeling the cool outline of his wedding band on his finger, which was deliciously hot in contrast. The feeling of the ring even in the darkness made you smile so wide that you almost felt embarrassed. But then, why should you ever hide how your love for this one man, this agent of chaos, made you feel. even when there was no one to see you?

You were anything but hopeless so long as you had J and he had you.

You squeezed his hand and took courage from the same man who was filling you with fear as you said, “J - J!”

J moaned and the sound jolted to your heart. He sounded as if he was in pain and like a tidal wave did reality fully wash over you. It chased away the warmth which had filled you from feeling the wedding band, the tangible display of your love, and the physical warmth created by the tiny pocket of space underneath the duvet. Being in such close proximity to the heater that J was only served to make your bed warmer still, and you were almost glad of the still chilly climate outside the confines of your large bed.

He was in the throes of a nightmare. Though he hadn’t told you everything about his past; from his time in the military right up to how he acquired his Glasgow smile to the horrific loss of his wife, to having to get used to civilian life as well as handling his PTSD - he had been alone through it all, you had gathered, and you had easily put the pieces together from the scraps of information he had offered you and come up, somehow, with the truth. It was for this reason, as well as the undying and unconditional, frankly overwhelming sense of love which you had for him, that you were filled with so much fear as you desperately tried to wake him up.

Upon this realisation did you carefully adjust so that your head was supported on the palm of your hand, your elbow almost digging painfully into the plush mattress. You leaned forward so that with pursed lips could you feather your lips against the corner of his jaw, letting the tip of your nose rest against his skin. He smelled of greasepaint even though you had made him wash his face earlier in the evening, and you took a moment to just breathe him in, using the heat from his skin, the very slight stubble around his jaw which tickled your face, the feeling of him beneath you... your eyes slide closed and you hummed in love, your lips pursing as you kissed his face over and over and over, taking this time to soothe him as best as you could. You hoped, somewhere in the back of your mind, that the minute traces of your love left over on his face from your kisses would soak into his skin and comfort him from the inside.

J grunted and you felt the sheets beneath your body tighten as he fisted the material in his large fists, his head still turning back and forth on the pillow. Increasingly did he grow restless, even with you shushing him gently, soothingly as you pressed your forehead against his cheek. You shifted further around on the bed so that you could cuddle into J as tightly as you could, your eyes stinging with worried tears. “Shush, J, shush, I’m right here.”

You cooed softly as you slid an arm underneath J’s shoulders, your hand curling around the opposite arm as you pulled him into your side. You lay back down, hoping desperately that he would wake up soon. Your other hand went into his hair, which you soothed back, stroking gently as you continued to shush him, periodically leaning down so that you could press kisses to whichever parts of him were immediately available to you. You couldn’t see a thing, so you were going off of muscle memory in navigating yourself around J’s body.

“No,” J groaned. It was the only coherent word you could make out amongst his muttering, the sound of which was angry. But you knew J better than that and you knew that, whatever he was experiencing, he was scared. “Not - not the face - no.”

Your blood ran cold and you bit down hard on your bottom lip to keep yourself from crying out. Those tears dripped down your cheeks and fell down onto J’s bare chest like rain on pavement. “Oh,” You sighed, the sound heavy with tears, “I’m so sorry, J. Your hyena’s here. No one’s gonna hurt you - my J.” You pressed your forehead to the side of his face and closed your eyes, holding him as close to you as you could, willing him to wake up so that you could properly comfort him.

You continued to stroke his hair, kiss his face, pressing your body as close to him as you could without laying atop him; you could only guess at what he was having a nightmare about but you knew that when he woke up, it would likely be with a physical jolt off the mattress and you didn’t want a broken nose this night... or any night. “I’m here, J. Like hell if I’m going anywhere. You’re safe.” You stopped talking and just focused on keeping your hands on him. He could feel you and you concentrated on making sure that he knew that even in the throes of his nightmare were you right there with him.

A tense unmarked passage of time passed, marked only by your own breathing, which you deliberately kept steady hoping that it’d reach J, too; if he could feel that you were calm, perhaps he’d calm down too. The time you spend in the dark cradling J to you, kissing all over his face and stroking his hair, murmuring comfort to him and shushing soothingly, was also tracked by the rise and fall of J’s chest and the way that his head stopped moving about the pillow; his fists eased by on the sheets, and he grew still.

Relief flooded your system.

Still he did not wake, but he was calmer now, his body tense but it was enough for you. You sighed and pressed a series of feather light kisses all over his face in quiet gratitude. “Why do you never let me help you when you’re in pain, J? I wish I could do more for you.” Your whispers vanished into the night, eaten by the silence which was thunderously loud as it rang in your ears.

Just as you relaxed and allowed the weight of your body to fully relax into the plush mattress, J gasped and shot upright like a bullet from a gun and you jumped before you scrambled to sit up, your hands reaching out for J. You used your own experiences - plentiful were they - to help him as best as you could while he panted, his chest heaving.

“Blood - the blood - get it - so much blood - “

Shattered fragments of a sentence not fully formed within J’s tried and tired mind broke through the quiet of the night, and for the second time that night did your blood run cold. His scars. Your heart seized at the thought of what must have happened to him when he had come home from the military, discharged for medical reasons, his face scarred and brutalised beyond measure. It would have hurt him to eat, to speak, to breathe... even expressing his pain would have increased it. Your heart bled for him and you wanted more than even to comfort him, to soothe him. Your handsome clown. Yours.

“J, J! You’re safe, you’re safe.” Your hands landed upon his upper arms, somehow, and J started before he calmed upon hearing your voice. “There’s no blood, honey. No blood.” You couldn’t show him that there was no blood with your hands, for dark still was it within the room, but you could speak and J would have to listen. He trusted you as he trusted no other.

“Lil - Lilith?”

You nodded, smiling into the darkness. “It’s me. You’re safe, J.”

J shuddered and you rubbed circles into his skin, desperately trying to ground him with your touch. “The blood...” His voice was cracked, broken, his breaths coming in harsh pants. “My face... the scars.”

You leaned forward, your hands solidly tracing across his back as you pulled him into an embrace. The both of you were sat up in bed now, side by side, and so it was somewhat awkward for you to hug him, but you managed it. Nothing would ever stop you from getting to J if you wanted him. And you did. You did.

One of your hands slid alongside his skin and came to curve around J’s cheek, your thumb rubbing soothingly. You were slow, gentle, careful, and when you reached the tell tale ridge on his face did J stiffen and his breaths devolved into harsh pants. “Shush, J,” You were whispering and you leaned forward to press delicate, barely there kisses to his scars, using touch to guide you to where he was and where you most wanted to be. “There’s no blood. You’re safe. It’s okay. Just breathe.”

J shuddered beneath your touch but he sunk into your embrace, allowing you to completely surround him just as surely as the darkness did. You continued to kiss along his face, your lips the healing balm which his tortured soul, hidden any so many incomprehensible layers of anger, needed. J began to hum underneath your touch, his hands creeping out of the warm cocoon of the duvet to clutch at your wrist, his fingers very deliberately resting on your pulse point. He was grounding himself using your body and you longed to see his face and for J to see you looking back at him, but you didn’t want to push him. His breathing was only just beginning to calm down.

The act of you dropping your hand from his cheek so that you could go back to holding him seemed to prompt J back into talking.

“My scars,” J’s voice was a low growl punctuated with deep inhales and rushed exhalations, as though his lungs couldn’t hold any oxygen within them for too long. “I was a soldier. Taken, tortured... They, ah - cut into me real deep.”

Your stomach rolled and you felt bile rising up in your throat to think of just what had happened to J. It had been years ago, almost a decade, but he was still suffering from horrific nightmares which weren’t concocted from within his imagination, which would have been slightly easier to deal with, but from his memories, dredged up from the murky depths of his damaged psyche to rip through his current grip on reality, leaving him dizzy and breathless.

“You don’t have to tell me.” A part of you hoped that he wouldn’t.

But J, feeling vulnerable in the rawness of the mental wounds which had been ripped open this night, did.

You listened in silent horror as all of your suspicions, thoughts, theories and the like were all revealed to be true. You were smarter than you had thought, then. When at last his story had finished did you shuffle even closer to J, so that you were almost on his lap. “I’m so sorry, J,” You pressed a tender kiss to his face, and J hummed. You felt a hot hand on your cheek as J turned your face so that he could kiss you properly, his full lips against yours. You had no idea how he was able to tell where you were or even if he could see, but you were grateful for this new skill of his. You briefly wondered if he could see in the dark. “No one should have to go through all of that. You were so brave and in so much pain and - “

J laughed, long and deep, and you stopped talking. There were no words. There was nothing you could say that wouldn’t say what he already knew, and so you didn’t even bother trying. There was only one thing you could say, however, and it was this: “You’re so handsome, J, even with your scars.”

There was a pause and then J was completely gone from you. He wasn’t underneath you, he wasn’t beside you, and his weight totally left the bed.

“Cover your eyes, doll.”

Your hands flew over your eyes as understand dawned over you at the precise moment J clicked the bedside light on and you waited for J to speak again with your hands clamped over your eyes.

A light cackle. “You don’t usually do what I tell you to do.”

You saw the humour for what it was and you let it pass as you lowered your hands from your face to be rewarded with the sight of J in all his chaotic glory. His intense chocolate eyes were rimmed with red, so glassy were they with tears which he refused to let fall, and his jaw muscles kept jumping. His toned yet lean torso was right before you and your mouth went dry; the moisture collecting instead between your thighs as you gazed at the most handsome man you had seen and would ever see.

All at once, as his eyes met yours, did you realise what he was after:

Reassurance.

J wanted you to tell him to his face that he was handsome, that you loved him. You weren’t surprised by this sudden display of insecurity, but the more you thought about it, the more you realised that there was a reason J had never come to bed bare faced before; it was his main insecurity.

“Oh, J,” You reached out with both hands, flexing your fingers, and J chuckled with one firm shake of his head as his hands joined with yours. He allowed you to tug him onto the bed beside you, back under the covers. Sensing something which you wanted did J manoeuvre himself so that he came to lay atop you, his body perfectly cushioned by yours. You looped your arms around his neck, your fingers playing with the small hairs at the nape of his neck, “You’re so handsome. You are.”

“Lilith, I - “ J’s eyes fluttered shut before they pinned you into place and before you could ask him what was wrong were his lips on yours. His lips were hungry, demanding, his touch hot and heavy against yours as his hands seized your face, controlling the kiss, controlling you and the situation so completely. But you weren’t scared. If you said no or get off or if you looked even slightly uncomfortable, J would be across the room before you even realised he’d moved. You trusted him with your life and you never felt safer than you did when you were in his arms.

J ground himself against you and you moaned, hooking your leg around his hip and pulling him deeper into you. You could feel him, hot and heavy against your core, and J hissed as you undulated your hips a few times. J broke the kiss just in time as a loud cackle ripped from his throat.

