Where Amethyst sinks, Pearl floats. If Amethyst needed, say, a screwdriver, Pearl would probably pirouette to the table and pick up the screwdriver, pose with the screwdriver, and leap back to Amethyst, ending en pointe holding the screwdriver between forefinger and thumb, despite the fact that Amethyst is smaller than her.
In short, keeping up with Pearl’s eternal life’s-a-stage routine can be tiring. Amethyst likes it well enough these days, now that Pearl’s running performance is no longer the whole “woe is me left with the wee babe of my dearest departed beloved.” It’s nice to see Pearl stepping back from the whole melodrama of her life. It gives Amethyst space to breathe.
“How long are you guys going to have me watch the Peridorito?"
Amethyst splits guard duty with Steven; Peridot’s entertaining but also exhausting.
"I thought the two of you were getting along swimmingly,” Pearl says in reply.
“You wanna try watching Camp Pining Hearts with her?”
“I thought you liked TV shows? What about showing her Little Butler?”
“I don’t need her to wreck all the fun out of that show with, like, subtext or whatever she’s calling it. Sometimes a show’s just fun to watch.”
Pearl hums in reply, staring out of the sunset. It’s been a while since they’ve just stared at something, together. They once tried to watch paint dry in an attempt to understand the human saying, but that ended up with Amethyst’s handprints all over the house Vidalia was painting.
In no time at all Pearl gets fidgety. She can’t just stand up, either: she has to stand up and stretch, and she has to stretch as though she’s getting ready for some ballet performance.
“You just gotta dance all the time, don’t ya, Pearl,” Amethyst says, lulled into speaking her words out loud by the wind blowing past them.
It’s nice and cold and the sun’s setting and the world might be ending and everyone’s going on, not panicking because they don’t know there are aliens in their planet’s core (and even on their crust).
“It’s very soothing,” Pearl says in defense. “It keeps my reflexes sharp,” she adds. Amethyst knows Pearl well enough to know what will come next: “you should do it more often, it will help you with your formlessness.”
“No thanks,” Amethyst mutters. “So you still got a problem with how I dance?”
“No, I didn’t mean that,” Pearl says, looking contrite for a change. “I just… never mind what I meant. We dance well enough these days,” Pearl says.
Oh yeah. Opal. That was good. Amethyst still remembers how perfect their timing was, how they ended up in the right position without thinking about it at all.
“I may have picked up a few moves from you,” Amethyst says. In her defense, it’s because Pearl’s always dancing. You’d have to be blind not to notice.
“Want to practice?” Pearl asks.
“Fine,” Amethyst mutters, trying not to blush.
It begins with a bow.
She still remembers Pearl teaching her fusion.
Their frequencies align, visible in the light emanating in their gems, pulsing. It feels as though she’s putting her heart right there in the open, ripped out of her body, until she remembers: you’re practicing, idiot.
And also, you don’t have a heart.
She shakes her butt, but twirls in consideration of Pearl’s own dance, deepening the transfer of energy between them. It hums around, the frequencies harmonizing, and even Amethyst can’t deny how good they sound, her low frequencies with Pearl’s tinkling music. Pearl does her fancy leap, and they meet in the middle for Amethyst to pull Pearl to her in a dip.
Pearl bends all the way. It hits Amethyst then, how exposed Pearl’s neck is, pale white but for the red reflecting off her, the light of the dying sun. Pearl’s eyes are closed – maybe she’s enjoying this as much as you are. Maybe she could even kiss Pearl. Her thumb brushes against the nape of Pearl’s neck, in full, jittery awareness that she could lift Pearl’s head up to meet hers. She is no less aware of how soft Pearl’s hair is, or the definition of Pearl’s jaw.
They very nearly fuse, but Amethyst disconnects before their minds merge, not wanting Pearl to know this secret about her just yet (or ever). She lifts Pearl up to let Pearl stand on her own.
“Why didn’t you continue the fusion?” Pearl asks.
“I thought you just wanted to practice,” Amethyst mutters. “We only fuse for dangerous situations, remember?”
They go back to sitting. “Ugh,” Pearl mutters. “I’m sorry about that.”
“I love hearing you apologize. This has to be… the fifth time now? Do it again.”
“I’m sorry,” Pearl says, her features silent. Usually with Pearl it’s easy to read her, when she’s distressed, or in need of attention, or angry, but there are times when she’s like this, too.
“We’re cool, P,” Amethyst says, “Aren’t we?”
