#To gaze through a tumultuous storm and be able to manage to the other side of it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

delimeful · 3 years ago

Text

leave your shaded hollow

custom commission for @borrowedblue! just in time for the end of mermay :)

warnings: blood, injury, fear, miscommunication

There was blood in the water.

Virgil pressed a hand against his shoulder as he swam, trying to stifle the trickles of red that were pluming out into the ocean around him and dissolving. He’d lost his bag somewhere in the scuffle, which meant that this scavenging trip had been for nothing and he now had nothing to stifle the bleeding with.

He shouldn’t have been bitten at all, but the eel swarm had ambushed him with practiced ease, and even a mer as quick as him hadn’t been able to dodge all of them. He’d gained a lead, but he couldn’t go home as he was now. They’d follow his blood trail for as long as they could, and if any of his neighbors were out and about…

The swarm would have no compunctions about changing targets for a slower meal.

Everything was dark down here, enough so that even Virgil, who wasn’t exactly a shallow-reefs type of mer, could barely make out more than shapes even with his pupils expanded to catch all the light they could. His sonar would have helped, but sending out a signal meant that other creatures could receive that signal. Not a chance.

A low glow caught his eye, and he dove down towards it, easily identifying the source as bioluminescent plants rather than a predator’s lure.

The plants were dotted and undersized at the entrance, but a bit further into the cave, against the back wall, he could see clusters of them growing strong and tall. Mindful of the fact that he had sparse moments before trouble caught up with him, he darted further into the cave, hurriedly gripping the plants at the base and tearing some of the fibers off.

As expected, they worked well enough as makeshift bandages, and he wadded a mass of softer, absorbant roots against the wound as makeshift gauze before wrapping his arm with the glowing fibers. The luminescence would be attention-catching, but if he covered it with his hand, he was sure he would have better luck than if he tried to escape while leaking blood everywhere.

He tied the faux bandages off and plunged his hands into a nearby cluster of plants, scrubbing off as much of the excess blood as he possibly could. If he was lucky, the concentration of bloodscent would distract the swarm here for a good while.

In front of him, the back wall of the cave suddenly lit up with bright, bioluminescent patterns.

Virgil froze, trying to comprehend the change. Had he brushed up against a cluster of coral or something? He’d never seen anything growing on cave walls that had such a distinct pattern, nor one that lit up so rapidly.

The ‘wall’ suddenly shifted back, and Virgil’s heart kicked into overdrive.

The cave was much, much deeper than it had first appeared, and much wider beyond this entrance tunnel-- the tunnel that had apparently been blocked off by the body of the creature before him.

He could only see parts of it as it shifted around, and even those were only lit partially by the plants’ dim radiance: sleek dorsal fins, the glint of sharp claws, and an enormous, ridged tail dotted with those luminescent patterns.

Abruptly, there were two huge, glowing blue eyes in front of him, scanning the tunnel with slit pupils.

Leviathan.

Virgil’s breath had gone still in his chest, frozen in place by the ice running through his veins. He’d heard the rumors about Leviathans, unspeakably massive monsters that lived down in the depths of the ocean, able to achieve impossible feats on a whim, with moods as tumultuous as surface storms.

The creature hadn’t seen him yet, the glow of his bandages helping him blend into the plants around him. It’s face was partially lit by the eerie glow of its eyes, and with how close it was, Virgil could see the twitch of its nose as it inhaled, scenting the water.

He barely kept from whimpering, realizing that his blood had thoroughly saturated the cave by now. If this predator was anything like a shark, he was about to be torn to shreds.

The creature leaned forwards, pupils gradually expanding to see better, and when its mouth drew closer, Virgil could see the mass of razor-sharp fangs that lurked inside. His stillness began to fracture under the force of his fear, and he drew in a tiny, shallow breath.

Those eyes flicked over to lock onto him in an instant.

In the next breath, Virgil was fleeing, past the cave entrance and the open waters, every muscle in his body straining to get away, get away, get away. He couldn’t hear whether or not the monster was pursuing, his heartbeat roaring in his ears, but he wasn’t stopping, not for anything--

Something collided with him heavily, knocking all the momentum right out of him as he went spinning through the water, disoriented.

He noticed the smell first: a thick and cloying iron tang, as though he was breathing in more blood than water.

A breath later, the pain caught up with him.

The eel was latched onto his side, sinking teeth deep into his abdomen and tearing at the flesh there. He choked out a scream, trying to drive his thumbs into the sea snake's eyes, but the rest of the swarm were close behind by now, and they began to circle and constrict around him.

He was caught. Even if he somehow got away, the new wound wouldn’t be so easily brushed off or bandaged up. He thrashed sharply against the swarm anyways, digging his claws into muscle and snapping his fangs at what he could reach, but for each eel he drove off, there were two new ones to take its place.

Gills blocked, barely able to move, he was struggling not to black out when he noticed a set of familiar glowing eyes in the distance.

Half the swarm scattered the moment the Leviathan drew close, apparently easily able to recognize the glowing patterns that flickered along its tail. The other half hesitated, unwilling to release their prey, but then it reached out with one huge, clawed hand, and the rest of the swarm vanished into the dark.

Virgil wished he could do the same, but being released had hurt almost as bad as being bitten, and his fins only fluttered weakly in response to his mind’s desperate shrieking.

The Leviathan’s hand curled around him, grip firm but somehow not blocking any of Virgil’s gillslits or even grazing him with any of those long claws. He managed a frankly pitiful wiggle of protest and then went stiff with the resulting wave of pain that rolled through him.

There was a little rumble from the creature as it drew closer, bringing Virgil up to its face. He went tense, scrunched his eyes shut, bracing for pain as he got nearer and nearer to those glinting teeth--

“Are you okay?” The voice was low, just above a whisper, and sounded surprisingly… young?

Virgil opened his eyes, finding that narrow, glowing gaze locked on him, dizzyingly close. The silence stretched for a breath, and when he managed to speak past his bruised ribs and the terror clogging his throat, the word came out confused and small. “What?”

“You’re bleeding,” the Leviathan informed him, turning him a little bit to inspect the injury. Virgil curled in on himself like a sea star, despite knowing that it was a pointless gesture. If someone this big wanted to take a bite out of him, there was little he could do to stop it. “It looks really bad.”

“Hurts pretty bad, too,” Virgil huffed out, watching the Leviathan’s every move, eyes tight with pain. What was the point of this? Was he going to die quick or slow? When? The uncertainty of it all made his spinal fins shudder.

“Oh.” The Leviathan recoiled a bit, his earfins drooping like a scorned child’s. “I tried to get to you before the eels, but they’re very fast. I’m sorry.”

Virgil blinked and unfurled a little, taken aback by the giant’s earnest apology.

“If you’re sorry, you can-- can let me go,” he tried, speaking carefully.

The Leviathan cocked his head curiously, eyebrows drawing inwards. “But-- If I leave you like this, you won’t survive long. Not down here.”

It was true. His hands already felt numb, his fins distant, the cold encroaching as he lost more and more blood. He would succumb to his injuries before making it out of the abyss. He’d known it even as he asked, wondered if it was worth a slower, longer death just to avoid becoming prey.

The Leviathan tilted his head in the opposite direction consideringly, and then lifted his other hand and advanced on Virgil. “Hold still, please. I will try to make this quick.”

A shock of fear ran through him, trying to revitalize his sluggish limbs, but all his body managed was wave after wave of uncontrollable trembling. He couldn’t avoid the approaching claws, couldn’t even bear to close his eyes to avoid seeing his impending disembowelment.

The Leviathan’s fingers curled in, tucking the claws away, and it was a knuckle that ended up pressing solidly against his torso, right next to his wound.

“Please,” Virgil managed to force out, terrified and disoriented, not even sure what he was asking.

There was a low hum, the sound almost resonant, and Virgil watched as every glowing mark along the being’s skin flared up in hypnotizing patterns.

A short, searing burn, like accidentally passing over a too-hot vent, and abruptly, the pain was gone.