“You’re a naughty hyena, aren’t’ya? So hungry for me.”

There was something in J’s eyes which you didn’t like the look of and it sobered you up and sufficiently dimmed your arousal. J felt the mood change, too, at your realisation that he was hiding his true emotions from you. Unable or unwilling was he to fully admit just how much pain he was in, even to you, the one woman in the world who kept him safe even from himself. He sighed and dropped his head to rest in the warm crook of your neck.

“J, honey - “ You carded your fingers through his slightly greasy hair, thoughts of a shower tomorrow (today? at the forefront of your mind as you said, “Are you okay?”

Despite knowing what was coming did J stiffen atop you, and one of your hands rubbed up and down his back in soothing motions as J, so feline was he, arching into your body, desperately seeking more of your tender love as he shook his head. You felt the movement against you and cooed, ducking your head awkwardly to press a kiss to the crown of his neck.

“You’re safe with me, J. No one’s gonna get to you.” Venom crept into your voice in true anger at the mere thought of someone hurting your Joker, and J cackled against you as he hummed, one of his hands grasping at your hip to reassure himself of your continued presence. The other hand came up to pull aside the collar of your shirt, revealing a pinkish scar in the shape of a messy ‘J’ which still looked waxy in the artificial light of the room, so freshly healed was it.

His full lips pressed a kiss to the scar and you closed your eyes in love for the man who so often was dismissed as someone to be feared and respected but only from a distance. But you... Oh, you had seen him for who he really was and you hadn’t run away. You hadn’t hidden or ignored him or dismissed him or anything else which the hypocritical citizens of Gotham usually did when they were faced with J, a man they did not and would not understand. No, you had made it clear that you had been scared of him to begin with, but you didn’t want to be, and from there had the birth of serendipity occurred.

Sleep evaded the both of you for the rest of the early morning, but it mattered not. Nothing and no one mattered to you as much as J did and the reverse was equally true. He was your guiding light, your salvation, your protection, your armour, your love and you were all of those to J, as well, but you were also his hyena, and during nights like this did he cling to that knowledge just as surely as he clung to you now, desperate to forget the ghosts of his past.

What doesn’t kill you simply makes you... stranger.

Ledger!!Joker @nothing-but-a-comedy @jokershyena @anyatheladyclown @mijachula @joker-daddy @rinbyo @imightaswellnotexistatall @vladtoly @joker-is-my-hero @liz-rdwitch @enigmaticandunstable @ledgerskitten @tsukiakarinobara @germansarechill @ezziesworld

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visixnaryx · 3 years

Text

@thiscrimsonsoul || continued. (x)

How many months had it been since Wanda had taken part in a harrowing battle and left Sokovia with an enormous crater in it? How many months since she left her entire life behind? Since she abandoned her angry and broken notions regarding the Avengers and tried to learn to trust all over again? How many months… since she lost Pietro? Long enough to wear her down, but not long enough for the nightmares to cease or even lessen in severity.

She had woken up screaming and sobbing at the same time, the lingering sensation of losing her brother still a fresh, stomach-dropping feeling inside her and the streets of Sokovia around her. She could smell the dust and hear the gunfire. The safe and secure room the Avengers had given to her looked anything but, and in the throes of her dream-turned-flashback, she had no idea she had company. That is, until he spoke.

Wanda’s crying ceased almost immediately, her glassy eyes blinking lethargically as her mind struggled with the voice that didn’t make sense in the context of everything else she was seeing, hearing, feeling, and smelling. Slowly, the sinking, empty feeling of Pietro dying left her, the streets of Sokovia darkened and melted away, and she was in her room again in the Avengers compound… with Vision sitting on her bed near her.

How did he…? she began to wonder, before she remembered that he was able - somehow - to pass through walls. At any other time, she might have been cross with him for doing so without asking, but right now… she needed the comfort. Sitting for a moment and just breathing tremulously, Wanda was in a state of shock. Why were the nightmares getting worse? Was there nothing that would make them stop? “Vision…” she whispered, laying a hand on his arm and tugging ever so slightly, not sure herself what she really wanted. “Could you stay with me? For a little while? Please?”

Maybe he wouldn’t want to, and maybe he wouldn’t understand. Wanda wasn’t sure she could explain to him why she didn’t want to be alone right now. But maybe… he would understand. That there was some sort of odd connection between them, bridged by her powers and the stone in his forehead, was undeniable. She certainly felt drawn to him. The nature of that connection remained to be determined, but… perhaps it was enough for him to sense that she needed him. If he chose to leave, she would of course let him go, but then she was guaranteed not to sleep another wink for the rest of the night. At the very least, she waned him to know that she was grateful for his concern. “Thank you for coming…” she said, managing a shaky smile.

Vision felt it before he heard it. A strange, unexpected side effect of the mind stone involved the flow of human emotion, forever present as the android passed through the world. He could sense them, and how odd it was that a new being like him was given such an ability when he could hardly comprehend the full scope of emotion on the day he gained consciousness.

It was an ability he often tamped down, its interference distracting, and the fact that he could also influence the emotions of others would likely cause discomfort. But of course, some things were simply unavoidable; Wanda Maximoff was powerful in nearly every sense of the word, and through her, Vision had come to know grief without ever experiencing it for himself.

Her pain reached him before the sound of her distress did, and his concern immediately drew him to her side, wincing as he remembered every lecture he received about phasing through walls unannounced. He would accept any outburst if his presence was unwelcome, but his most immediate concern was Wanda.

While her eyes were wide open, she was not present, and from his place at the door, Vision held out a hand, calling her name softly to capture her attention. When she showed no sign of acknowledgment, he closed the distance, sitting near her, but with enough space between them to put her at ease, afraid to touch her lest it frightened her even more. The second time he spoke, she seemed to react, and he watched her quietly as she returned to the present, her eyes meeting his in the dim light of her bedroom.

An uncertain smile touched his lips, one that he hoped would offer some measure of comfort. There was no trace of anger in her eyes, and the tension in his shoulders relaxed, though his furrowed brow remained. The touch of her hand was unexpected, the gentle tug pulling him closer to her on the bed. Placing his hand over hers, he nodded at her request; leaving her in such a vulnerable state would never be his first choice unless she asked it of him.

“I will be glad to stay,” he replied, his thumb drawing a small circle on the back of her hand before releasing it, his own folding over his knee which rested on the bed. “I would not dare to leave you to weather through this on your own.”

#thiscrimsonsoul

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adoreyou303 · 4 years

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Sweet Creature (H.S. Fic)

(CW: mentions of vomiting, pregnancy, and lots of fluff!)

Chapter 3

In the weeks following the attack, she’s been different. There is no question about why, but when her physical state starts to change, Harry’s attention is particularly piqued. Even though she seemed to be on the path to recovery from her trauma, she’s suddenly back to feeling tired, nauseous, and moody. These were all typical symptoms she struggled with in the throes of her PTSD in the first couple weeks after her assault; however, they began to lessen once she started therapy.

Harry watches her closely as she tries to rehearse her newest single, Misplaced. He can tell something is causing her discomfort, but it isn’t until she throws the guitar strap off her shoulder and runs out of the room that he realizes something else is going on. He is quick to follow down the hall, watching as she flings herself into the nearest room. Hot on her heels, he presses a palm to the door to stop it from closing. He catches a glimpse of her falling to her knees, hugging a trash can close to her chest, gagging violently.

“Love, why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?” he asks, crouching behind her. He runs his fingers through her slightly sweaty hair, pulling it into a loose ponytail. “Sit back a little. Catch your breath.”

She slumps back into his chest, thankful his body is there to catch her. Taking some slow breaths, she tries to conjure an excuse to give Harry about why she didn’t tell him of the sickly feeling she’s felt lately. Before she gets the chance, she feels her stomach turn again.

“Again?” he questions, letting go of her as she reaches for the trash can. Nodding quickly, she tries to scoot further away from Harry, feeling embarrassed for being seen this way. She doesn’t get far before his warm hands find a place on her back.

“Okay?” he murmurs, rubbing her arms soothingly. Breathing quickly, but finally feeling better, she hums softly. She lays on the ground next to Harry, who runs his fingers through her hair. “What’s going on, love? You haven’t been well at all. I’m worried about you.”

“I think I’m just overtired.”

“Whenever you’re not here you’re sleeping. Are you sure? Maybe you should see the doctor,” he presses, his fingers gently caressing her face. She takes a moment to think back to her routine lately. She has been sleeping a lot, but no matter how much she sleeps, she is always tired.

“I guess getting a check up wouldn’t hurt,” she shrugs, closing her eyes and leaning into his touch. He nods with a small smile, feeling encouraged she is willing to get help.

The doctor’s office no longer feels like a place of help. Rather, it’s a place of triggers and trauma. The smell of wipes remind her of stitches in the most painful places. The lights above give way to uncomfortable memories staring at the ceiling waiting for scans, doctors, or investigators. The beeps, alarms, and hissing of machines that provide solace for families who rely on the steady sounds for reassurance of their loved ones brings feelings of anxiety, heightened nerves, and moistened hands knowing at any time it can alert the whole floor to her next panic attack.

She clutches Harry’s hand tightly as they wait in the small, underdecorated waiting room. Her leg bounces quickly as her mind wanders aimlessly. With his other hand, Harry reaches over and settles her leg.

“It’s okay, love. It’s a simple check up. In and out, then we can go home and you can rest,” he reassures. She nods nervously, her eyes never leaving the door. As soon as it opens, she bolts out of her chair towards the nurse. Harry quickly follows behind her and apologizes. “She’s quite nervous.”

“It’s no problem. I just need to get your weight and height before I get you to your room,” the nurse explains, gesturing to the scale. Melanie frowns when she notices her weight has changed in the last few weeks despite it being relatively stable. “I wouldn’t worry. It isn’t uncommon for weight to fluctuate after a stressful or traumatic event.”

She nods, but doesn’t seem convinced. Harry feels confused too. He hasn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary about her eating habits, but he also doesn’t pay attention to her weight. She looks beautiful to him. She always has. He follows behind the two women to the consultation room. He lingers behind before stepping in.

“Are you coming in?” she asks nervously.

“Would you like me to stay with you?”

“Please?” she squeaks, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. His face sports a gentle smile as he steps through the door frame, the nurse shutting the door behind him.

After her vitals are taken, Dr. Rameriz joins them.

“Hi, Melanie. I hear you’ve been feeling unwell. What’s been going on?” she asks, taking a seat in front of her. Melanie looks between Harry and the doctor before speaking.

“I don’t know… I guess lately I’ve been feeling really tired. I’ve been nauseous and I get irritable easily. It feels like how I used to when I was first attacked,” she shrugs, her eyes downcast.

“And…” Harry encourages her to continue. When it’s clear she isn’t going to share it herself, he takes it upon himself to speak for her. “She’s been throwing up quite a bit. We know her anxiety and panic can make her sick, but it seems a little more than usual.”