“We are,” Pearl says. The upwards tilt of her mouth is barely a reassurance to Amethyst, knowing that their past is half Pearl’s fault, and half hers.
How can she possibly tell Pearl that she likes her? And how can that even be true, when half the time she wants to shake Pearl for being so dramatic… but there are other times where she likes it?
Pearl edges her hand next to Amethyst, before settling in to hold it. “This alright?” Pearl asks.
“Yeah.” Amethyst could melt, which is stupid, because just a few moments before she was the one holding Pearl. This isn’t any different, she tries to tell herself, as she can feel the faint warmth of Pearl’s fingers, the gentle smudge of Pearl’s thumb across Amethyst’s hand.
“When I dance,” Pearl says, unable to shake off the topic, “it feels like I’m living in the moment. Like you’re making the most out of something. It sort of came to me, that I’d try to live as much as I could, because back then nothing was certain.”
“Quit bein’ so sad, P,” Amethyst says. It’s a bad way to cheer Pearl up, but Amethyst can’t help herself.
And now Amethyst feels bad, and is out of words to say anything. She squeezes Pearl’s hand. “I’m right here, y'know? Well, I mean, we’re right here.”
“Thanks,” Pearl says. Pearl holds their hands on her lap, stroking Amethyst’s. “You really are the one good thing that came out of that mess,” she says. Swiftly, before Amethyst has time to register it, Pearl kisses Amethyst’s knuckles, before letting go and muttering something about dinner.
What the hell was that all about, Amethyst wonders, at the same time she wonders if that means she can kiss Pearl now.
“I don’t think I can do it, Blink.” Mush glanced down at his hand, wrapped in a ripped piece of shirt already soaked through with fresh blood. He’d cut his hand on a piece of glass; a passing nurse suggested stitches.
“There’s a free clinic in the settlement house,” she said. “It’s used for the training of new doctors. They’ll patch you up, and you’ll be good as new in no time. And no charge, either, since the physician who’ll be treating you is just learning.”
This was an understatement; the medical student who treated Mush had never done stitches on a living patient before. It was clear from the way her eyes went wide, and the color drained out of her face. She looked even more frightened and pale than Mush, and kept glancing back at her supervising attendant as if hoping the older doctor would step in. No such luck.
Kid Blink had accompanied Mush to the clinic; he couldn’t let a friend get stitched up solo. “I think I’ll take my chances,” Mush whispered. “Stitches can’t be that important, right?”
“If it hurts, just swear,” Kid Blink whispered back. “I know you don’t usually do it. But it will take your mind off getting sewed up.”
“I don’t think I can do that,” said Mush, to the visible relief of the student sterilizing her needle. “I try not to think about bad words.”
“Believe me, it helps,” said Blink, with the air of someone who knew what he was talking about. “If it hurts, say a bad word. Don’t be scared to say the worst word you know.”
“Oh, gosh,” Mush said, when the needle pierced his skin. They’d given him some kind of numbing cream, but it wasn’t working too well. “Oh, darn. Oh … brother.”
“That’s as bad as you get?” Kid Blink looked upset, as much at the gap in Mush’s education as the fact that his friend was being hurt.“
"Son of a clover,” Mush went on. “Son of William Randolph Hearst on a motor car.”
The attending physician’s mouth twitched; she caught herself and set it firmly. The student was concentrating so hard on her stitches that she didn’t even hear what Mush said. Drops of sweat beaded her forehead.
“Peppercorns,” Mush’s voice sounded strained. “Twenty bananas in five bunches.”
“I’d hate to meet you in a dark alley,” said Blink, who decided it was best to accept his friend’s inability to swear.
“Three little bears!” Mush gulped. “Three little bears looking around for goldilocks!”
“Mush, you’re one of a kind,” Blink said. “Nobody else has a brain like you.”
“And nobody else thinks as good as you, either,” Mush said to Blink. “My hand don’t even hurt when I’m swearing my head off.”
“Yeah, you’re lucky your head’s staying on,” Blink agreed, more out of moral support than true belief. “I’m surprised, too.”
“Sorry for my language, Kid.” After apologizing to his friend, he turned to face the medical student. She was finishing her last shaky stitch, her expression somewhere between horror and triumph.
“Sorry, Doctor Lady Student, sir.”
The medical student opened her mouth to correct Mush, but stopped before any words came out. “You’re welcome, young man. On this occasion, bad language is understandable.”