The Leviathan withdrew, brightening up with excitement. “I did it!”

Virgil barely noticed the grip around him relax, fumbling his hands over where there had formerly been a gaping wound. His fingers ghosted over thick scar tissue, perfectly aligned to where the bite had been, with no lingering pain to speak of. “What-- What exactly did you do?”

“I healed you,” the Leviathan replied proudly, and then hesitated. “Right?”

Virgil found himself tugged back up to the Leviathan’s face with a yelp, sending his heart racing anew. The giant’s gaze was narrowed fiercely as he inspected Virgil’s new scar, and it took him a moment to realize that it wasn’t a glare. The Leviathan was squinting, as though his vision was impaired.

“It’s-- No, yeah, it’s healed,” he reassured the deep dweller, a beat late. “But… how?”

“Oh! Healing magic,” he replied, as though the answer was obvious. “I wasn’t sure how well it would work-- learning magic is hard, but I’m a pro-di-gy.”

The last word was carefully enunciated, as though he’d mispronounced it in the past. Virgil struggled to come to terms with the fact that magic was apparently real, and that what was almost certainly a child had just used it on him.

“You should swim slow,” the kid told him, hand slowly flattening out to give him more space. “That way you don’t pull on the new tissue! How do you normally swim so fast?”

“I practice a lot.” Virgil pushed himself up into open water, waiting for the other shell to drop. Was a Leviathan really just… letting him go? “Why’d you heal me?”

“Because you were hurt?” the kid replied, doing that curious little head-tilt again. As though the answer was obvious. His gaze flickered between Virgil and the surface light trickling down from above, and he rushed out another question. “How do humans make such big structures float?”

Virgil’s tail flicked anxiously. He could leave, right now. The kid wouldn’t be able to catch him.

“I think they make them hollow, full of air, so they don’t sink,” he answered, watching as the kid wiggled excitedly, muttering about shipwrecks, his patterns pulsating brightly. He felt a little faint at the sight of that razor-sharp smile. “I’ve, uh, never met a Leviathan before. Who-- I mean, what do you eat? Just curious.”

“I eat krill and plankton mostly! And some plants that taste good, or help stomach aches,” the kid listed eagerly. “I’ve met a few little mers, but normally they pass out or swim away really fast when they see me.”

He paused and pressed his lips together, like he hadn’t meant to say so much, casting another glance at the lighter waters above. He was expecting him to flee, Virgil realized, and trying to ask as many questions as he could before he did.

… The kid had saved his life. The least he could do was be polite company.

“What’s your name, kid?” Virgil asked, crossing his arms as though to reaffirm that he wasn’t leaving any time soon.

The kid’s fins twitched in surprise. “My name is Logan,” he replied, looking at Virgil with those wide glowing eyes.

“I’m Virgil,” Virgil said, flitting up a little bit to be eye level with him. “You, um… You got anything else you want to ask?”

This time, when Logan lit up with joy, Virgil slanted a smile right back.

#sanders sides #Mermaids #mermaid au #platonic analogical #ts virgil #ts logan #g/t #commissioned works #my writing #writing #lysh #leave your shaded hollow #oneshot

339 notes · View notes

boxboysandotherwhump · 4 years ago

Text

Monsters and mushrooms

Tags: @salamancialilypad @whumpfigure @albino-whumpee @comfy-whumpee @ashintheairlikesnow @haro-whumps @moose-teeth @vickytokio @yet-another-heathen @orchidscript

A Nature fun fact: Bioluminescent mushrooms do exist actually and snails have the habit to foam when distressed in order to deter predators and protect their soft body from tiny satans like ants.

Chapter 4

CW: emotional overload, negative stimming, fear of abandonment, hints at past abusive parent

Sahar hasted up to the farm, stumbling on the crooked steps.

He knew he wasn’t supposed to cry but he’d forgotten how to stop and the world around him dissolved into a melted aquarelle painting of leaves and grass and roots as he stormed past the house.

He wedged himself between the root and the old stump they chop firewood on, eyes fixed on the axe still rammed inside, his back hitting the root over and over and over again, while he purged all the unwanted feelings from his body through movement.

There would be bruises tomorrow, Sahar thought when his violent rocking finally slowed into a gentle rhythm.

His lips trembled around one long shaky exhale and his tears finally subsided. Their tracks were only crusty streaks of salt water now, not overwhelming aches.

Sometimes, Sahar hated his body, hated it for being overwhelmed by the stupidest things, hated to have a brain full of misfiring neurons at war with themselves. A brain that made it unbelievably more difficult to exist, as what he was, in this world.

Maybe this was some kind of divine punishment.

But for what?

“Sahar?” Moira’s head peeked over the root and her worried face peered down at his cowering form. “There you are, sweetheart.”

He didn’t meet her eyes, only tugged his knees tight to his chest, ready to hide his face from whatever scolding was to come.

There had always been reprehension when he hadn’t been able to behave himself. Until all of his mother’s angry words hadn’t been enough and she’d abandoned him. At long last.

Ugly icky fear gnawed away at his insides, a sharp toothed beast he desperately wanted to banish but couldn’t. He rocked up against the root once more. Let his shoulder blades collide with it until he felt the scratch of rough bark through his grey linen shirt.

Sometimes his thoughts paused, stayed on safe routes and away from the maelstroms of his ever racing mind when he rocked or tapped or hummed enough. But now was no such time. .

Sahar’s thoughts spun and spiraled. Crashed violently into one another on their collision curses.

Please don’t throw me out. Away. I can behave. I can be disciplined. I promise. I promise. I promise. Please!

The curtain closed and left the window dark.

“Sahar?”

Wait.

There were no curtains here. And no city streets. No concrete roads or bleeding knees.

Only warm earth under his fingertips.

A long grass blade brushed his calf and Sahar closed his eyes to focus on the barely there tickle against his skin. The expansion of his ribcage, how it filled with the lavender scented air, inherent to his home, on every inhale and his eyes fluttered open.

“Yeah. I’m here.”

Here. Here. Here. And I can stay.

Moira began to heave Asmodea over the root with a loud huff that had Sahar instantly uncurl and twist around to take the snail with a firm, gentle grip from her arms. The snail immediately clung onto him as best as her soft slimy body allowed, wiggling in exasperated little waves until Sahar finally sat back down and put her over his lap.

“There, there baby. There you you you, there you go.”

He couldn’t help but smile as Asmodea draped herself flat over his legs, making no move to retreat into her shining shell. It’s brown and black stripes still shimmered from the shower Sahar had given her yesterday.

“Sahar? Can you listen to me?”

Hunching protectively over Asmodea, he gave a hesitant nod. “Yes.”

Moira didn’t like it when she had to repeat herself. It made her livid when he or Ansgar ended up absorbed in one-

Ansgar.

Something hot and heavy lodged itself in Sahar’s throat at the memory of his furious gaze. Ansgar had never looked at him like this, ever before, but Sahar realized why, now, after he had a moment to collect his racing thoughts, to calm his hammering heart. He really had been bad. Immature, thoughtless, utterly ludicrous.

But even so he knew. God how he knew.

Even after everything-

“Ansgar and Eric persuaded the… headhunter, to try his luck up in Berlin.” Moira began, lips pursed in displeasure. “Your house arrest remains nevertheless. Don’t give me that look. You’ve been irresponsible and ill-mannered, young man. No matter how good a reason you may think you had, you have to control yourself.”

A protest burned on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed the sizzle of anger down, buried it deep inside himself where all his other unsafe emotions were banished.

“I know. I I- I’m sorry.”

Moira shook her head with a sigh, grey curls swishing softly from side to side. “Just be better from now on and stay put for the next few days. No strolling through the farm woods either.”

His fingers began to tap an anxious rhythm onto Asmodea’s shell, while her body pulsed in soothing waves over his thighs. One of her eyes gently nudged his forearm.