“Hmm. Melanie, have you had any tenderness anywhere? Your stomach, your back, or breasts?”

“Yes, all of those at some point.”

“I’m going to ask you a question and it’s going to be difficult. Do you remember the last time you had your period?” Dr. Rameriz questions, looking between the two. Harry can feel her stiffen next to him. He wraps his arm around her shrinking frame and reminds her to breathe.

“I-I don’t know. I thought you said the medicines you gave me at the hospital would stop my period for a while, s-so I haven’t been paying attention,” she stutters. Dr. Rameriz nods and types a few things into her computer.

“When you were at the hospital, we ran a full panel of tests. Those include a screening for STDs and STIs and a pregnancy test. All came back negative, but the issue with testing the day of the attack is it could be too early to detect any signs of infection or pregnancy..”

“Are you saying…?” Harry begins.

“I don’t know. I think right now our best option is to run some tests and go from there, okay?”

“Pink is positive, blue is negative,” the nurse reminds them, sticking the strip into the specimen cup. The room collectively holds its breath while they wait for her to pull it out. A small gasp escapes his mouth as the tip of the white paper turns an inescapable bright pink. He turns his head to look at her, but she sits in the chair next to him with an unreadable expression.

“Dr. Rameriz will be back in shortly to talk with you about your other test results,” the nurse says quietly, leaving the pink strip on the counter and slowly retreating from the room.

A loud silence rings out as the two process this news. Her arms hang limply in her lap, her eyes locked on the counter where the test lies. His shoulders tense as he remembers the face of her attacker. His blood boils every second he thinks his best friend would potentially have to relive this trauma for the rest of her life by looking at a child who shares half the genes of her attacker. Neither one of them can think of words to speak at this moment, so they remain silent until a knock on the door cuts through the air like a knife.

“I just got your results,” she starts solemnly, reading the room. “The good news is you are completely clear of any type of infection. You are as healthy as can be. I see you’ve seen the result of the pregnancy test, though. If you’d like, I can set you up to do some further testing and give you an estimate of how far along you are and we can discuss options today, or I can give you some information and you can come back at a later time.”

“Maybe it would be best if you waited-”

“I want to know,” she suddenly interrupts. Harry whips his head around to look at her. Her eyes are locked on Dr. Rameriz, her expression still unreadable, yet unwavering.

“Okay. I will have a nurse set up a sonogram and get some blood drawn and we will go from there,” Dr. Rameriz responds, closing her file.

“Are you sure? This is a lot,” Harry warns, brows furrowing in concern.

“I’m sure,” she nods, her eyes meeting his. He can tell she is deep in thought, but what about he couldn’t tell. If only he would let her into that beautiful mind of hers. He longed to know what she thought of.

A nurse interrupts their connection to take them to the sonogram room. This time, she insists Harry walk next to her. She wraps herself around his tattooed arm, snuggling close to his body. He can’t stop the smile that is spreading across his face. He loves the feeling of her on his arm. He would do anything to keep her there.

Once on the table, he stands next to her and resumes his hold on her hand. It’s found a home in her hold. While the technician is setting things up, she turns her head to face Harry. The crinkling of the paper underneath her alerts Harry of her movement. He looks down at her and presses a palm to her forehead, softly her pushing hair back. She gives a gentle smile, grateful for her best friend and his soothing touch. Her cheeks burn as he continues to caress her face sweetly. She tries to hide it by nuzzling into his hand, but it’s of no use. He can see the color on the apples of her cheeks.

“Okay, I’m going to lift your shirt here. It’s going to be a bit chilly. Sorry about that,” the tech starts. “I need you to relax a little.”

“Sorry, I’m nervous,” she laughs, letting out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Harry blinks rapidly, before letting out a tight laugh himself. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s heard that gorgeous sound. It’s like music to his ears. A few minutes pass as the tech looks around. Then, she pauses and lets out an excited squeal.

“There you are! See that there? That is your baby. I’d say you’re about 8 weeks or so,” she exclaims, turning the screen towards the pair. Harry leans down so close his breath is fanning across her face. He can see tears welling in her eyes. Hell, tears are welling in his eyes. He’s always wanted kids. Since he’s met her, he knew he wanted kids with her. He’d never imagined it would be this way, but it didn’t matter. He’s determined to stand by her side.

“Everything looks great. Would you like a picture to take home?” she asks, typing a few things on the machine. Melanie nods, her eyes glued to the screen. Surprised by her answer, Harry wonders what she is doing. The tech prints a picture of the ultrasound and hands it to her before leaving the room.

Dr. Rameriz meets with them one last time, giving them a packet of information to take home. She gives them the numbers of a few OB-GYNs she recommends before sending them on their way.

The car ride home is silent, but comfortable. Melanie runs her finger across the image of the baby, her baby. A mix of emotion swells in her chest. She can feel curiosity seeping off of Harry, but she doesn’t know what to say. She’s too entranced by this tiny human. Too scared to speak. Too enamoured to feel.

Leaving Melanie to her thoughts, Harry sits in the front room of his house. His favorite armchair is drenched in sunlight, the perfect spot for writing. It’s there where he makes himself comfortable for hours while writing about anything and everything, from the way her voice travels through an empty room and fills it with a rich, velvet sound to the color of turquoise waves crashing on sandy beaches in a place he dreams of taking her. A soft knock on the door pulls him out of his trance. Leaning against the door frame, peaking into the room, she quietly asks if she can come in.

“You don’ have to ask, love. Come ‘ere,” he beckons, setting his journal down on the table next to him. She slowly walks over, her fiddling with her fingers nervously. He opens his arms as soon as she’s next to him. She expertly climbs into his lap, hiding her face in his neck. Minutes pass as the two sit in silence, Harry holding her together. He feels her breathing get uneven as warm tears wet his neck.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks gently, nuzzling his nose against her forehead.

“Why is this happening to me?” she mumbles into his neck, sniffling wetly.

“What was that, love?” he asks, craning his neck towards her to try to hear her better.

“I don’t know what to do,” she croaks. “I can’t do this. This isn’t supposed to happen. Now there’s a baby involved? How am I supposed to decide? God, I sound so selfish,” she rushes out, pushing the heels of her palms to her eyes.

“Hey, hey, now. Slow down. You’re not selfish. None of this was supposed to happen, you’re right. But the only thing that matters is that you make the best decision for you and you only. You don’t have to decide right this second,” he replies, giving her hands a gentle squeeze.

“What do I do?” she asks hoarsely, looking at him with glassy eyes. For a moment, he is almost tempted to tell her something, anything, to make her stop crying, but instead, he presses a gentle kiss to her nose. He drops his hands to her belly, which is still flat.

“I can’t tell you what to do, but whatever you decide, you have my full support. You are not alone,” he promises, running his thumbs along her sides. His small, but meaningful gesture almost makes her heart explode. Even the smallest of his touches or gestures are full of love.

She would be lying if she said she didn’t have feelings for her best friend. When they started working together, things got a little complicated. Spending every second together solidified her feelings for him, but seeing him surrounded by so many successful, talented, and beautiful women in the industry made her realize she would probably be the last person Harry would want. He could have anyone he wanted and she seriously doubted he would go for her. They’ve been friends for years and they’ve never been anything more, so she figured this wouldn’t cause change. That didn’t mean her feelings diminished or vanished, though. She knew, no matter what she chose, Harry would be right by her side. She truly did feel lucky to have him.

#harry styles #harry styles fandom #harry styles writings #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fluff #sweet creature #chapter 3 #hs fandom #hs fic

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stuck-in-hawkins · 4 years

Text

When He Left: Chapter 1 October 28th, 1993

Stranger Things Fanfic: Byeler

Rated: Teen and Up

Summary: Will looked back to see Mike at the gate, his forced smile starting to crumble. Will had managed to get the chance of a lifetime: a scholarship to an arts college in California. He would be there among the monster makers of the movie industry. He was pursuing his dream, but what was he giving up in exchange?

It has been four years since Will left Hawkins. Everybody went in their own separate directions. But it has been 10 years since the Gate opened and Will's nightmares are getting worse. So, the party reunites and old feelings ignite.

link to read on ao3

October 28th, 1993

Will felt the sunlight across his face and opened his eyes. The covers were insulating the heat from him and the man laying beside him. That thick mop of black hair, the curvature of his tan back. Will reached out and traced the muscles beneath.

Ishaan stirred. Will thought, “Don’t wake up, don’t wake up.” He laid perfectly still. But alas, the man turned over and looked at Will, still groggy but the blanket of sleep quickly wearing off.

Will spoke softly, “Sorry I woke you. I was just gonna make breakfast.”

The man looked away and mumbled, “I have to get to work.”

There it was. The shame. Ishaan was a flame that Will seemed to keep flying back to. He was exactly his type. Tall, beautiful, and incapable of committing to a relationship. They were drawn to each other.

Ishaan was still very much in the closet. But he would come to clubs. He loved that Will had this quiet, inviting exterior. He’d actually told him this. That Will was safe. He wasn’t “that” gay. That he could pass as straight.

Ishaan had no idea about Will’s occasional drag nights.

Ishaan grabbed his clothes quickly with a speed Will had become familiar with. Will had hoped he could open Ishaan’s eyes, and help him learn to love and accept himself for who he was. But when the morning light came, so did the shame. Will embodied all the things Ishaan didn’t want to face and he would put as much distance between him as he could.

Will put on his pj bottoms and walked down the hallway in time to see Ishaan throw on his jacket.

“Ishaan.”

Eye contact.

“Someday, I’d love to have breakfast with you.”

Will could see him try to swallow a lump in his throat.

“I’m sorry, Will.” He opened the door and walked out.

Will padded his way to the kitchen, and opened the fridge, looking at the eggs and bacon sitting inside. He felt deflated. He could feel a familiar tug, trying to pull him back to bed so that he could curl under the covers. But he knew that if he did that, he’d lose the day. And it seemed like a beautiful one to waste. He turned to the window and cranked the handle, opening them. The air was fresh and warmed from the sun.

Will brought out the eggs, bacon, toast, and butter. He’d remembered feeling the same way Ishaan had. He remembered when he first came to the city in college and kept his identity confined to the night. He used to have a similar elitism, trying to separate himself from gay men that seemed especially feminine, doing anything he could to distance himself from the stereotypes that plagued his sexuality. But going to group helped with that. He opened his mind to become more accepting. He even experimented in his identity and found freedom in the exploration.

He cracked the egg into a bowl. Ishaan hadn’t wanted to go to any of the groups Will recommended. He was in denial. He picked up another egg. He thought, 'You're just something he craves.'

Crack.

“Damnit.” He’d gotten eggshells in the mix. He picked them out. Will was beginning to realize that it would take a lot of soul searching for Ishaan to accept himself. Something Will couldn’t help him with. How long would it take? How many more mornings did he have to watch him run out the door?

