Link to article: If All You Told Was Turned to Gold, If All You Dreamed Was New.
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[[include :scp-wiki:theme:scp-trans-pride |trans-pride-animated-header= --] |trans-pride-logo= --] |trans-pride-footer= --]]] [[include :scp-wiki:component:adult-content-warning |sexually-explicit=1 ]] [[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Lillian needed her more than she had ever needed anything. She resented the implication in herself, that she could ever have to rely on another. That someone else could somehow be in charge of her self esteem and mental well being. It was self-deleterious. It was an embarrassment, an affront to the solitude and self-possessed drive that she had prided herself on for so long. But Heather was beautiful in a way that nearly infuriated her, and it uncoiled a blooming blossom of fire, like one of those fireworks that just rose upward, burnt carbon twirling like snakes and raising, raising. Of course, in practice, they were just basically a fart. A cheap, legal firework for children. But in her chest, it burnt like some illegal cord of dynamite and starlight, bound by scented leather and oh god, she was so surprised that someone was making her do this, feel this. The dazzlecoat, the word danced around in her head like a chant, trying to drown out the popping and colors and noises that filled her, fell to the floor blue, and she blushed. The fireworks had reached her face, and she was even more embarrassed that it was happening, that she could feel it happening. “The noosphere is blue,” she said at last, almost as a mumble to herself. “What?” said Heather, who had stepped out of her four inch heels. Lillian found herself strangely sad about the fact, but she thought that it was something that could be easily fixed next time. The concept of there being a next time sent a cacophony of pops and explosions and joy down along her spine and spreading out like a tail of fire. “Think about it,” she said in the way that made her think of every professor she ever had. She said it in a way that made her feel like the wisest, most beautiful woman in the world. Lillian closed in the distance to Heather and ran her hand through the woman’s dark hair. It felt soft. Clean. Nice. “What’s the color of nothing? It’s not white. It’s not black. It’s blue.” “I don’t know what you mean,” said Heather. Lillian would have responded, but Heather kissed Lillian’s jaw line, silencing another tumult of words for but a moment. Heather’s breath blew gusts of sweet smelling alcohol (girl drink drunk, the smell of something blue and pretty that looked so pretty in a glass, something cloying but not unwelcome, something special that went down easy and kept going down) that Lillian found made her head swim even more. “What are you talking about?” Lillian giggled, and it was a high, girlish sound that almost made her gasp in embarrassment, if it were not for the need to release the bubbling pressure inside of her. “What do you say when something is obvious?” “What do you say?” said Heather. She wasn’t playing, because her face was nestled in the crick of her shoulder and her neck. People loved to put their face in a neck. It was one of the human’s favorite things. Comfort. A mommy thing? Best not to think about this right now. Best not to make it weird. “You say ‘Is the sky blue?’” And Lillian smiled, a drunken lopsided grin of confidence and self-assuredness. Those were the qualities she loved in herself. She liked to think was one of the key reasons she was able to fight for her position. A trans woman in any day and age didn’t get to become the head of a whole, entire site without having a backbone. Lillian liked to think she had it. She especially had it when she thought she was onto something. “It shows agreement. It shows an acknowledgement, come on stop laughing, that the speaker and the listener live in the same agreed upon reality. You can’t argue with someone who says the sky isn’t blue. But that’s also the thing.” Lillian fell backwards onto her couch; Heather fell atop of her. They were giggling, and she felt like she was in high school again. A complete, girlhood, denied to her, flashed before her eyes in a sad, drunken array. Heather had beautiful eyes. Dark, like her hair. Lillian reached up to run her hands through them as Heather’s hands slid under her shirt. They deftly made their place under her bra, and Lillian relished the way Heather’s breath quickened as she squeezed. “Great tits,” said Heather. “Thanks. I grew them myself.” A stupid grin, a stupid joke, but it was one she had always been proud of. It was a disarmer. It always made the other person smile. “Me, too,” Heather said and laughed, drunk and high-pitched and dripping with so much excitement that a wave of butterflies filled Lillian’s body. “Tell me what the thing is.” Lillian could feel that Heather was all anticipation. An electrical connection between them, like sparks that radiated and met each other in the middle under some explosive chemical reaction. Lillian’s hand reached out between Heather’s legs and squeezed. Being with another trans