“What, uhm what, but if if if one of the snails, if one gets lost and-“

Moira’s strict tone nipped his tender try at backtalk at the bud, rendering him silent for good.

“Ansgar and I will take care of that then. I have to go now. The others already left to check the InD-Unit’s for a possible breakthrough. I don’t trust one word out of this guy’s mouth, and I expect you to stay close to the house. Did I make myself clear?”

The scar on his arm stretched uncomfortably as he curled tighter around Asmodea, desperate for his friend’s silent support. Their soft body wiggled gently in response.

“Yes, ma’am.”

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

“We gonna go pick glowy shrooms! Glowy shrooms! Glowy shrooms!”

Mara shrieked, running in circles around Charlotte, a woven basket clutched tightly in her small brown hands. Her yellow hairband fluttered and the ‘thud thud thud’ of her prosthetic leg got drowned out by the other children’s laughter, hot on her heels in a tumultuous chase for the basket.

A small pale boy broke out into a bright grin as he caught himself from stumbling over the hem of his pants, way too long for his small, stubby legs.

“Did Julian steal Hanne’s clothes again?” Kaja emerged from one of the orphanage’s many crooked entrances with a box of flashlights under one arm. A bag full of pocket knives dangled from the other as she dodged a low hanging wooden beam with practiced ease.

Charlotte took the box from her with an irritated sigh. “I’m glad he’s wearing clothes at all, this time.”

“Are you sure you can handle them on your own?”

Kajas cocky grin vanished under Charlotte icy glare. Blue eyes frosted over as she yanked the bag from Kajas hands and shouted: “Everyone who does not want to stay home lines up here now! You don’t lose your flashlight and when I see one pocket knife flicked open for anything other than picking mushrooms you celebrate the festival in your room. Am I clear?”

The children’s excited shrieks died in an instant as they hurried to get in line, waiting obediently for Charlotte to hand every one of them their items and making a show off storing them dutifully away in their pants pockets and backpacks.

The perfect picture of orderly compliance.

Everyone knew it would last for as long as it would take them to leave the orphanages grounds.

___

The academy yard’s gravel crunched under Gideon’s boots as he snuck away from yet another disciplinary task. He had scrubbed all the bathrooms to shine in the past, had assisted in the kitchen more than once, and had sorted the trainings gear enough times to know it by heart.

Sometimes he even understood why it always ended up like this.

What he couldn’t understand, however, was having to clean up the entire two story training hall because that stupid farm boy provoked him. For once, he hadn’t even done anything. At least nothing that wouldn’t have been deserved.

Not that the little shit had been helpless.

“Where do you think you’re going?!”

Gideon nearly choked at his upperclassman’s call. His hands clutched the spear’s strap dangling from his shoulder tighter and he turned to face the young man who had hurried over from their living quarters. His dark thick brows were harsh, frowning lines in a permanently stern face.

“Berkan.” The corners of Gideon’s mouth twitched. He was really in no mood to deal with this stuck-up right now. “Just out for some late night practice.”

It wasn’t even a lie. He did want to get some extra training in, only someplace where he had some damn peace for once. Who could have thought the countryside would be even more suffocating than a life under his father’s roof.

Turning around before Berkan opened his mouth in protest Gideon hurriedly added,“Just finished the cleaning ‘n shit. Go look for yourself if you want.” before he skidded down the large staircase leading down from the academy campus.

Even if Berkan decided to check up on his task Gideon would be already gone by the time the other boy realized he hadn’t done shit.

____

Sahar rubbed slow circles over Asmodea’s head, right between her antennas. It was one of her favorite spots, right after the underside of her foot, when Sahar would gently wipe it clean with a fluffy towel whenever she’d managed to get something unpleasantly stuck to her body. Like the godforsaken acidic tree sap she had blindly glid through on their first forest excursion.

Asmodea carefully extended one eye, gently poking Sahar’s other hand while she began to softly nibble his leg. The raspy sandpaper-like sensation made him chuckle and his fingers began to tap over the warm earth.

“Hey, hey hey. I’m fine. Don’t, don’t worry.”

Another enthusiastic nibble made him smile, bright and toothy for the first time on a day unpredictable like a summer monsoon.

Sahar was just about to coax Asmodea from his lap and get some strawberry, when a gut wrenching shriek pierced the evening air.

Something rustled through the bushes.

He shouldered Asmodea and sprung to his feet in one fluid motion, eyes fixed on the timberline and heart stuck in his throat.

Don’t tell me?! Did something break through the border after all?

His pulse hammered in his ears as Sahar listened to the sound of snapping twigs, to the rapid ‘thud thud thud’ coming closer with every second ticking by. His thoughts raced. Would he be fast enough to hurl Asmodea over the root? To jump after? His eyes snapped to the axe. Could he run at all?

The bushes parted.

Sahar was about to throw his friend over the root, risking an injury to her precious shell, when he saw who had screamed. His body froze dead in its tracks and Asmodea fummed in paniked protest.

Mara had burst out of the thick bushes, covered in scratches, her little face blotchy and tear crusted. The yellow hairband that had been seemingly fused to her head was nowhere to be found and the glittering drawings on her prosthetic leg were smeared over with dirt. Sahar was kneeling by her side in an instant.

“Hey hey hey hey what- what happened? Mara?”

Wiping at tears rolling in endless rivers down flushed chubby cheeks, Sahar scanned her shivering disheveled form for injuries that, to his immense relief, didn’t seem to exist.

“Hey hey hey, It’s fine. It’s fine now. I- I’m here. Every- everything’s fine, fine now.”

“Nonononono.” Her tiny hands fisted in his shirt as she pressed her forehead against his collarbone, shaking and rubbing her head into Sahars skin.

Her fluffy curls brushed his chin.

“Monster. A monster. Monster at the glowy clea- clealing!”

“Glowy- what what what do, what do you mean?”

His hands tapped a rapid-fire rhythm over her shaking shoulder blades as Sahar tried to make some sense of her choked-off babbling.

Sobbing, Mara dug the remnants of a squashed luminescent mushroom out of her pocket. The glowing blue pulp dripped down her fingers and painted sparkling droplets of night sky onto the muddy earth.

“Oh. Oh! The the The clearing! I know, I know, know now. That that that’s close. Were, were were you, were you- were- fuck.” Balling his hands into fist tight enough to leave crescent indentations in the soft flesh of his palm, Sahar forced a long breath in through his nose and out of his uncooperative mouth.

Slow now, sweetheart. Don’t get too worked up again.

“Were you and the others pick- pick picking- for the fest?”

Burying herself back against Sahar’s chest with a frantic nod Mara howled: “The others- the monster, the monster trapped them!”

A breakthrough. Fuck, fuck. Fuck! There must have been one.

She trembled as he held her at arm’s length, meeting dark panic hazy eyes with a determination he thought had died that fateful autumn night eight years ago.

“Listen Mara. I, I I go to the clearing and and and you run to to to the, run to the tea house. Every- everyone’s gonna be, be there warming up for for for for tomorrow.”

He hastily wiped her cheeks before hoisting her over the root. Sahar flashed her a wry smile, trying to look braver than he felt.

“Everything’s gon- gon- gonna be fine.”

Sahar willed his hands not to shake as he tore the Axe from the cutting stump and vanished into the woods.

#whump #whump writing #emotional whump #mutant whumpee #mutant whump #negative stimming #emotional overload #autistic mc close to meltdown #but his pet helps him calm down :3 #nothing better than snail snuggles #some flowers have teeth #sahar #gideon #charlotte #post apocalypse whump #post apocalypse story #post apocalypse

26 notes · View notes

celsidebottom · 4 years ago

Text

Day 2 of @sashaweek: AUs

This is set as a sort of prequel to my big bang fic from this last year, Hope on the Horizon, a pirate/privateer au where the pcs (minus Bertie of course) serve under Captain Zolf and are tasked with investigating weird storms.

This is Sasha’s early experience on the ship and how she learns to trust the crew.

“Oi, new girl, wanna join?”