Will turned on the stove and let the butter simmer while he whisked the eggs together. Dustin’s words rang in his head.

‘You deserve to be more than someone’s secret.’ Dustin didn’t mince words but he was right. And it just seemed like Will was always drawn to the type that didn’t want to come out.

He heard a door open. Dustin groggily walked in from the hallway. “You are a Godsend. Is that eggs I smell?”

Will smiled. “And bacon will be next.”

“Screw all these other guys. Marry me.”

“Pretty sure there are some terms and conditions you wouldn’t be up for there.”

“Forget them. I’ll do all the butt stuff. Just make me eggs every day.”

Will threw the dish towel at him.

Dustin got the grounds out and started making coffee. “Your man-friend still here?”

Will shook his head.

“That’s too bad. He’s missing out on an awesome breakfast.” He smiled, “And some great company.”

Will smirked. He loved living with Dustin.

___________________________

After breakfast Will got ready for work. It was Sunday and he knew he didn’t have to go in, but he needed a reason to get out of the flat. He didn’t want to sit alone, pining for Ishaan. Will could feel that it was ending. It was a transition that he’d done before. It felt all too familiar but still hurt.

The worst part was seeing them months later, out, proud, and in a relationship. He’d be happy for them, but then he’d wonder. Why hadn’t it been with him? Why wasn’t he enough? Why did it seem like they only changed after he left?

But then, again, he knew that wasn’t always true. There were guys that never came out. Like Hartford, who had a wife and kids that were completely unaware of his Friday escapades. Dating him, being his side piece, was a low point for Will.

And then of course…. There had also been Mike.

‘Nope,’ Will thought. He shut down that train of thought and brought out his sketchbook. He needed to distract himself with a project. Studio time helped with that. After all this time, he still had a weakness with Mike. He’d made his peace with pretty much every guy after. But with him, there was a tenderness that had never faded. And if he thought about Mike when he was like this, in the throes of rejection, he’d fall to pieces.

He grabbed his headphones out of his bag as the Metro carried him across town to his stop. These days, his Walkman turned mostly Sonic Youth albums. Today it was Dreamnation. He got off and headed to The WereHouse.

It was a prop house popular among the independent filmmakers and even the occasional large studio. It was owned by two brothers. One ran the historical prop store, located in another part of town. That shop was mostly a gallery of antiques from all different periods, some originals, some reproductions. That had been where Will had gotten his start, running around thrift stores, estate sales, and antique shops trying to find period correct pieces for their inventory.

But when his boss saw Will’s sketchbook, he got transferred to The WereHouse. The other brother’s creative dungeon of fantasy, sci-fi, and horror props and prosthetics. Will was living his dream, getting to make monsters for movies. Though… most of his work consisted of prop dummies that ended up being burned, buried, or otherwise mutilated. Some weeks were spent meticulously painting disembodied limbs, fingers, and heads. Occasionally larger more creative opportunities arose, like the one he was working on now.

The whole project was very hush hush. When studios put out work like this, they were looking for more than monsters: they were looking for talent. Will was pouring in extra hours because getting this deal would mean he’d be part of something big. It wouldn’t just be low cost props for independent filmmakers. They’d have the backing of a studio. It meant potentially being a part of the next blockbuster.

He could be responsible for the next Xenomorph. The idea was both terrifying and elating. As a result, he spent most of his days either drawing or sculpting with the occasional break to eat and sleep. But it took his mind off of the trials and failures of his love life.

He opened the door and nodded to Anderson, who manned the reception desk. He was currently nose deep in the novel, Dune.

Will walked through the vestibule, where some of the past projects were displayed and made his way through the giant room with shelves scraping the ceiling. One row consisted of nothing but body parts: From whole limbs and torsos to severed fingers and toes. On another row, there was a treasure trove of cursed objects: elvish daggers, cauldrons of all different sizes, stitched leather books, crystals of every color.

Will remembered how awestruck he was the first time he came here… well, honestly for the few months. Now, it was just a part of his life. He’d still get these moments of “I can’t believe I’m working my dream job.” But it had become his new norm. He wished the whole party could see it. Dustin had completely lost his shit when he saw it. But they were the only two of the party in Burbank.

Not for long, though. Lucas was nearly finished his last year in the Navy, and Dustin had been pulling every string he could to make sure Lucas got a position as an engineer at the company he worked for, AECOM. Max has been living with her dad on the coast the past few years. Despite being in the same state, she was still about five hours away. Once Lucas was back on shore, there was a chance of them getting back together and her moving closer. But she had that software job and it was more likely Lucas would move up to her.

Over the years, Will had tried to convince Mike to come over to the coast, to get out of Hawkins. Maybe if the rest of them were together, that would be enough to change his mind.

Will walked into the studio, a large space lined with workbenches and cork boards. Mannequins, busts, and chairs for prosthetics and monster makeup were scattered around the room. And the whole space smelled of curing latex, acrylic paint, and plasticine clay. He sat down at the spot reserved for him, that had pictures tacked up as inspiration, along with a multitude of sketches. And there on the bench was a little model, about a foot high, that he had been carving out and tweaking all week. This was the 3rd version.

The studio was looking to create a new kind of monster. Normally, the producer or director would give some parameters of guidelines. But this one was an open book, which meant it was an audition of sorts. Will looked at his board.

In truth, it wasn’t the monster that was terrifying. It was the world the writer built, the atmosphere the director created. The actors, who made the audience care about the characters on the screen. Even the best monster design could be undone with poor timing, shoddy lighting, or terrible acting. They were all vital components of the final product. Once the audience cared about the world, about the characters, they would become invested. Will’s mind began to ponder.

The scariest parts about everything he experienced was the fear of losing it all. Of never seeing his mom, brother, or friends again. Of being alone at the end. Nothing had been more terrifying than losing himself to the mind flayer. To feel his words and body being driven by another. The most terrifying monsters were the ones that you didn’t see. The ones that transformed characters you loved from human to monster.

Will took pictures of his miniature model as it was. He always did before destroying it. Then, he squished the sculpted figure, wedged the clay back into a ball. From there he began the shaping of a human figure. But he arched the back, as if the body was fighting against itself. Where the spine was, legs that were like spiders but out of bone emerged. The muscle tearing at itself, reattaching to the new limbs. The most frightening monster was the one you watched yourself become.

Art was cathartic. It was how he processed everything. It was what got him through the worst parts of college. It gave him power and strength. He had control over his nightmares now. He could create them and destroy them with his own two hands.

In so many ways, coming to California saved him. He learned methods to cope with his identity, with his trauma. He was in a new place where there were less things to trigger flashbacks. The fear didn’t rule his life like it once had. There were days he questioned whether it was all even real. But, lately, he could feel himself backsliding. His nightmares were getting more vivid. They were trying to claw their way into his life here. They held on tighter so that it was harder to wake up. Sometimes, he forgot them as soon as he woke up. He'd be in a cold sweat, the fear shaking him, and he couldn't remember a thing. He was relieved that Ishaan had stayed the night. Having someone beside him seemed to keep the nightmares at bay. This week, he dreamt about the Mind Flayer, about being trapped inside his own head. He remembered sending his friends the code to close the gate. He knew what it meant. He had been resigned to it. It was a cost he had been willing to pay to ensure that the Shadow Monster would be dead for good. He woke up in tears at how willing he had been to accept his death. He cried at all the things he would have lost and felt relief to be alive.

It was because his family managed to pull it from him. His party refused to leave him behind.

He sculpted the man’s pained face. He hoped that if this movie got made, that they’d save the man. That the characters would be as heroic as his friends had been. _____________________________________

Will got off the metro, exhausted, both mentally and physically. Eight hours in a chair, bent over his desk and sculpting, did a number on his back.

He was still listening to Sonic Youth so he didn’t hear the chatter as he reached his floor. He didn’t hear the laughter when he put the keys in the lock. He didn’t hear the voice of the man that used to make his stomach flutter. If he had, he would have prepared himself. He would have made sure to tuck his heart in his chest, instead of on his sleeve.

But alas, he opened the door unsuspecting and the sound he made betrayed himself. It held in it all the love he felt in seeing him again.

“Mike.”

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harkasun · 4 years

Text

Haunted Nights

Read HERE on AO3 or read below

For @izzymalec and @permetstu‘s 5 months of Shadowhunters Challenge.

Week 2: Emotion

***

The night in Brooklyn can barely be distinguished from the day.

Lights of the city blaze like the sun, people bustling and vehicles revving at all hours. Alec is used to noise. Growing up in the academy, the halls had rarely been without some form of sound. Now, however, high above the ground in Magnus’s apartment, the world is completely silent.

Magnus’s warding prevents the outside noise from penetrating the loft, his curtains drawn tight across the wide windows, blocking out the light. Sometimes it’s so deafeningly quiet that Alec can’t sleep. He is growing used to it, however, spending so many nights in Magnus’s bed rather than his own back at the institute.

When he startles awake one Friday night and the world is still dark, at first, he doesn’t know what disturbed him.

A guttural moan fills the room, a sound like a wounded animal, and Alec despairs to realise that it is Magnus making that noise when the warlock twitches and shifts on the bed beside him.

Alec twists to illuminate the lamp upon his bedside table, sending a warm glow across the room, across Magnus’s trembling form. His eyes are shut tightly, still deep in the throes of unconsciousness. His lips flare and another shaky moan breaks his throat. Barely stopping to think, Alec takes him by the shoulders, fighting to hold him still when it makes Magnus thrash against him.

“Magnus,” he urges, raising his voice slightly when the warlock doesn’t react. “Magnus, wake up. Wake up. Magnus—”

Magnus flinches upwards, his hands grabbing at Alec’s arms. A flash of crimson startles from his palms and Alec bites the inside of his cheek at pain sears his skin. Magnus’s eyes are open, but unfocused and he tries to shove Alec away. His cat eyes are showing. He’s still half-asleep.

“You’re safe. Magnus, wake up, you’re safe,” says Alec, ignoring the burns on his arms, ignoring the golden glow of Magnus’s warlock mark. “It’s not real, okay? It’s not real. You were dreaming.”

Gasping for breath, the focus ccomes back to Magnus’s eyes and they darken as his glamour rises like shutters slamming across his gaze. Alec fights to contain his shock when the newly darkened eyes fill with tears. Magnus is grabbing him before Alec can so much as speak. His arms wrap tight around Alec’s waist. His shoulders are racked with sobs.

Alec freezes for a moment, blinking hard at his weeping boyfriend. His hands come to hesitantly rest upon Magnus’s back, almost flinching away when the warlock shudders through another sob. The flesh upon his biceps is red and blistered, but he doesn’t care. He barely even feels it anymore.

“It’s okay,” he utters softly, one hand coming to run his fingers through Magnus’s hair. “It’s okay. It was just a dream. You were dreaming.”