woman was always so pleasant. Everything was softer. It smelled nicer than any man. There was a familiarity in all of her little touches, in the way she knew where to linger and exactly to stay away from. This was probably too forward. This was maybe something she wouldn’t like. But, Heather gasped, and did she growl? Just a little, from the depth of her throat, an aroused noise that was almost bestial. Lillian’s blueish eyes danced. I did that, she thought. I caused that noise to happen, and that means she wants to fuck me until I die. “The sky isn’t really blue. Well, I mean it is. But what is blue? It’s light reflecting through oxygen. And think of how often the sky is pale and gray. Think of the ever changing nature of weather and time of day. When we say, is the sky blue, we are talking about a consensus without paying attention to the actual reality of the situation. Saying it is also saying that you’re willing to ignore all the times the sky isn’t blue. You’re saying that you’re willing to flatten all of the vast and varied colors of the sky into something so simple and so crass as blue.” Lillian blushed. She had said more than she meant to. It was hard for her to decide if this was an actual opinion or something she thought was funny. She feared it started out as the latter but was rapidly becoming the former. She wondered if it meant something, until Heather tweaked her nipple in such a way that she moaned and writhed, snakelike, underneath her in a way that she was one thousand certain had to be driving Heather crazy, had to be like pouring gasoline into the fireworks. “The sky could be gold,” Heather murmured, and she kissed Lillian. Heather’s lips were soft and only slightly dry. Lillian moved her leg to allow Heather greater access to the rest of her body. It was scientific. Tab A into Slot A. As scientific as creating your own Ikea furniture. Heather’s breath was stippled, almost, excited. Her cheeks were flush with excitement and drunkenness and the taboo of being about to fuck one’s boss in all of the ways that a woman in some hardcore, but ultimately romantic pornography would. Heather kissed Lillian’s thigh, a soft suction that ended with enough teeth to probably leave a mark. Girls always loved to leave their marks, but at least, this one was somewhere easy to hide. “It’s the same with normalcy. The normal is blue. We ignore the times it’s grey. We close our fucking eyes the pink in the -ah!- dying fucking light.” And then Heather kissed her again. Her tongue was past her teeth, probing and invasive, like a sexy xenomorph. It was aggressive, needful, and Lillian tried her best to fight back. What was the thing in the old fanfic? She tried to fight Heather’s tongue for dominance, but she was no match for the impassioned, younger woman. Heather took a handful of Lillian’s white hair, and she pulled, not gentle, but not unkind. It was a sharp, almost hot pain, like the nerves were being pulled and played with. It was a sexual trepanation. Except, no blood. No hole (and she almost laughed at that, crazily and high-pitched, but she bit her own lip just a little bit and it went away [she must have been drunker than she thought]). But she felt the rush of adrenaline, the rush of feeling and excitement, like oxygen filling her body, like starting a fire. The perfect fuel and base and pure. Lillian spread her legs further so Heather could come even closer. Heather used the hair like reins to pull her head back, revealing a neck that could be described as swanlike, so Heather could kiss and bite the skin of her neck. She wasn’t suckling. Classy enough to avoid giving her boss hickeys. That was good. That was very good. And besides, Lillian didn’t mind losing this one. Not even a little bit. She was undressing her, and Lillian didn’t fight against this. She held her arms up, followed the movements of her clothing as they were pulled off by soft, warm hands. In her half-nakedness, braless but with panties still present and accounted for, especially with Heather still clothed, still so put together, Lillian felt like a maiden, a beautiful prize to be fought for. It embarrassed her, in a way, and the blush came back despite herself. But it felt so wonderful. It felt so entirely good. “Do you want to take this to the bedroom?” Lillian finally said. “You have a nice apartment, by the way,” said Heather, as though that were an answer. And then she said, “Yeah.” And then she said, “Yes.” And then she said, “Please.” “What do you think about the blue stuff?” “I think,” and Heather paused, trying her best to think while being aroused. It was so fun to see the effect one had on another. Especially if it was like this. Lust. Need. “I think this sounds more like a bedroom discussion.” “Yeah, you’re right,” said Lillian, and she took Heather’s hand. It was clear Heather wanted to pick Lillian up but in the last moment reconsidered. A bridal carry would be erotic, but falling would ruin the mood. Smart. Lillian slid off the couch, naked besides the panties, and she led Heather into the bedroom. She slammed the door behind her. They didn’t leave the room for the longest time.