Sasha glanced down from her perch in the rigging, where she was barely visible in the dim light of the setting sun. Below her, a few members of the crew sat in a circle with cards in their hands.

“No.”

“Alright, fair enough,” Grizzop said with a shrug. “Offer stands, though.”

She said nothing and allowed Grizzop, Azu, and Cel to carry on with their game. It would have been easy to cheat, especially with the way most of them waved their hands around so carelessly, but Sasha wasn’t in the mood to attempt any form of socialization.

Not that she ever was in that sort of mood, really. Since joining the crew of Hope’s Call, the most interaction she’d had was with the captain, Zolf, who brought her aboard in the first place after he found her escaping some of Barrett’s people and she used him as an impromptu shield. He had offered her a job, where she could really be free from those chasing her, and it seemed as good an offer as she would get.

But that didn’t mean she had to be chatty and cozy with the crew. All she’d managed was a quick introduction after Zolf showed her around. He then left her to her own devices, where she was free to climb around in the rigging and make her own little home in the crow’s nest, closest to the sky and farthest from people.

Even if the crew seemed nice and friendly, Sasha knew not to get involved, knew that they would sacrifice each other for their own safety or profit in an instant. That’s how people worked. She didn’t need social skills to know that.

The waves crashed violently against the hull, rocking Hope’s Call to and fro at the whim of the ocean. The side to side thrashing never bothered Sasha, and she actually enjoyed the motion as she clutched on tight to the rigging and let the sea spray wash over her.

That is, until another wave came and pitched her overboard.

She didn’t know how to swim. She’d never had to. Flailing and splashing, another wave smashed her sideways and sent her under the surface.

It wasn’t how she expected to go. She figured that Barrett would get to her one day, or she would face some similarly violent end. To sink down beneath an ocean, buffeted and barred from the surface by a storm, had never been in the cards.

She still tried to breach the surface, to fill her burning lungs with precious air, but it was of no use. This was it.

Sasha shut her eyes, and waited.

But the end didn’t come. Instead, arms wrapped around her and yanked her to the surface. She and Zolf gasped for breath in the tumultuous waters.

“Hang on, we’ve got you,” he cried, then turned back to their ship. “I’ve got her! Pull us back!”

On deck, Azu, Cel, and Grizzop pulled on the rope tied to Zolf’s middle to haul the pair back to the ship where they could scrabble up the side to safety. They then both collapsed into coughing, retching up the water they’d swallowed.

“You’re safe. You need to rest. Get your air back.”

Normally, Sasha would have bristled at the way Azu placed a hand on her shoulder, but there was something in the warmth of Azu’s touch and gaze that kept Sasha motionless as a pink light flowed through the contact.

“There, that should help.”

“What was that?”

“Healing magic. From Aphrodite.”

“Oh. Well… thanks.” Sasha then turned to Zolf, who still sat beside her. “And thank you for getting me out of that.”

“Of course. We don’t leave a crewmate behind.”

“Right.”

As if detecting the disbelief in her tone, Cel stepped in. “We’re a family here. I know it might be hard to believe that, but we’ve got your back. It’s not like we’re just going to let you drown because you’re a bit antisocial. Besides! I’m social enough for all of us!”

For the first time in ages, Sasha smiled. It was the faintest upturn of her lips, but it was a smile nonetheless.

She knew better than to trust people. They would leave at the slightest provocation. But sat on a deck, surrounded by the people that had just saved her life, she was starting to believe that maybe this crew would be different. Maybe, just maybe, they were a family after all.

“Mind if I join?”

Grizzop, Azu, and Cel all gave each other surprised looks, then scooched aside so that Sasha could sit and join their card game. Cel dealt her in.

“We don’t bet money, just regular items,” Grizzop explained, gesturing with one of his arrows. “Azu’s got perfume, Cel’s got… whatever those things are.”

Cel held up a small contraption that whirred quietly even though it showed no sign of motion or function, then placed it back in the center.

Sasha paused, brow creased, as she considered what she might be able to use. In the end, she opened her jacket and pulled out a dagger, then set it in the pot. It wasn’t as if they weren’t all armed anyway, and if they’d wanted to do her harm, they could have left her to drown.

But they didn’t.

With a faint smile, Sasha looked over her cards. “I won’t even cheat this round. Just to say thanks.”

“Thanks for what?” Azu asked.

“For… you know. Letting me be a part of your crew.”

Azu smiled back, beaming, but then Grizzop interrupted.

“What was that about cheating?”

“I said I wouldn’t cheat this round.”

“Do you normally cheat when playing cards!?”

“Don’t you!?”

#rusty quill gaming #rqg #sashaweek2021 #Sasha Racket #Zolf Smith #Azu rqg #Cel Sidebottom #Grizzop drik acht Amsterdam #pirate au #sasha week 2021 #my fic #I saw somebody else do a pirate au already but it doesn't matter #Sasha should get to be a sailor!!#let her be on the water!!!!

26 notes · View notes

bowieandqueen11 · 4 years ago

Text

Until It’s Too Late / Losers Club Imagine

Request: could you write something about stanley’s daughter showing up to kill it and how the club would react n stuff? if not that’s fine!!!

Are you trying to make me CrY???

Please comment and reblog, if my page is still so inactive I may stop writing

The grass by the quarry was soft on the soles of your feet, surprisingly warm, a gentle tickle against your ankles as you waded through the forest green. Each strand moved in the summer breeze as easily as through your hair, the waves rustling as if alive, matching your steady breaths. The grass is taller than you’ve seen in your memories; meadow-like but still green. All you wanted was to see the blue cornflowers, scarlet poppies, white asters and even the thistles that your dad had used to describe to you, from hot summers long gone and alive now only in your memory.

You swallowed thickly, trying not to think about the last time your dad had told you stories about the quarry, about the clown, about his friends. The painful gleam in his eye, the scratching of his palm as he gazed at your bedroom wall without even seeing, without even really being present all suddenly made sense to you. Before you reached the broken wood of the Clubhouse’s hatch, hoping the information the lady out the Town House had given you was correct and the Losers were really seen heading out here, you had to stop. Choking in some air, you placed your hand on the bark of a nearby tree, leaning on it for a second. You never realised, when he told you about the time the Losers had stood by the quarry holding hands, knowing they were saying goodbye to each other, but promising that nothing would be stronger than the bond of love that flowed between them, that he was trying to say goodbye to you too.

Leaning down the open hatch, you hear some slight murmurs, deciding if Richie Trashmouth Tozier was actually down there, humour was the best way to introduce yourself.

‘Hey Losers, it’s time to float!’, you shout down the hatch, pressing your lips together as you await a response. Your eyes try to adjust to the darkness, but you still can’t see anything other than shifting blobs. That is, until you feel the reverberations of hand gripping onto the ladder.

‘Hey Richie, is that you again?’

‘Eddie, you’ve literally had your eyes on me for the last five minutes, you know it wasn’t.’

‘I w-wish it w-was.’

You fall back, stumbling onto your feet as you see the head of Ben Hanscom pop out of the hatch. It takes him a second, as he looks around the trees with furrowed eyebrows, but after a second his eyes locked on yours. You saw the shock register on his face before he could hide it, climbing out onto the grass with a familiar smile playing on his lips.

‘It’s alright guys, you can come out. I guess Uris managed to join us after all.’ You could tell that he wanted to come over and hug you, but was waiting for someone else to make the first move. His voice was much sweeter than even Stanley had told you; it was the richness of his tones, luxurious and warm and ever as kind as he had remembered.

The others start out, spilling out like marbles rolling across the floor as they join him up top, Richie boinking his head lightly against the frame and managing to knock his glasses onto the floor. Perhaps that’s why he was the last one to see you, the last face of grief in the group. For perhaps a split second, his shock was suspended, the surprise protecting him until it shattered like glass. I guess you could call it shock, but to you they're they're the same thing for the first fraction of a second: an inability to compute. His hand lands on Eddie’s jacket without even realising, fingernails digging into muscle until Kaspbrak shoves him off with a wince and an ‘ow!’