He has never seen Magnus like this before. The warlock is so strong, so filled with power and fire and Alec used to believe that nothing could hurt him. After Azazel’s spell had left him trapped in Valentine’s body, Alec had seen Magnus cry for the first time. It hadn’t been like this however. Magnus had been angry and ashamed, about his step-father and what had happened to his mother.

Now, it is just an uncontrollable sobbing.

Alec doesn’t speak, doesn’t try to give him reassurance. He knows now that it won’t help. The helplessness he feels then in almost overwhelming because he can’t help Magnus. He can’t take the warlock’s pain. He’s suffered so much in his long life. It isn’t all that long ago that they had the conversation regarding Magnus’s mother. Alec has no doubt that Magnus’s past haunts his dreams even now.

The desperate sobs are receding somewhat. Magnus is breathing a little deeper with every passing second. Alec knows he’s forcing it, but he doesn’t say anything to deter him. Selfish though it may be, he doesn’t want Magnus to cry anymore.

“I’m sorry,” Magnus says, sitting himself upright and pushing the tears from his cheeks. “I’m sorry. I—I didn’t mean—”

“Magnus,” Alec murmurs, cutting him off with a hand to his arm. “It’s okay. Don’t apologise for your emotions.”

Magnus shakes his head, his gaze coming to Alec’s arm. “God, Alec, I…” He goes quiet a moment, his fingers shrouding in blue mist and coming to gently rest over the burns. Alec lets him, knows that Magnus needs this. “I’m so sorry. I—I thought I had them controlled. I understand if you want to leave.”

Alec stares at him, his eyes narrowed. “Magnus, I love you.”

Swallowing hard, Magnus lowers his hands from Alec’s skin, completely healed now with help of his magic. The simplicity of Alec’s love is apparently upsetting to him. “I’ll get some repressing cuffs. They’ll restrain my magic. I can’t risk hurting you again.”

“Magnus, no,” Alec protests, knowing enough about the time before the accords to know that those same restraints were forced upon a number of warlocks. “No, I don’t want that. I’m fine. I’m not hurt.” He lifts a hand to comb a stray lock of Magnus’s hair back into place. “You’re allowed to have emotions. Whatever comes of them, I’m here for you, okay…? Don’t push me away.”

Magnus lifts his gaze to Alec’s own, tears still shining in his eyes. “I’m afraid for you,” he admits shakily. “It’s not like last time, Alec. If my nightmares return…” He breathed back a sob, a hand reaching up to wipe at his eyes. “I’m sorry, it… it used to be Ragnor who would deal with me when I got like this.”

Alec touches his hand, his fingers curling to clasp it in his own, just holding him. “I know you miss him,” he says, swallows hard, “and I know there’s nothing I can do to help you, not really, but I want… I want to help. Tell me what I can do.”

Magnus blinks up at him. “I don’t know, Alexander.”

“Well, what did Ragnor do?”

Shaking his head unknowingly, Magnus simply stares down at their joined hands. “I don’t know. I suppose he… he would just sit with me. If I wanted to, he’d listen to be talk about my dreams. If I didn’t… he’d tell me stories sometimes, things he did when I wasn’t with him, things we did together but from his point of view… He would wait until I fell asleep.”

Alec regards him a moment before wrapping an arm around Magnus’s shoulders, gently coaxing him back down to the mattress. He held the warlock in his arms, kissing his brow when Magnus relaxes a little more, as if praising him for being calm. He wants Magnus to be calm. He wants Magnus to feel safe with him.

Magnus doesn’t want to talk about his nightmares. It’s clear from his breakdown, so Alec doesn’t even ask lest he risk upsetting him again. Alec turns to switch the light off, throwing the room back into darkness and turning back to Magnus. When he speaks, his voice comes soft and quiet, aiming to calm him.

“What do you want me to talk about?”

Magnus presses closer to him, rests his head against Alec’s chest. “Tell me about you… what you were like as a child.”

Alec thinks a moment. “Probably much the same as I am now… I mean, I’m definitely more gay now, but aside from that.”

That makes Magnus laugh a little and the sound is like a melody to Alec’s ears. Encouraged, he keeps talking, tells Magnus things about his childhood, things that were happy rather than things that would make Magnus worry, wishing only to make him feel safe and to keep him calm.

When Magnus’s comments on his stories grow fewer and further apart, Alec quietens his voice in turn, allows Magnus to relax against him, allows his breaths to grow deeper and slower. He is sleeping again within the hour, undisturbed this time. Alec is grateful for it.

He smiles softly, sadly, holds Magnus more securely against him. “You’re safe,” he promises, kissing his boyfriend’s forehead, lightly enough that Magnus doesn’t even stir. “You sleep now… I’m going to keep you safe.”

With that vow hanging between them in the darkness, Alec settles and relaxes into the mattress. He falls asleep with Magnus in his arms, held safe and warm in his devoted embrace.

#shappreciation #5mos #shadowhunters #malec fic #alec lightwood #magnus bane #my fic #malec #ragnor fell was magnus's father-figure #no one can convince me otherwise

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floweringscrubs · 5 years

Text

If You Said You’d Be Mine

The coffee mug is warm against his palm, the bitterness on his tongue grounding as he listens for the angel, somewhere out of view.

Coiled to strike as he comes around the corner-- fuzzy and glowing white around the edges-- a lunge turns to a mere slither at the sight of red and purple, splotched on creamy skin.

Soft hands fiddle with the tartan bow and his eyes are drawn there, remembering the feel of that warm skin under his lips, his tongue, his teeth, even. Remembering the scent of parchment and lavender, the taste of sweat, the rumble of moans and little whines against his cheeks.

He eyes those marks as he slips an arm around a soft waist, pulling close, possessively. Chin grazing a padded shoulder, the thoughts of ‘you’re mine’ and ‘stay forever’ wrapped up in a simple, breathed, “g’morning angel.”

(Continued below the cut or over on AO3)

____________________________________

Dawnlight slips into the room around heavy curtains, the noise of traffic and humanity barely a low drone yet as Crowley stirs awake, slow and easily. It’s rare that he awakens anything less than abruptly, dragged from sleep by pools of sulphur and the stench of brimstone. And so he allows himself a few more moments of imagination, of this dreamscape that feels too much like home, not daring to open his eyes quite yet.

The vision of Aziraphale swims back into view-- prim and proper, standing in his kitchen and flushing under his heavy, dilated gaze. The bruises from his lips stand in stark relief on the angel’s pale neck and jaw as he pulls him close, breathing in the scent of him and trying his best to be suave. He knows the angel would see right through that, if dreams were reality, but he allows a smile to creep onto his face, small and hopeful, before opening his eyes to the actual morning and grimacing at the ceiling.

He flings his legs out of the sheet and slinks into a sitting position, his spine popping with a bit of reptilian protest. The bed shifts behind him, causing the demon to stifle in the middle of a stretch, and he turns around slowly with the knowledge that this must be too good to be true.

But there, even more real than he’d imagined, lies Aziraphale-- sound asleep and curled neatly around a pillow, wearing only his shorts, his suit and tie draped carefully over a chair back in the far corner of the room.

Crowley remembers the night before-- of course he does-- but now, vivid images of the angel float back into his vision-- his shock white hair in view as he pressed his face between the demon’s thighs, kneeling over him as he flung lanky legs one by one over his broad shoulders, their hands twined together as he pushed inside, his face as he--

Ochre eyes blink hard at that memory, and he swallows harshly, mouth suddenly dry. Pushing those thoughts out of his mind temporarily, he turns back towards the angel, rather intent on kissing him awake.

He slips the sheet downwards some, off his shoulders, pressing his lips just ever so lightly behind Aziraphale’s ear. The angel doesn’t stir so he continues, leaving a second and third kiss in his hairline before moving downwards.

Its then he sees it, there in between his shoulder blades. Small and unassuming along the angel’s spine, is the image of a snake, black and red and twisted around itself in a complicated S.

Frozen in disbelief, just inches from the Aziraphale’s skin, Crowley’s own face stings as his eyes trace the pattern over and over-- his own sigil emblazoned on the porcelain skin of the angel.

He’s reeling then, scrambling off the bed, the white-hot burn of his cheek overpowering his vision, blood he doesn’t need pounding in his ears as he dashes from the bedroom.

He stumbles down the hall, palming blindly at the walls and tripping over himself, never more a serpent on stilts than in this moment. His breath is coming in aborted gasps with sweat dripping down his face, and before he knows it he’s falling to his knees, retching over the toilet despite not having eaten in weeks.

The bile that wrings itself forth from his throat looks too much like sulphur against the white ceramic and he throws himself backwards, arms behind him supporting his weight in a heap in the middle of the floor.

He’s shaking with a hell-wrought fear, the image of his mark on Aziraphale’s skin dancing before his eyes. He’d dreamt of it, but not like this, never like this.

He knows he has to get a grip on himself, knows the angel won’t be asleep much longer, even after last night-- love confessions made in hasty whispered voices, desperate clawing at clothes and souls for release, for reciprocation, skin on skin and the reality of six thousand years of hiding, coming together finally, consummating, consecrating….

It’s those thoughts, just as he’s climbing to his feet, his white knuckled grip bruising the granite counter, that hit him like a wave-- a torrent of holy water come to drag him to the depths. He hadn’t just marked the angel with his lips last night, in the throes of each other. He’d crossed an invisible line. He’d given in to his own temptations, the only sin he’d ever cared to confess.

In loving him, he’d damned the angel. Aziraphale, crying out in ecstasy, pulling Crowley to his chest, had fallen as he’d come, wings burning as muscles contracted. And now he was permanently marked that of a demon, branded with the irrevocable knowledge that he’d not only fallen from grace, but it was Crowley’s fault alone.

A wretched sob heaves out of Crowley’s chest and he falls to the floor again, scrambling backwards until his back presses into the wall. He pulls his knees up and buries his face, rocking and barely breathing.

And that’s how Aziraphale finds him, moments later, strolling groggily into the bathroom for a shower and stopping dead in his tracks at the threshold when he lays eyes on the demon, curled up in the corner, shaking and reeking of bile and sweat.

“Crowley!” he practically yelps, rushing across the room and dropping to his knees beside him.

Hands fluttering for a moment, unsure of where to begin, Aziraphale touches Crowley’s bare back and the demon lunges, hissing harshly and glaring at the angel, eyes fully yellow and fangs bared.

To his credit, Aziraphale doesn’t flinch, just sits back on his haunches and withdraws his hand, worry etching hard lines around his eyes.

He fights to keep his voice level, speaking barely above a whisper as Crowley curls in on himself again, shame and fear whittling away at his form. “Crowley love, are you hurt? What’s wrong?”

“Let me see them,” the demon answers, unmoving, the words sounding hollow and far away.

“See what dear?”

He looks up again, completely ragged, and points accusingly. “I saw it, Aziraphale! I know, okay?!? Just… just tell me the truth. Please… let me see them!”