Izuku wonders if it’s fate or coincidence or some divine, villainous force controlling his life from above, but he ends up sharing an apartment with Katsuki a few years after graduating from UA. It’s not a bad arrangement- Izuku can simultaneously save money and carpool with Katsuki to go to work- but he sometimes thinks that maybe he’s just secretly a masochist when the ash-blond male comes back to the apartment angry, messy and a little bit (very) drunk.
lalochezia hawke/anders aren't you glad you gave me your tumblr
lalochezia: Emotional relief gained by using indecent or vulgar language.
He’s not here.
Marian Hawke, typically, doesn’t curse a whole lot. Oh, she definitely does curse, but she’s not a fuck here, fuck there, fuck everywhere kind of girl. A well timed ‘well, shit’ is usually so much more effective, and failing that, she’s always had good luck with blasphemy. 'Andraste’s twisted knickers’, that sort of thing.
This is not an Andraste’s twisted knickers sort of situation. Really, this is a break down and cry situation, but Marian can’t remember the last time she did that. Her mother had died, and that wasn’t a break down and cry situation - staring unseeing into fires was all the rage in coping mechanisms these days.
But Marian doesn’t have a fire, and lighting one specifically to stare into is a bit much even for her sense of drama, and if she didn’t cry for her mother, she definitely isn’t going to do it now. Even if she had specifically asked him to stay here. 'Here’, admittedly, isn’t much - an abandoned ruined, only half a roof and no doors. But here is safe, here is away from the innumerable people who want him (and her) dead, here is away from anyone or anything that might turn him blue and crackly again.
And he is not here.
“ShitfuckMakerdamnit, Anders!” She fights the urge to hit something, to drag a hand over her face and ruin her trademark. Not that it isn’t all rusted and flaky now anyway - she’d started doing it again specifically for the Inquisition, to look the part of the Champion that they’d all needed, and stopped bothering once she was certain she wasn’t about to run into any of their scouts.
You promised, she wants to say, but the words stick in her throat. Because she should have known - a part of her had known - that his promises mean nothing any more. She’s reconsidering the fire idea when a crack behind her has her stilling.
It’s a difficult feat, levelling a greatsword at someone, and sometimes Marian wishes she’d had the foresight to train as a rogue. Much less arm strain. These are the ridiculous thoughts that flicker through her mind as she stares at Anders, the point of her sword resting lightly against his chest.
He doesn’t even have his hands up, the bastard. He stares at her, stricken, but accepting. Like he’s known this moment was coming, and has only been waiting for her to realise it.
“I’m not going to stab you, you moron,” she says finally, slinging the sword back onto her back. “I might hit you, though. Where were you?”
He stares some more, but his eyes are reassuringly brown. “You’re real, aren’t you,” he says after a moment, and her heart breaks. “You would have stabbed me if you weren’t.”
She sighs, stepping in towards him. She takes his hand first, squeezing it tight enough to hurt before pulling him into her, brushing a soft kiss across his lips and pressing her forehead into his shoulder. “I’m real.”
That seems to get through to him, and she can feel him almost shake off whatever unreality he’s been in the grip of while she’s been gone. There’s a heavy pause in the air where she thinks he might apologise, but then his ow sigh puffs out across her her hair, and his free arm wraps hesitantly around her shoulders.
“There was a cat,” he explains. “I had a fish, and thought I’d share it. Next thing I know, the bastard is halfway across the moor and my hands are empty.”
I just love your Nalu storys so here's the prompt: Lalochezia (I'm really curious about that one :))
Lalochezia - The use of abusive language to relieve stress or ease pain.
Ooh that’s a challenging one! I hope you enjoy:)
Lucy Heartfilia slammed her head down onto the counter in frustration. When Mira passed by and asked her if she would care for a drink, she just groaned in response and continued her sulking. It wasn’t until she heard the barstool beside her screech over the floor that she slightly lifted her head to see who had the nerve to bother her at a time like this.
It was ecaxtly who she thought it would be.
“Leave me alone, Natsu.”
“Woah, what’s with you, Lucy?” - “Lucy is so moody!”
“Shut up you two.” Her head found its way back to the cool surface of the bar. “I’m busy.”
Those words! I'm having a difficult time choosing one. Well, here it is: Hannigram, Lalochezia - The use of abusive language to relieve stress or ease pain. Love. <3
Moar Season 2 angst! <3
“And how are you feeling today, Will?”
Will scowled from the chair opposite. “Angry.”
Hannibal tilted his chin thoughtfully. “I wonder if the anger you hold towards me has a deeper root.”
“What does that mean?”
“Anger is not always anger.”