Fragments of thought, splinters of words, and droplets of silence spun into a kaleidoscopic jumble over the Losers Club, shifted infinitesimally, and fell into an incredible new pattern as some began to collect their thoughts, shaking the image of their dead friend off the top of your face.

‘Whoa, Uris, when did you become a teenage girl?’

‘I’m sorry, w-who are you?’

‘You can’t be-can you? I mean...no...that’s not possible,’ Beverly adds, moving over to slightly hide behind Ben’s wide shoulder. Her eyes shifted to the side again and became glazed with a glassy layer of tears. As she blinked, they dripped from her eyelids and slid down her cheeks. She bit her lip tightly in attempt to hide any sound that wanted to escape from her mouth; your heart sinking, not fully comprehending before how much your presence would affect you, only focusing on how meeting them would complete you.

Her lower lip quivered as words slowly made their way out of her mouth again. 'You’re... Stanley’s daughter...’, she began, yet what followed was engulfed in the tremors as Ben turns to wrap her into his thumping chest.

‘Stanley’s dead, this must be that frickin clown playing with us.’ Eddie gasps, reaching into the back pocket of his trousers to pull out and shake his inhaler, his cheeks puffing out as he takes a hit. Richie glances over at him behind his glasses with unbelieving eyes, shoving his hands into his pocket.

‘Come on man, if he was going to hurt us, he’d send us a version of the actual Stanley instead.’

‘My name’s Y/n. Y/n Uris. Yes, my dad is gone, but I’ve come in his place, because if this is going to work, I think I need to be here.’

Your eyes were burning and your chest felt heavy as if it were filled with lead.

‘Sorry, it’s so weird seeing you all in person. Dad used to tell me so many stories about the Losers Club, after the Lucky Seven, before, you know, the bath...’

Bill’s face comes into view from beside Mike’s, craggy features suspended between grief and joy. Seconds pass, your brain taking him in, the leader, the one who started all this, struggling to comprehend that he isn't one of the pictures Stanley kept beside his bed. How the ground between the two of you was erased, you’ll never be able to recall, but one moment you are apart and the next his arms have wrapped around your shoulders with the strength of a man holding onto the sail of his boat in the midst of a tumultuous storm. The warmth of his body meets your cold skin, giving you hope like your father always did before he left you. One of his hands clasps around your lower back, the other stroking your hair, and it takes the two of you a moment to realise another set of arms has joined you, then another, then another, until all the Losers are huddled underneath the Derry sky, arm in arm again. With each soft touch more tears fall, tears none of them wipe away.

After so many years, as Bill scrunches Stanley’s shower cap underneath his crushed fingers, it finally feels as if the Losers are complete again.

None of them really knew what they’d had, or what they’d lost, until it was too late.

107 notes · View notes

wlw-imagines-blog · 5 years ago

Text

Call Out My Name. (Harley Quinn x Fem!Reader)

thankyoualexkingston-blog asked: Harley Quinn and Female reader Imagine: Reader is injured saving Harley from Joker When asked why she did it, she professes her love for Harley?

Pairing: Harley Quinn x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Violence, (the reader kills a man in defense) a lock down occurs in the story,

WC: 1.4k

A/N: I know i said requests are closed, but i really love Harley. This is in lieu with the imagine i wrote, where the Reader worked as a psychiatrist in the prison Harley was in. They grew fond of each other during her time there until Harley escapes, this is a rewrite of the last scene in suicide squad where harley escapes.

Some days at the Belle Reve Federal Penitentiary were calm, and easy to manage. Other days made you feel like a ship’s captain who was being forced to maneuver through a tumultuous storm that threatened to drag you under.

This was one of those days.

You had been in your office, finishing up a stack of paper work for the penitentiary when two interns raced in, sputtering about an attack with men in tactical gear and inmates running free. Up in an instant, you locked the door, pulling the blinds closed and turning the lights off.

“Under the desk,” You hissed, pulling a handgun from the lowest drawer. “Now.”

The two interns (who’s name tags read Bonnie and Arin,) crouched down and pressed themselves against the wall, under the blinds. You sat with them, heart racing, hands sweaty. Screams and cries echoed outside, but you were deadly silent. Your faces flashed through your mind, and you prayed that your colleagues were alright amid the panic. Another face flickered, and you remembered Harley.

Your heart stopped, and you were up in an instant. Harley was still sitting in that disgusting cage, and she wouldn’t be able to protect herself from guns with an espresso machine.

“What are you doing?” asked Bonnie, who wrung her hands in panic.

I need to check on Har-a patient,” you responded, turning the gun’s safety off. “This is just a precaution. You two stay here and don’t answer the door for anyone, including me or the police. When this is over, I’ll come back and unlock the door myself, okay?”

They both nodded furiously, and you handed Bonnie the decorative katana you kept on the back wall. You pointed to the sharp end. “This side goes through people; use it if you have to.”

You left, sneaking out into the dim hallway. It was surprisingly quiet for a prison riot; the halls were completely empty with no patients, doctors, or security guards running around. It was clear that the worst of the escaped patients and mercenaries had run past your office already. There were blood stains on the wall, pictures and tables were overturned, papers strewn everywhere. The visible chaos chilled you.

It was eerie. Every little noise made you jump, from the creaks in the linoleum, to the sudden sparks of the fluorescent lights.

You moved slowly, measuring every step. At the corner of the hallway, you turned left, and straight ahead was Harley’s room.

But in the way was Floyd Lawton. Deadshot.

You froze, stomach dropping to your shoes. Floyd was minding his own business, looking nonchalant among the spatter of dead guards and flickering lights. He was reading through a patient’s file, walking past the mess.

He saw you from the corner of his eye, and watched you approach. Floyd’s gaze moved from you to the gun drawn in your hand. He was never a troublesome patient. Of every patient, he was possibly the most polite, only if the doctors were respectful first, and you occasionally enjoyed your sessions with him. But in this situation, he was not your patient, and he had no reason to be polite or merciful.

“Hey, doc,” he said conversationally, tucking the file under his arm.

You kept the gun trained on him. “Evening, Mr. Lawton. I don’t suppose you know who caused all of this?”

He shrugged. “Heard something about the Joker breaking out his girl. Can’t be sure though.”

The gun in your hand shook as you skirted around the room. Skirted around him. “Thank you. Will you be staying with us?”

“Dunno yet. Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Alright.” You nodded. “if you do leave, say hello to your daughter for me.”

“Of course. You have a goodnight, ma’am.” He turned back to the file.

You ran to Harley’s room, bursting through the double metal doors. On the other side was a sight to behold.

You stood on the cat walk, watching the chaos below. The far wall had been blown to smithereens, with a SWAT team in unfamiliar uniforms marching too and fro.

Harley's enclosure was empty. The bars on one side were bent and busted open.

“Jesus,” you whispered, peering over the railing. You easily picked out Harley in her orange jumpsuit.

Next to her was the Joker.

They were arguing, she was insistent about something, and he was waving away her concern. Harley looked extremely annoyed and indignant.

“How do you know she isn’t dead?” Harley was asking. Her voice echoed in the massive cell.

“That’s enough from you!” The Joker was clearly not pleased. “After I go through the trouble of saving you, this is the thanks I get?”

She reared her head defiantly. “I want to know that she’s alive.”

“Baby,” he placated. “We’re going to break out of the nation’s hardest prison, and all you care about is some bitch doctor?”

You raised your gun. Just one shot and you could help end a huge percentage of Gotham’s troubles.

Were you suppose to close on eye. Your arm shook as you trained the gun on the Joker.

You took a deep breath before pulling the trigger.

The bang echoed almost violently in the cell. Joker went down, and all eyes were on you.

Fuck.

The faux SWAT team opened fire on the cat walk. You sprinted back into the hallway, watching a hail of bullets shatter the fluorescent lights.

“No!” Harley shouted, voice shrilly. “Don’t you fucking hurt her!”