Bewildered, Aziraphale turns and sits down next to Crowley, slowly sliding an arm around his shoulders.

He doesn’t want to succumb to it, knows he doesn’t deserve it, but he leans into the warmth of Aziraphale anyway, letting himself slump against his side and be held, just for a few moments.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He whines, still trembling, “I was always afraid that I’d… that you would… oh God I’m so sorry Aziraphale… I’m so--”

“Crowley.” The word is stern, cutting off the demon’s tearful apologies as Aziraphale shifts some to look him in the face. “I will tell you anything you want to know, darling, anything. But you have to let me into what you’re going on about.”

Crowley stares back open mouthed, eyes flitting up and down Aziraphale’s body for a moment before he pulls away, wrapping his arms back around himself. “Your wings. Let me see them, angel.”

The endearment sounds like a curse on his tongue now and he wishes he could take it back the moment it slips past his lips. He watches Aziraphale’s face carefully, looking for any sign of pain or hurt.

Only confusion is writ across it, but after a moment he shrugs slightly, rolling his shoulders and allowing his wings to fade into reality slowly, flickering some and stretching wide before settling comfortably about his back.

Aziraphale regards the feathers over his shoulders, tutting as he takes them in. “I do suppose they could use a bit of grooming but I haven’t exactly had the time with his whole Armageddon business, dear what--”

With a gasp, Crowley lurches forward, burying his hands in the feathers and bowling Aziraphale over onto his back.

Strong arms come to encircle his waist-- Aziraphale in complete acceptance of the sudden change in position and simply choosing to hold the demon who is now draped on top of him.

Tears stream down Crowley’s cheeks with the realization that the downy, dusty, disheveled feathers between his fingers are still-- by God-- pure white.

“Crowley, Crowley, love, please…” Aziraphale babbles some, stroking copper hair and gathering the demon to his chest, tucking his face into the crook of his neck and allowing the gasps which wrack through Crowley’s lanky body for another few moments.

They lay like that, an awkward diagonal across the bathroom floor, and when he’s finally still, Aziraphale snaps his fingers quietly behind the demon’s back, and suddenly they’re back in bed, Crowley clinging desperately to the angel’s arms now that his wings have folded away.

Aziraphale gently rolls to the side, depositing Crowley onto the sheets and pulling back to look at him.

“Whatever is going on dear?”

The worry lacing the angel’s voice makes Crowley cringe, realizing he’s made quite the scene of this morning. “I thought… I thought you… I thought I’d made you…”

Not finding the words, he reaches over Aziraphales shoulder and slides his hand down his spine, tracing the sigil with a blunt fingernail.

The angel shivers involuntarily and his eyes widen in sudden understanding-- Crowley would never have seen the small inscription before, probably not even in a mirror while inhabiting his body and certainly not the night before, pinned as he had been on his back between the angel’s thighs.

“I saw it this morning and I thought… I thought you’d fallen,” Crowley admits, quietly, dejected. “I thought I’d made you fall, Angel, I couldn’t live with myself if….”

Aziraphale presses a kiss to Crowley’s forehead, shushing him gently and sighing.

“Crowley I-- I’m not afraid of that. And I have thought about it. I know it’s taken me an awful long time but I’ve chosen this, my dear. Us. If it really came to that-- and I doubt it would but--”

“No, angel, you can’t, I…” It’s a hoarse, obligate whisper and it trails off, all of the fight leaving the demon as Aziraphale shushes him again.

“I choose you, Crowley. I love you.”

It is most definitely not with another sob that Crowley responds to those words, surely not, but the angel pulls him close again anyway, stroking his hair and holding him tight.

When the tension begins melting out of Crowley’s body, Aziraphale shifts, turning his head to press a kiss to the snake below his ear.

“I’ll tell you where it came from,” he starts, murmuring against the demon’s cheek, “if you promise not to make fun of me.”

He nods and the angel smiles, practically nuzzling before he speaks again.

“It’s just a tattoo, completely human,” Aziraphale explains, smirking to himself at the next bit. “I got a bit drunk when the Berlin Wall fell… everyone was celebrating then, all of those people back on the same side, no arbitrary barriers between them and I just.. I got caught up in it all, I suppose.”

For a moment Aziraphale thinks Crowley is crying again, shaking, his face still pressed up against the angels neck. But then the sound bubbles out and over his harsh edges-- bright and clear-- the demon laughs.

The angel smiles wide in spite of himself, watching his companion come apart at the seams with right giggles, rolling away to clutch at his sides.

“You… you… I can’t believe…” he chokes out words between breaths, pulling Aziraphale onto his stomach to look at the tattoo again.

“Why not just on your ass angel? A tramp-stamp of my fucking sigil! I can’t believe you!”

Aziraphale flushes hard, batting at Crowley half-heartedly and trying to look indignant.

“Maybe I should get something to go with it, huh? Little angel wings in the same spot? How does that sound?”

“Crowley!”

Before he can protest the goading further, Crowley crashes his lips into Aziraphale’s, giggling into the kiss and then deepening it, pushing his own love towards the angel and trying to believe that he really can do this now, that they’re really here.

When he pulls back, Crowley rests his forehead against the angel’s, squeezing his eyes shut and cupping Aziraphale’s face.

“I don’t want to ruin you, angel,” he whispers, a prayer to a god he no longer believes in.

“Oh, love,” Aziraphale starts, biting back tears of his own. “If your love is my ruin, I’d burn the wings myself.”

#my fic #my writing #good omens fic #good omens #fanfiction #crowley #aziraphale #crowley and aziraphale #a little bit of angst #over on ao3 i tagged a warning for #vomiting #im a nurse i forget that people find things gross #im posting like this this time just to see #does amber know how to format a read more?#guess we'll be finding out

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abbacchiosbelt · 4 years

Text

Glass Arrows | Corrin/Leo, Past Corrin/Takumi

original date this story was published on AO3 — 3/16/2016

rated T for violence.

I. Glass Arrows

II. On Letting Go

i took some creative liberties with the timeline of Conquest, just to make the timing seem a little more realistic.

The noise was almost unbearable. Leo looked at the sight in front of him, his heart twisting painfully. Corrin was holding Takumi's lifeless body, sobbing like he had never heard her before. Gut-wrenching, painful sobs that left him paralyzed, unable to take a step forward. Corrin, who never yelled at anyone, had let out a guttural scream when Xander and Camilla had tried to pull her away from his body earlier. Even Elise, who would go to the end of the world to make Corrin feel better, had been too scared to approach after that. Only Leo remained near her, telling the others to go tend to the wounded. He silently thanked the gods that none of their army had perished during the battle. The other enemies disappeared when Takumi fell, leaving an eerily silent battlefield behind, save for Corrin's screams filling the air. Takumi had apparently been possessed, his return on the battlefield a surprise to them all. None of them had expected to see him ever again after he jumped off the wall at the end of their battle weeks ago. Leo had been the one to comfort Corrin, the one to hold her as she sobbed for hours after their return. Every night after that day, Corrin had been plagued with terrible nightmares. Leo was frequently awoken by a scream or a sob. Always, he held her. He never asked her about what happened those few months she was in Hoshido, which had been agony for him. The simple fact that she chose to side with Nohr over Hoshido kept him satisfied. But those nights, when he held her, he wondered. Leo had been the one closest to Corrin when Takumi emerged from the darkness. He saw the look of sheer terror and absolute sorrow on her face. When he began to speak, Leo knew something was wrong. This wasn't Takumi. As much as he hated the man, he knew this wasn't him. Corrin's hand was tightly gripping Leo's, her nails digging into his palm. Before he could stop her, she let go, approaching the man who was once Takumi. She was pleading to him, begging him to come back. Leo's head was buzzing so hard that he couldn't make out what she was saying. He wanted to scream, to tell her that Takumi was gone, and that he was here. He was here right now, for her. The familiar sound of an arrow being shot rang out, and then again. He looked to see Corrin, no longer speaking, on the ground. Xander and Camilla had rushed in front of him, surrounding Takumi. He was still frozen until he heard a shrill scream, recognizing it as Elise. She was pulling on him, trying to get him to move towards Corrin. He registered that she wanted him to move Corrin somewhere safe, somewhere that Elise could begin to heal her. Xander had drawn Takumi away, leaving them a clear path to move Corrin. He picked up her body, covered in blood, and almost let out a cry when he saw her take a shallow breath. He whispered quietly under his breath to her, repeating 'I love you' like a mantra. He didn't want to let go of her, but Elise gently moved him away and began to heal her. The battle raged outside the hallway they were in, the sound of swords clashing together and the familiar smell of tomes being used filling his head, but all he could think about was Corrin. Elise stepped back after using her staff, waiting a moment to see if she needed to continue. Corrin's eyes fluttered open and he rushed back to her side, letting her head rest in his lap. She smiled at him and reached out to touch his face, brushing away a tear he didn't even realize was on his face. Gods, he was relieved. She reached up to whisper something to him, and sat up by herself to reach for the Shadow Yato, which Elise must have dragged over. He knew he couldn't stop her from going back out, not after what she had just told him, but he'd be damned if he wouldn't be by her side. As quickly as the battle began it ended, with Corrin's sword plunged into Takumi's chest. Leo saw the tears running down her face, the way her hands were shaking so violently. He fell to the ground as she pulled her sword out, lifeless. Corrin had collapsed with him, sobbing over his body, her tears mixing in with the blood covering his chest. She had told Leo that she knew it wasn't him, that her Takumi was dead. Her Takumi, he thought darkly. Those were her words. What she meant by them, he didn't know. Months ago, right after she had come back to Nohr, she told him that Queen Mikoto had written her a letter. She had learned that once again, she didn't truly belong. That was the night that he first held her as a lover. When they encountered Takumi on the battlefield for the first time, he saw how distraught she was. The expression on her face when Takumi told her that he had to kill her, that she was a traitor, was unlike anything Leo had ever seen. He could have sworn he saw the same expression on Takumi's face. She cried harder that night than she ever had before, pushing Leo away when he tried to embrace her. She had sobbed until she threw up, finally allowing Leo to touch her as he cleaned up the mess. After she had finally settled into sleep that night, he heard her calling for Takumi in her sleep. It felt like a knife in his chest. He didn't ask her about it the next morning, and she never spoke about it. It was always in the air, but neither of them dared to touch it. Leo found himself thinking back to that night as he looked at Corrin holding Takumi. Her sobs had subsided from violent throes into a quiet, stream of tears down her face, no longer lost in her pain. She was whispering something into his ear, her hand cradling his face. Leo wanted to turn away, to give them a private moment that Corrin deserved, but he couldn't. He watched her place a kiss on his pale forehead, covered in blood. Leo felt disgusted. With himself, for being unable to turn away, and with her. He clenched his fist, repeating to himself in his head 'She chose us. She chose me.' He took a deep breath before finally stepping towards Corrin and Takumi. He kneeled down next to her, ready to offer her a hand, but she collapsed into his arms, beginning to sob all over again. Leo felt himself begin to cry. For what, he wasn't sure. He gathered her up into his arms, much like he had done earlier, and placed a kiss on her forehead, tasting the blood and sweat. She choked out in between sobs that she was sorry, so sorry, that she loved Leo so much. His chest felt tight as he nodded, placing another kiss on her forehead as a response. He felt Corrin grab onto him tightly as Takumi's body began to disintegrate into a purple substance, leaving nothing behind. It was almost anti-climatic, Leo thought, for all they had been through. He supposed it was best, though. Her sobbing had subsided again, and when he looked down her eyes were closed, tears streaming down silently. Leo started to walk towards Xander and Camilla, who were directing the remainder of the army in the corner of the room. 'She chose me. She chose me.' He repeated to himself silently as he continued walking. He was the one here right now, he was the one that would be by her side for the rest of her life. He was the one that would be there in the middle of the night to hold her, to be someone she told every secret to. Leo knew that the thought would always loom over his head, the pain of thinking about if Corrin had left him. Her body was pressed so close to him, her hands cradled against his chest. He almost wanted to stay in this moment forever, a sick thought that he quickly dispelled of. He loved her, so deeply it was painful. Leo knew she loved him, she said it so much, but he didn't know if it would be enough. It would have to be, for now. The words rolled around in his head, an ever-present thought, 'She chose me.'