“Jesus Christ,” Will sighed in frustration, palms rasping across his face. “What the fuck is it then?”
Hannibal did not elucidate. The slight arch of his eyebrow was all he needed to say.
Will leapt from his chair, his fury roiling in him.
“Do you want me to tell you that I want to fuck you? Because I’m not going to do that.”
Hannibal looked at him coolly, unperturbed.
“I believe you just did.”
Will’s lip curled in a sneer. “Fuck you.”
“Yes, we’ve established that.”
“You,” Will said, “have destroyed my fucking life. You have torn apart everything that I love, everything that I could possibly care for with so little fucking regard I might as well have been a goddamn toy. Your fucking plaything. Wind me up and see what happens.”
Will’s voice was rising, his chest heaving. Thunder was in his eyes.
“You have turned everything to shit, ripped everything down with your fucking claws. I am rubble, I am goddamn desolate. I can’t – I don’t want to fuck you.”
Hannibal didn’t even raise an eyebrow. “And yet,” he replied, “you do.”
Will was panting, wild and savage. “No,” he said, then as if torn from him, “Yes.” He could taste his own shame on the back of his tongue. "I do.“
Hannibal’s mouth curved into an impossibly gentle smile. Will scowled.
“You’re a fucking asshole.”
Hannibal said nothing.
“A piece of shit,” Will continued, “a goddamn blight to my existence. I fucking hate you.”
His voice began to break, cracking along the seams of his temper. His ribs felt too big for his chest.
“I fucking hate you,” Will said again, and the last word wrenched halfway into a sob.
He sank to his knees, shoulders trembling.
“I fu–” And then Hannibal’s hands were in his hair, fingers sliding through and gripping tight. Will’s arms coiled around Hannibal’s waist and he shook. Neither moved, kept within the odd fierceness of their embrace. Will’s fingers dug into the small of Hannibal’s back, hard enough to leave welts. Both secretly hoped he would draw blood.
Moments drew into long minutes, stretched taut with silence. Eventually, Will’s shaking began to subside. Hannibal relaxed his grip just slightly, drawing Will’s head back to regard him. Will looked up with red-rimmed eyes. Hannibal’s gaze was disquietingly tender.
“Do you feel better?” Hannibal asked.
Will sniffed once, mindless of the wetness on his face.
“Yes,” he replied quietly.
Hannibal released him. For a moment Will stayed. An absurd part of him wanted to bury his face in Hannibal’s stomach and demand comfort, to sink into a warped version of intimacy between them. He knew Hannibal would let him. Will stood. His eyes stayed trained to the floor.
Hannibal extended his hand.
“Same time next week?”
Will looked at the hand before him, the elegant fingers, the neatly pressed cuffs of his shirt. A shadowed corner of his mind traveled upward, imagining the length of his arms beneath, muscles flexing as they pushed themselves up. Will flattening him back down, teeth bared and feral. Flashes of sweat and skin and unholy sound.
Will took his hand. He looked up. He knew with certainty that Hannibal wanted to kiss him. He knew with dread that he wanted to let him.
His mouth looked like sin the way it wrapped around his name. Will’s eyes drifted closed. In the dark he saw Beverly’s face, floating sightless down a murky river.
His eyes snapped open. Hannibal didn’t seem to have moved, but he could feel the heat of his breath where it hadn’t been before.
“Next week,” Will said. His voice sounded jagged and broken. He felt himself fraying along the edges.
He released Hannibal’s hand, wincing at the sudden cold that came with the parting. Hannibal took a small step back, the temperature dropping further. They said nothing. Will turned and let his feet carry him to the door. He fumbled with the handle, his fingers frozen stiff.
“You are not a toy,” Hannibal’s baritone reverberated to the base of his spine. “You are so much more.”
The words sounded like melted chocolate and Will wanted to be smothered and drowned in them. He inhaled sharply, held it in until it hurt, then let go.
“Fuck you, Hannibal.”
Will stepped through the door and did not look like back.
Summary: While spending the summer working on her grandfather’s farm, Camila is less than excited to discover she’ll be living alongside an ex-convict. But Camila’s image of a muscular, tattooed, horrifying prisoner is completely squashed when she meets the mysterious, silent, beautiful young girl by the name of Lauren. Camila is left with an abundance of questions. Why won’t Lauren say a word to anyone? Why was she on probation? And most of all, what is she hiding? Now Camila, who always has the right words, is suddenly tongue tied. But that doesn’t stop her from longing to piece together the fragments of Lauren’s past.