The sound of boots on metal meant there were guards coming your way. You burst back into the empty hallway, racing back to your office. It was until you arrived at the waiting area, did you notice the sharp pain in your thigh. The adrenaline wore off, and you were left hobbling to safety with a bullet wound. Warm blood gushed out, making you dizzy.

“Fuck,” you choked out. “Fuck.”

There were footsteps from the corridor you came from. You dove behind the front desk, noticing the trail of blood that followed you.

The noise got louder and louder until-

“Gotham police! Hands where I can see them!” From the foyer’s doors, a swat team burst through.

There was a flash of bullets and bangs, then nothing.

Despite the commotion, black spots were beginning to dance in your vision. No matter how hard you tried to will them away, they grew until you could not see anything.

You were vaguely aware of a hand on your shoulder, pulling you into a sitting position, and a voice calling out your name.

It was panicked. You managed to open your leaden eyes for a moment, just to catch Harley’s frantic face. You sank into a restful slumber.

***

“The siege on Belle Reve, federal penitentiary ended in violence, with three dead and twelve wounded. Among the dead is nationally-known terrorist and gangster, the Joker, who allegedly planned and executed the coordinated the attack. We will now go to Gotham city where Commissioner Gordon will be releasing a statement...”

You pressed the remote’s power button.

The prison’s hospital was gracious enough to keep you until your release. You were propped up in bed, watching the news play the same stories over and over.

“Doctor Y/L/N, you have a visitor,” the nurse said, leaning slightly to catch your eye. She stepped aside to reveal Harley, hands free, ankles cuffed, with two guards standing wearily behind her.

“Heya,” she smiled weakly. “How ya been?”

You frowned a little bit. “Everything alright, Harley?”

She nodded, ponytails bouncing. “Just been thinking.”

“About what?”

There was that sad look again. “I put you in danger, Y/N. I put everyone at the prison in danger.”

“How could it be your fault?” You asked.

“He was there for me, wasn’t he?”

“You couldn’t have known.

there was a pause. “Were you scared?”

“I was terrified,” you sat up, wincing at the twinge in your ribs. “We didn’t know what was happening, or who was attacking a federal prison. Jesus, I was hiding in my office with two interns; That was the most scared I’ve ever been.”

For once, Harley said nothing.

“But I was safe in my office. I was scared for you.” Reaching out, you held Harley’s hand.

She frowned, but stayed uncharacteristically silent.

“I-I love you, Harley,” you said quietly so only she could hear. “I love you so much.”

“Really?”

“Of course I do.”

Harley grinned, gaining back some of her usual energy. She leaned over and pressed the softest of kisses to your cheek. “I love you too, miss.”

#Harley Quinn #Harleen Quinzel #harley quinn x reader #dc fanfic #dc imagine #dc #Birds of Prey #harley quinn x y/n #wlw imagine #WLW #writing

338 notes · View notes

dinfeanoriel · 5 years ago

Text

Tempest Tossed

A Linked Universe fic I decided to write today when the idea hit me. It took a bit of a sad turn... Linked Universe belongs to Linked Universe and Jojo56830! I own nothing but my writing. ~~~~~~~

They’d noticed the gathering storm before it hit. There had been signs here and there. A shift in the wind, a drop in temperature, and the disturbance of the waters surrounding them. The roiling, thick, black clouds in the distance drew nearer and nearer until they had finally reached them.

The tumultuous downpour was the first to assault them followed by the harsh and vindictive winds.

The Links had done their best to prepare for it, but all but one of them was an expert sailor who knew what to expect. And so, it was up to the youngest of their group to lead and guide them through what they were to do.

Wind was piloting the vessel they had boarded only hours before, fighting to keep it steady as the unforgiving waves slammed against all sides. The ship rocked perilously back and forth, threatening to capsize them if they made a single wrong move. The sailor remained calm and focused, calling out terms the other Heroes were more-or-less familiar with.

Strangely, it was Four who would interpret them- his explanation being that he was well-read.

Legend, Warrior had noticed, had grown far paler than he thought possible, and he briefly feared he was growing seasick. He was also not moving, instead, he was clinging to one of the masts of the ship, murmuring to himself and eyes darting back and forth at the raging waters and vengeful storm. Never once did he move away from it.

“Legend!” Warrior shouted, fighting his way to the tense Hero. He stumbled when the ship listed sideways and would have fallen if he hadn’t caught hold of a rope whipping in the air. He saw Legend cower against the mast, ducking his head low and squeezing his eyes shut.

His breathing was sharp and unmeasured and his hand was clutching at his heart, telling Warrior he was on the brink of a panic attack. Never had the Knight seen Legend so unfettered and downright terrified!

It worried him. He knew something had triggered it. The storm? Maybe the ship? Legend hadn’t wanted to board it. He’d been extremely reluctant to. He knew it was a losing battle, and when Legend realized there was no getting out of it, he’d stormed aboard and disappeared into the hull.

Hyrule later reported that Legend was acting strangely. Out of character and antsy. The Links had wondered about it. Legend was nothing more than a ghost wandering aimlessly down below, arms wrapped tightly around himself and mutterings spewing from his lips.

They hadn’t paid it too much attention, but now, Warrior realized they should have noticed something was wrong. They should have looked deeper and seen that Legend wasn’t acting like his troublesome self.

There was something more to it. Something more to his reluctance and anxiousness. Seeing him now, nothing more than a quivering mess slumped against the mass, Warrior knew he needed to reach him. And fast!

None of the other Links had noticed. The Heroes were occupied with executing Wind’s commands.

A heavy box briefly distracted the Knight as the crate slid against the wooden deck, breezing past him and slamming against the railing. Warrior cringed when it splintered into pieces, the items within lost to the greedy sea. Turning back to his quailing friend, determination flared in Warrior’s eyes and he tightened his grip on the rope, using it to pull himself up towards Legend.

He planted one foot in front of the other, moving with caution. One eye was screwed shut against the wind and the other partially opened as he made his way to the main mast.

He grunted when he almost lost his grip due to the ship jerking left and throwing him forward. With a fierce scowl, Warrior swallowed back his own fear that sparked and threatened to ignite. He didn’t need to be an expert sailor to know the tempest was bad.

Very, very bad.

Warrior hadn’t missed the flicker of worry and concern that flashed across Wind’s otherwise steely visage.

“Steady!” The sailor cried out, straining his voice to be heard by everyone, “Keep her steady!” His knuckles were turning white from the vice-like grip he had on the handles of the steering wheel. “Pops!” He wouldn’t admit it aloud, but even Wind was questioning whether or not they would be able to ride out the storm. It was the worst he’d experienced on the Great Sea and he didn’t like how dark it was getting.

Something about it struck him as unnatural.

Time whipped his head in Wind’s direction upon hearing his name. His teeth grit together when his hair mercilessly lashed at his face and stabbed his single good eye, but he did not waver in his task.

“I need you here!”

Time immediately dropped what he was doing and forced his way to the upper deck. His feet were almost knocked out from beneath him by the wind, and Warrior was amazed by how Time managed the impossible feat of remaining upright. He soon joined the sailor at the wheel, and helped to keep it still.

A deafening groan resonated through the air when the ship careened to the left, and Warrior’s stomach plummeted when Four stumbled and crashed painfully against the wooden planks. His head smacked against the deck the same time a boisterous clap of thunder splintered the sky.

“Four!”

Twilight lunged, snatching the dazed Hero before he could slide down the slanted deck and into the wrathful ocean. He yanked him close, Four latching onto him with wide eyes and chest heaving.

Warrior breathed a sigh of relief, his heart thundering in his chest and pulsing in his ears.

That...had been a close call.

“Four, are you alright?!” Sky demanded to know, having heard Twilight’s cry but being unable to turn and see what was happening. Worry laced his tone and coated his words, the Skyloftian sitting back on his heels and yanking the rope he held with all his strength.