#not jjba #fire emblem: fates #fire emblem: fates fic #abbacchiosbelt archive #leo #corrin #takumi #angst #canon character death #canon-typical violence #kamuleo #kamutaku #leo/corrin #past takumi/corrin #my writing

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asherranceoftheheart · 5 years

Text

Come Home, Sunshine - JSE Drabble

Summary: A one-sided conversation slash confession between a divorced wife and husband. In which, nobody is villainizing anybody except Anti because he's a glitch bitch. Warnings: Angst, Bittersweet Masterpost of my Stories AO3 edition of the Post

Tag List: @the-rampaige @egopocalypse @iris-the-asparagus @sqxxddygremlin @awkward-bullshit @jaysflight @assbutt-of-the-readers Author’s Note: Here. Have This.

The door into the cold hospital room creaked open and a woman with short brown hair and dull brown eyes, that darkened further when it came into contact with the still form on the bed, came inside. She stood there at the doorway, eyes roving around the depressingly white room taking note of the rumpled blanket on the nearby couch, the worn out chairs beside the bed, the trash-can filled with doodles and some incomprehensible magical notes, and the childish hand-drawn get well soon cards that were piling up on the nearby bedside drawer.

The sound monitor kept on beating to her ex-husband’s heartbeat and for a few seconds, she listened to the comforting sound, the evidence that he’s still there. It reminded her of those early days when she’d lay her ear over his chest and fall asleep to the thrumming of his heart.

“Hello Chaser,” Stacy murmured in greeting as she closed the door behind her, silencing the busy sounds of activity in the building. “You gonna give us any sign soon?”

She paused. Her eyes intently observing the man’s body for any sort of response or changes.

…

No dice.

Stacy closed her eyes and asked for patience and strength from whatever god was listening up there as a crushing wave of disappointment dropped her heart to her gut. She opened her eyes, tightened her hold on the bouquet of flowers in her arms, and made her way over to the closed curtains to shed some brightness in the dark room.

“It’s a beautiful day outside, Chaser.” Stacy whispered, opening the blinds to let the warm ray of sunshine in to chase away the cold in the room. “Sammy and Alex would’ve wanted to go play in the park with you.”

She looked out of the window to see the colorful gardens filled with blooming flowers. Henrik had Chase transferred over to this room saying that the sight of color would have cheered him up. Nobody had the heart to tell him that Chase wouldn’t be seeing it as long as he was under this coma. Besides… Henrik probably knew that already. He was just trying to cheer them all up and keep the morale high.

She turned to the vase that was filled with different types of flowers. They were getting dry since they’ve been there for quite a while. The woman carefully placed her own bundle of flowers to the side before bringing the vase over to the bathroom to throw away the old flowers and replace the water with a new batch. She placed the vase back in its original location and picked up her sunflowers to arrange them in the vase.

“Remember when I told you that my favorite flowers were sunflowers? It wasn’t a lie but… They became my favorites because they reminded me of you and happiness.” Stacy smiled, her eyes looking off to the distance wistfully. “Those early years with you were some of the happiest in my life.”

She took the seat beside his bed and carefully held his right hand, rubbing a thumb on the top of his palm. She lifted it up to her lips and she brushed a tender kiss over his fingers before pressing her forehead against his hand.

“None of us still knows what happened but we do know it’s connected to Jack and Him.” Stacy spat out the last word with such vitriol and hatred that it burned in her throat. “Jack woke up and you just… You just didn’t.”

It had been a shock receiving a panicked message from Henrik out of nowhere, asking her if she had talked to Chase recently. When she replied that no, she hadn’t, the heavy air of foreboding weighed down upon them. Their fear was founded when Jackie called Henrik and told him that he found Chase in his room but he wasn’t waking up.

It was like His curse passed on from Jack to Chase.

She sickened herself with her own thoughts when her mind darkly said ‘at least they didn’t find him with another bullet hole in the head again this time.’ before she brushed it away and called up John to tell him to pick up the kids since she’s going to the hospital with the others. John, bless his kind heart, told her to go and that he hopes that everyone will be alright.

The doctors couldn’t find anything wrong with Chase. It was as if he just went to sleep and decided not to wake up anymore. Stacy and the Septics exchanged dark looks and they all knew that this was His fault.

“We had a fight, you know. I… I blamed them for not being there for you but they also threw those words back to my face.” Stacy bitterly laughed, tears prickling at the corner of her eyes. “They weren’t wrong. I banned you from the kids and ignored you for a long time. It’s no wonder…”

Stacy cut herself off. She breathed in shakily and plastered on a brittle smile on her lips.

“Jack’s been blaming himself even though we all told him that it wasn’t his fault. I still can’t look at him, you know. Every time I see his face I—I just see Him,” said Stacy while gritting her teeth as rage and hatred burned inside her. “It was the same with you too. As the months passed by, I couldn’t sleep next to you, I couldn’t bear the thought that I would wake up to His face in front of me. I know that wasn’t your fault but unfortunately, you know me. I’m just too stubborn in my anger even if it’s misplaced. So then I lash out at you and you lash out at me and everything basically went to complete shit.”

She knew that she was just rambling to no one. Chase was far too deep in whatever the fuck sort of coma he was in to hear what she was saying. Maybe if (when, a stubborn part of her muttered) he woke up, she’ll finally tell him all of these things. Maybe she’ll clear up the air and she’ll stop seeing His face in him.

“You would have never raised a single finger on our children and me,” Stacy knew, if there was anything that she would never doubt her ex-husband in, it would be his fierce and stubborn love for her and their children. He would rather cut off his own legs than hurt them. “I know that but I was so scared… I never noticed your own fear.”

Stacy finally looked up at Chase’s face. It was peaceful, absent of any stress lines that it normally held when he was awake or under the throes of his nightmares. She reached up to caress his cold cheek with her warm hand, the broken jaggedness in her eyes smoothing out with tender love.

“Oh Chaser… How many times do we have to tell you that you’re irreplaceable to us?” Stacy whispered as she leaned forward to press a kiss on his forehead. “We miss you, sunshine. Your friends miss you. Your family miss you. Our kids miss their goofy father. I miss my dorky friend slash brother slash whatever this is.”

She blinked away her tears as she finally let out one tiny sob around the lump in her throat. Stacy pressed their foreheads together like they normally did in the past when they were comforting each other.

“Come home soon, sunshine. We love you.” Stacy pressed one more kiss on his cheek and then straightened up.

She wiped away her tears with her handkerchief and placed it back inside her pocket. She took one more look at Chase’s unresponsive body before exiting out of the room.

On her way out, she paused by the doorway and looked back at Chase. Then she said, “I know you’re still in there, fighting Him. You’re strong, Chaser. When you get back… Let’s talk.”

She nibbled on her lower lip before a small sincere smile inched up at the corner of her lips.

“We’re all cheering for you, Chaser. So don’t let us down, okay?” With those words, Stacy closed the door behind her.

Unseen to anyone, the comatose man’s still warm right hand twitched.

#jacksepticeye #writersofjack #stacy brody #chase brody

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mentalmimosa · 5 years

Text

take me with you

Prompt: im here to poison the king and ive already laced the drink im gonna be giving him so i might as well enjoy the night and youre really cute and were flirting quite a bit and wait no you cant be the kings poison tester.

Note: No rape/non-con actually occurs in this story, but it's strongly implied that this has happened to both of our main characters. Please be duly warned.

The mission, truth be told, was a simple one: slip into the party unseen, coat the king’s goblet in wormwood, and find a spot from which to watch the ensuing carnage.

Well, that last bit may have been Loki’s own addition to the plan; so be it. If they were the one risking their life, then they should damn well get a say on the actual tick tock of the evening, that was their feeling on it.

If they’d asked permission to carry out this last bit--to linger in the rafters while it all went to hell in the hall--their fellow conspirators (Stark, the Spider, and all the rest) would have pummeled their ears with a resounding no and made noises about how Loki was perhaps too personally invested in this task and perhaps we should send someone else and Loki would be damned if they’d let anyone’s hand other than theirs be the one that slayed the king. No, this task was theirs by birthright: the soul-cries of those the Asgardians had dragged from Loki’s homeworld, led by this pig of a king, made it so, and no last-minute wariness of a few Earthers would change that. So Loki had bided their tongue and made their own plans and nodded convivally at their comrades in the firelight.

“Rest assured,” they’d said as they tucked the vial of wormwood in their cloak. “When I return to you, friends, the deed will be done.”

What their comrades had not known was that beneath their cloak, Loki wore a high, fine dress as any wellborn in the king’s court might. It was a gown they had made themselves from the last of the shimmerglass they’d carried away the night they’d escape from the palace, and it seemed only fitting to Loki that they return not in rags but in splendor; their plan was not to keep to the shadows, but to dazzle all those they encountered with light.

This too they kept to themselves.

What Loki had not said to their compatriots, saw no reason to say, was that they knew the way the palace worked far better than the others could. The others could only imagine, make learned guesses based on brief, sneaky forays into the outer rings or on dubious intelligence reports from those few, terrified refugees who happened to stumble across their path. They themselves had done this, in the first days after they had found the defiants, but never once, even in the initial shock of sudden freedom had Loki divulged the depth of their knowledge or at what price it had come. They had been in the palace for more than half their life, been in the king’s kitchen and in the king’s bed--none of these things by their choice--and they were not then nor were they now ready to discuss what had befallen them with anyone. Their comrades knew Loki had been in the palace and knew the layout well; that was enough.