He was soaked to the bone, hair clinging to his face and neck and boots uncomfortably soggy. It was difficult to gain any traction from how wet the deck had become but he managed to succeed.

“He’s fine!” Twilight answered for the dazed Hero he had in his arms. The colorful Link was was collapsed against his chest, eyes fluttering and mind disoriented. Twilight worried his lower lip. Four had hit his head pretty hard. No doubt he probably got a concussion but no one was in the position of fetching a Red Potion. “But I think he’s out of commission!”

Not good.

Wild scowled and glared up into the blanket of darkness above them. Lightning flashed brilliantly, the thunder bellowing angrily in response. The Hero tugged strongly at the rope directing the sail with Sky’s aid.

They were both struggling to keep a good grasp on it. The abrupt movements of the ship and force of the wind weren’t doing them any favors.

“Hyrule! Where are you?!” Time’s deep voice hollered over the agonized wind. It comforted the Heroes to hear him. His steady and calm voice, reassuring presence, and composed appearance. How he managed to keep his cool in any given situation was beyond them, but the Heroes were grateful for the stability he gave them.

“Here!” A smaller voice replied. It was horribly distorted and warped but the Heroes were relieved to hear it.

Warrior plunged onwards, ignoring how the wind attempted to beat him back. He was intent on reaching Legend. When he’d finally got to him, his hand flew out to shake the stock still Legend from whatever panic had overtaken him, “Legend! Need you here, bud!”

Legend blinked then slowly raised his haunted eyes to meet Warrior. The Knight was stunned to see the intense conflict taking place within them.

“Warrior,”

It was the ghost of a whisper and the Captain had to strain his ears to catch it, but he did.

“It can’t happen again…”

Confusion furrowed Warrior’s brow at the shuddering words. Legend was looking worse for wear. Worse than usual. There was a fear in those cobalt blues he’d never before seen. A fear that spoke of a traumatizing past experience.

Warrior cursed to himself. The storm must have dredged up some unwanted memories at a most unprecedented and inopportune moment.

“Hey!” He briskly shook Legend, forcing the younger to look up at him again, “I need you to stay with me, alright?”

Legend swallowed thickly, gaze wandering past Warrior’s shoulder and to the stormy waters. The waves crashed into one another and slammed mercilessly against the surface and he tensed again.

Memories from several years ago crawled unbidden to his mind, forcing him to relive the terrifying nightmare he’d had to endure…

~~~~~~~

A small, struggling vessel caught amidst the chaos and confusion of the great and terrible storm that had suddenly swept in unannounced.

A young Hylian boy wearing tan breeches and long-sleeved undershirt beneath his green tunic, grunting as he fought to maintain control of his little boat.

Knowing his efforts were futile but trying anyways. Survival was all that mattered.

He was afraid. So deeply afraid that he wouldn’t make it out alive.

His breath caught and he pulled at the rope with his teeth clenched, praying that this next gigantic wave wouldn’t come crashing down on top of him and send him sinking into the deepest, darkest, depths of the ocean.

“-gend! Legend!”

~~~~~~~

Legend sucked in a sharp breath when the familiar voice that didn’t belong to this memory seeped into his mind, disturbing his thoughts and sending them skittering. It served to reign him back into the present, and when he snapped his head up, it was to find Warrior standing before him, a scowl fixed on his stern features.

He’d adopted his “Captain’s Persona,” as Wind dubbed it.

“Snap out of it!” The Knight sharply ordered him, giving him another shake, “I know it’s easier said than done, but if you don’t lend us a hand, we’re doomed!”

Legend knew he spoke nothing but the truth. But it was hard! Everywhere he looked, everything he saw, reminded him of his experience back then that had ended in disaster. None of them knew of Koholint. He’d kept all that encompassed that adventure to himself. A dark secret never to be revealed and one he would take down to the grave with him.

The breeze picked up without warning, growing in both speed and strength. The howling of the anguished winds swirled madly around the nine scattered about the deck. The fabric of their clothing flapped brutally against their skin, their hair whipping at their eyes and faces and leaving behind stinging reminders.

Muffled voices cried out in a mixture of alarm and urgency.

Legend exhaled shakily, closing his eyes and taking a moment to gather his wits together. If he didn’t want a repeat of that time, then the Heroes needed him to stay in the here-and-now. This boat was much bigger than his own had been and more likely to endure the brutality of the storm than his did.

The futile attempts to reassure himself fell flat. His stomach twisted and churned, sharp stabs of fear stealing his very breath away every time the ship would creak and groan or sway from the force of the wind and waves.

Saltwater spilled over the railings and onto the deck, soaking his and Warrior’s boots.

~~~~~~~

The foreboding wall of water rose tall and proud before him, monstrous in both size and grandeur. The Hylian stared in horror and dismay, his heart thumping once against his chest before plummeting deep down.

His features morphed into despair. He knew then and there that he would never make it home.

Was this how his life was to end? Was he to suffer an agonizing fate after all he had done for Hyrule as her Hero? Was this how the Goddess had chosen to repay her Chosen One? Were his sacrifices, his losses, his grief, and pain all for naught?

Where had he gone wrong?

~~~~~~~

“Come on, Legend!”

A strong hand anchoring him to the present once more grabbed hold of his arm, dragging him away from the mast he’d been clutching to.

“You’re sticking with me!”

Relief swamped over Legend at the words and he allowed Warrior to lead him away. The Knight never relinquished his grip. For that, Legend was grateful. He wasn’t sure if he trusted himself not to fall back into the past and lose himself in those horrific memories.

He swallowed back the paralyzing fear lingering at the edges of his mind. He licked his chapped lips and called above the wind, “Where are we going?”

Warrior spared him a look and brief, relieved, grin. He was glad to hear his voice.

“The sailor-”

And that’s as far as Warrior got when an explosion of white light blinded the both of them-

~~~~~~~

The vessel strove to remain upright in the raging ocean. The waves tossed and turned, thunderously crashing against the surface and nearly capsizing his boat more times than he cared to count. The storm was unrelenting. Lightning split the sky, flashing erratically. The thunder would bellow in retort, causing the Hylian to cringe and the coils of fear and dread to thicken in his stomach.

His heart pounded, his chest heaved. It was excruciating! Never had he felt such suffocating terror!

His boat began to ascend the daunting wave with agonizing slowness, foam and water sprinkling his face and drenching his already soaked form. This was a feat he’d already deemed impossible.

The bitter cold clutched him within its grasp and he shivered. Whether it was from the freezing temperature or from the immobilizing fear that gripped him, he did not know.

It didn’t truly matter.

There was no way he would make it. His boat was too small. But still, he tried. He wanted to live. He wanted to make it home! And so, he tried to believe.

As if the Goddess had decided to grant him a miracle, the straining vessel made it over the wave and skimmed along the top of it.

A flood of relief overcame him but before he could celebrate, a bright, blinding light caught his attention.

Dread and panic burst within him. His eyes grew wide with a shrill gasp as the mast of his little boat exploded into millions of pieces. Wood splintered, the sharp, deafening crack echoing in his ears and ringing in his mind before all went black…

~~~~~~~

Legend felt strangely light and airborne. In the distance, he could have sworn he heard an agonized cry and anguished shouts of despair and disbelief.

Was he the one screaming? It didn’t sound like him, but he knew the voice it belonged to. The name escaped him, but he knew it would later come to him.

His eyes were sealed tightly shut and his body flew back from whatever force had thrown it. His head rang, the fracturing of wood resonating in the air. He slapped his hands tighter against his head, flattening his pointed ears in order not to hear the terrible and familiar sound.

The painful collision with the wet and unforgiving deck jolted his body and Legend grunted from the impact.

Panicked calls of ‘Legend’ and ‘Warrior’ could barely be heard over the wailing wind brutally whipping at him.

Had it happened again? He couldn’t help but wonder, heart beating a frantic pace. He couldn’t think clearly. He couldn’t move. He was frozen in place, the turmoil he felt feeding the growing tempest within his own mind. His sense of reality started to slip and he desperately grabbed at it, trying to keep an air-tight lid on it.