So Loki, by their own choice, had not snuck in through the tunnel beneath the the back gate; nor had they wrapped themselves in reflections and eased in hidden amongst the jubilant crowds. No, Loki had walked in a jewel, their head held high and their hair the color of midnight, the shimmerglass folds of their dress singing out every curve of their body, hinting at every soft fold. They had spent fifteen years in the palace trying desperately not to be noticed; now, after seven years beyond its walls and with the king’s death held close to their body, they desired more than almost anything to be seen.

And oh, ho. How they were.

Not by the king himself, of course; he favored fucking the powerless and the weak. But some of his ministers approached them almost as soon as they entered the Grand Hall: a beast of a man called Bor whose hands Loki had not forgotten and a savage in the guise of a lady, called Sif.

It amused Loki, deep down, that the bully leering at their bosom had once beaten them with a stick when the king’s soup was drawn insufficiently thick. Sif’s attentions--her hand on Loki’s elbow, a secret smile meant to beguile--were also almost surreal, for Sif had, when Loki was skinny and small, taken great delight in hauling them from the slaves’ sleeping quarters up the long, long halls to the king. Loki remembered, as Sif purred perfume in their ear, how Sif had held them like a sack of logs, without a care as to if their head struck a wall so hard Loki cried out, so that when they had arrived at the king’s apartments, then, the brute had slapped them for their tears and Sif had laughed and bolted the door and that had been the kindest moment of the night, the awful, tearing hours still to come.

“My dear,” Sif murmured, her dark curls running silver and brushing the lines of Loki’s neck, “there is a better feast to be had than even the one you see here.”

“Are there, lady?”

“There are.” Sif’s mouth found her cheek. “If you would led me lead you, guddommelig, it would be my great pleasure to show you.”

For a moment, Loki was tempted; surely they would be able to steal a knife and make short and bloody work of this tyrant, too. But no, they thought, painting their smile more demure--when the king fell, there would be time enough for that.

“Perhaps,” they said softly, matching Sif’s tone, “I may dine with you later this evening, ma’am. There are niceties that I have promised my father I would attend to first.” They turned their face and smiled, made their eyes all glittering heat. “May I look for you after my duties are completed, my lady?”

Sif’s fingers found the small of Loki’s back and squeezed. “I insist that you do.”

It took a large cup of wine for Loki to slough off the shudder of that touch. Even the thought of a blade in Sif’s neck, the sweet shower of vile blood, could not wholly erase it. So Loki drank and she smiled and took a turn about the room and reached for another cup.

“Oh,” the boy on the other end of the tray said, “no, ma’am, I’m sorry. You can’t have that.”

Loki looked at him, affronted. “Why is that?”

The boy--not a boy so much as a young, blushing man--deftly plucked the cup from Loki’s hand. “This, ah. This is meant for the king.”

“Is it,” Loki said. There was flurry in their heart, the wings of it beating mad at their breasts. “Well. Forgive me for my forwardness, then, in reaching out and simply taking. I should have asked you first.”

The man looked down, his shoulders bent, and it struck Loki suddenly, terribly, that this lovely creature was as they had been: a slave. He was dressed more finely than Loki had ever been, but then, he was human, not Jotun, and the king had always had a special place in his dark heart for the creatures of the Earth. And, the whisper of the man’s garments said as Loki looked closer, he was a rarified creature indeed: a sengeslave, chained not just to the palace but, at the king’s whim, to his bed.

“Oh, my darling,” Loki heard themselves say, their hand on the Earther’s broad shoulder.

The man looked startled. “Wh-what, my lady?”

Loki blinked, brought themselves back to the party, the present. “I have delayed you terribly, haven’t I? I don’t want your lord to be angry with you, when the error was all mine and not yours.”

“No, ma’am, no. Don’t trouble yourself. The king has not called for this yet--I’m, er, I’m merely anticipating his whim.” The man smiled and ah, gods, he was lovely. Blond, blue-eyed, and broad-shouldered, like the king, but there the likeness stopped. Where the king’s face was scarred by cruelty, the slave’s was, somehow, still soft. Where the king’s gaze was hard and cold, even in the throes of his passion, the slave’s was sharp, yes, but undeniably kind--an odd mixture, Loki thought, for a man forced to live his life shackled in shame. The sengeslaves , in Loki’s time, had always been the most beautiful and the most broken; once in the king’s grip, theirs were usually short and terrible lives.

And yet this man stood tall, his handsome body unmarred even as he bared it to the hall, unashamed.

Loki had an idea, suddenly. A reckless one. A perfect one. They could hear the hum of their people’s fury in their ears.

“My dear,” they said, “may I trouble you for a moment?” They smiled and raised their hand to touch the human’s cheek. “Since I have delayed you once, may I do so further? I promise not to keep you too long.”

The man’s eyes settled in hers and there was a darkening there, a murmur of something, that served only to feed their idea. “As you wish, lady.”

Loki led the Earther, their hand still on his arm: an entitled guest of the king’s eager to sample his goods. This was the role they played--still a jewel, still the center of many an eye; a bit cheeky, the other guests may have thought, chuckling, but still very much within a guest’s rights on a night such as this. Later, Loki knew, when the wine casks had given way to moon-liquor, taking such liberties with the slaves and with each other would be, much to the king’s delight, strongly encouraged. For now, though, they looked merely like a guest overeager to claim this right.

There was a slim door in the wall; behind it, a corridor, one that felt cool after the heat of the party.

When they were alone, Loki said: “Set down your tray, darling.”

He did so, his eyes never leaving Loki’s face.

“What’s your name, Earther? Has he allowed you one?”

Steel in his voice, fervor. “Steven. That’s my name. It’s not his to take.”

They reached for him, smoothed a palm up his chest. “I didn’t say that it was. I happen to be a big believer in the importance of names. They tell stories about us, don’t they? Stories that our ancestors may have started, but that we get to tell ourselves.” They turned their eyes up and smiled at him. “Don’t you think?”

“Lady, I--”

“How long have you been here, Steven? On Asgard.” They flicked the slim gold chain that held on his modesty. “In the palace. Stuck in the king’s bed.”

Steven blushed, a remarkable spread of red that spilled over his body. “Two years on Asgard. A year in the palace. A few--a few weeks in, ah...in the king’s bed.”

No wonder he looked untouched, Loki thought, for in truth, he was; another few months and his flesh would not be so smooth, nor his spirit so fierce. The king had a way with these things. “Do you like it here?”

“I, er--”

Loki took their hands away and folded them behind their back. “Would you believe me if I said I asked this as a friend?”

He laughed, an unpleasant sound. “You understand why that would be difficult, lady.”

“Loki. My name is Loki.”

“Loki, then. Surely you must understand that it’s hard for me to believe you.”

“Would you believe me, then, if I told you that was once a slave here, for this king? That he forced himself on the land of my people and yanked many of us up from the roots so that we might rot in Asgard, in his service, used up and ground up and spit out.”

Steven tilted his head. “Words are easily spoken, ma’am.”

“I agree.” Loki’s blood was in their throat. This was madness, surely, speaking to a slave so plain? “There is something I might show you to give my words weight. May I?”

A neutral nod, a pursing of plush lips. He knew what Loki spoke of; there was no doubt of that. “If you wish.”

Loki met his eyes--the deepest blue, the color of Loki’s trueskin, of their home--and it was easy, then, to lift their hands to their halter and bid the shimmerglass to unclasp and let the fabric fall from their breasts, a warm wave they caught at their waist.

“Here,” they said, finding Steven’s hand, guiding, pressing his fingers to the soft place beneath their breast. “Do you feel the king’s mark, darling?”

Four letters, carved in fire: not so large as to mar their beauty, but cut in too terrible to overlook or forget. Loki felt Steven’s fingertips trace them one at a time, watched his face as his touch spelled it out: T H O R .

“He did this to you himself.” It was not a question.

"You will wear my name, my truename, the name no one may speak.” The words were ash in Loki’s mouth, fouler than dust. “This is what he said to me as he carved. As I screamed. Did he say the same to you?"

With his free hand, Steven plucked one of theirs and drew it beneath his modesty; parted his thighs and set their fingers just inside one, where the skin was softest and damp. There, four letters like Loki's own, though these felt larger, cut more raggedly: T H O R.

There was a weight in Steven’s face as Loki drew their hand back, a sorrow, and Loki felt as if they might weep. No one had ever looked upon her thus; how could they? They’d never spoken of it to another soul who’d understood.

Steven said, hoarsely: “But you got away from him. You escaped.”

“Yes.” Steven's hand was still on their breast, stroking now, soothing. It felt less like an attempt to arouse than something very, very sweet.

“Then why in the Nine Realms have you come back?”

Loki touched his arm, squeezed it. “Because he must die and I want to be the one who sees to it. Will you help me?”

The question hung in the air for a long, long time. Steven studied their face, that steel again; Loki could see his mind turning. “You came here to do this alone?”

“I did.”

“Dear god! To slay a dragon with your bare hands?”

“Something like that.”

“How long were you here before you got out?”

Loki closed their eyes. “Fifteen years.”

“Fifteen--! My god, Loki.”

There was water on Loki’s face now, tears they did not want to shed. Not here. Not yet. They drew a shaken breath. “Will you help me?”

They felt Steven’s knuckles on their cheek. He’d drawn them close; his chest caught each of their peaks. “Yes, I will. God, I have to! But I have one condition.”

“What’s that?”

They opened their eyes to see the sky blazing back. “When you leave this place tonight, take me with you.”

They reached up and smoothed back Steven’s hair and found that they were shaking--not from fear or desire, but from the simple, long-lost pleasure of being seen. They had shared the same horrors, known similar terrors, albeit years apart, and there was part of Loki that ached to speak of it at last, all that had been done to them, all they had suffered: it was time at last, they though, tracing the straw-colored strands, for a different kind of bloodletting of sorts.

“Once it’s certain he’s dead,” they said, “we shall fly away, Steven, you and me. You'll be free of all this, darling. I shall let no one ever harm you again."

His lips twitched. "You will protect me, lady?"

Loki gave brief thought to their comrades, of the reaction when they arrived back at camp with a dead king on the one hand and a stranger on the other; another mouth to feed, Stark would grumble. But he would acquiesce, surely, for it was he who'd pulled the children into their fold: first the Spider, then the little girl, and both in time had proved their worth. This man, Steven, as strong of body and spirit as he was, would be an asset to the cause, especially if he aided Loki tonight. They would make the others see that. They would. And if need be, Loki would make them.

They touched his face, his cheek hot against their palm. Did he always burn like this, Loki wondered, dazzled, as a pale, blooming fire? "I promise," Loki said. "I will."

Steven tipped his face towards theirs and brushed their lips together, a seal. “And I," he said softly, "will do the same for you, lady. I swear it."

#loki/steve #slavery au #implied past rape #thor is a bad bad man #non-con thor/steve #non-con thor/loki

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