“-end!” A strong voice shouted above the storm. Legend did not react, falling further into himself as he struggled and warred against the memories slipping through the cracks. He clutched to the seams threatening to burst apart. “Legend!”

Legend blearily blinked, fighting to clear his vision as he slowly lifted his head halfway. There was someone forcing their way through the storm towards him. An arm was cast over their face, protecting it from the items picked up by the wind, golden-blonde hair stabbing viciously at their eyes as they stubbornly moved one foot forward then the next, planting them firmly in the ground as they inched their way towards the fallen Hero.

Despite the blurriness of his vision, Legend would recognize that gold armor and the markings on that wise and stoic face anywhere. The scar that ran down one eye and the other eye that was never shut unless he were resting or lost in thought.

Time.

“Legend!” He hollered, asserting his powerful voice so that it carried and caressed Legend’s ears. His single, good, eye was squeezed shut, opening into a slit every few seconds and staring fixedly at Legend’s folded and pitiful form. He saw Legend looking at him, frantic and beyond anxious. He was scared.

The explosion had made him mostly deaf in his right ear, but his left had fared better.

He exhaled shakily as the unsettling realization sunk deep into his heart. The past had almost repeated itself. Lightning had struck the boat, but Legend was safe and sound. He was still on the vessel, not lost to the unforgiving sea.

He wasn’t being tossed and turned in the tumultuous waters, or dragged further into the depths of the ocean where he would drown and his body never to be found.

“Legend! You must move!” Time was pressing himself onward, intent on reaching the shaken Hero.

Legend blinked then snapped his head forward, eyes growing wide at the gap in the ship’s railing and scorch marks along the deck. His feet were only inches from the hole the seawater poured in from. He scrambled backwards, petrified.

The lightning...had done that?

Then again, lightning had been the reason his own little boat had been reduced to nothing but fragments of wood.

He swallowed thickly.

Too close.

That had been too close.

“Legend, please!” Hyrule’s tear-filled voice drifted to him, and Legend’s brow creased. Why was Hyrule crying? He was perfectly fine. A little rattled, but virtually unharmed. “We can’t lose you too!”

Wait…

They can’t…

Lose him too?

Horrified realization dawned on Legend just as Time arrived and crashed to his knees beside him. The older Link wrapped his arms tightly around the shell-shocked Hero, pulling him further away from the wide maw in the railing and chipped wood when Legend made to lung forward and see for himself what had become of his friend.

Saltwater spewed onto the deck but Legend didn’t notice.

His head felt light, his heart warring against what he had discovered.

This time, the storm hadn’t taken him.

This time, the lightning hadn’t destroyed his ship and left him to drift along the ocean on a single beam of wood.

This time, the Goddess had exercised mercy on him at the expense of another.

“NO!” Legend choked raggedly. His eyes stung, and not from the salt in the water that sprayed his face. He fought against Time’s hold on him. He kicked and struggled, refusing to believe the truth staring him in the face.

He knew... He knew deep down what it meant to be caught up in those waves in the middle of the great and terrible storm.

“NO!”

Wind promptly burst into tears, his small body quaking from the force of his sobs as he clung desperately to the wheel.

His big brother...

His big brother was gone. The Hero he looked up to and idolized. The Hero who took Wind under his wing and ensured he was safe and physically well. The one who would allow him to sit in his lap and fix his hair or just loosely wrap his arms around him.

Wind had always felt so safe and secure with him.

The Knight who would immediately shed his scarf and wrap it snugly around the sailor if he even shivered once.

The Knight Wind would no longer be able to see, to hug, or talk to. The Knight he’d grown to love and look up to as an older brother would no longer be there to wake him or listen to his stories or regal him with his own.

Wind would never forget. He would never forget the Hylian Captain, Warrior, or how his life was so cruelly ripped away by a single freak of nature.

Sky couldn’t wrap his mind around it. It felt so unreal- like a horrific dream. A nightmare. His mouth moved but couldn’t form words. The Skyloftian was at a loss. Devastation was all he knew and the Hero slowly lowered himself to the ground, weeping bitterly. He raised shaking hands to cradle his head, cobalt blues swimming with a multitude of emotions.

Hyrule was curled up against the railing, face hidden in his arms and knees drawn to his chest as bone-rattling sobs shook his form.

Wild was frozen. Twilight tense.

Both stood beside one another in disbelief and pain. Their hearts bled, the Heroes mourning the loss of their dearest friend.

Four was mumbling incoherently, words jumbling over each other and eyes flickering madly.

“He’s gone-”

“He’s dead-”

“How could this happen-”

“Please, no-”

Legend couldn’t bring himself to believe it.

“He...He’s not...” Legend began, only for his voice to fail him. His breathing picked up speed. His heart pounded. His mind swam as thoughts raced through it before going blank. “No...no...” He shook his head.

Legend knew death.

He’d seen it before.

He’d watched it take his Uncle.

He’d watched it steal his parents.

And now...

Death had taken his friend.

His comrade.

His brother.

Warrior...

Warrior was gone.

Legend’s expression crumpled, twisting into one of agonized grief and excruciating pain.

“Warrior!”

The strangled cry was carried by the winds, never to be answered or acknowledged by the one he hoped it would reach.

Time shut his eye against the tears that rose within them. He ground his teeth together, cursing the Goddess while crushing Legend to him. His long fingers wove into Legend’s hair, pillowing the younger Hero’s head to his shoulder as he exhaled shakily.

“Legend, you can’t-” His voice cracked and Time had to try again, softer this time, “He’s gone.”

Tears slipped down Legend’s grieved face, mingling with the rain as he slumped back against Time.

How could this be..?

Why..?

“Warrior’s gone…”

The Old Man was crying.

The sound pierced his heart and Legend knew then and there that it was true. This was no dream. It wasn’t even a nightmare. He wouldn’t wake to find himself marooned on an island with the others or traversing Wild’s world- where they’d been before.

And when he would wake, there would be something missing.

There would always be someone missing.

Legend had been fortunate this time.

The storm had taken something else. Something far more precious and irreplaceable.

It had taken Warrior in Legend’s stead.

#Linked Universe #linkeduniverse #Warrior #Legend #Sad #Legend of Zelda #Fanfic

180 notes · View notes

iamnotoriginalphil · 5 years ago

Text

Caught in the Heat (Loki x Reader) - Part 9

Synopsis: Tony brings some home truths to your home.

Words: 1342

Warnings: swearing

Part one

Part two

Part three

Part four

Part five

Part six

Part seven

Part eight

You’d forgotten how nice it was to be at home, having someone else look after you. Nothing could compare to your father’s cooking and your bed was more comfortable than anything else in the world. Living in the city you sometimes forgot the comforts of home. You never had to worry about leaky showers or roaches. You weren’t woken up by stray car alarms or your neighbours having an argument.

It helped that your parents weren’t nosey fuckers like your neighbours were. The amount of times Mr Williams from across the hall thought he was owed an explanation of where you’d been made you so mad you would have moved just to get away from him. Your parents left you to your own devices, for the most part.

It’s not that they didn’t worry. From the abrupt silences when you entered a room or the shared glances you could tell they were concerned about your sudden reappearance. You didn’t know how to tell them you fell for a mass murderer. You didn’t know how to tell anyone.

You spent a lot of time in your childhood bedroom. It reminded you of your angsty teen years, moping around about a guy. The self-hatred was certainly familiar. You hated feeling like all the progress you’d made since graduating high school was slipping away.

“Honey, you have a visitor.”

You looked up from where your head was buried in your pillow. Your mother was standing in the doorway, the concern on her face making your heart clench. You pushed up from the bed, wondering who would be there to see you. Maybe one of your friends from high school had come to see you.

It was weird to see Tony sitting on your parents’ old sofa. He was looking around, a picture frame clutched in his hand. You paused in the doorway, not sure how to proceed. You hadn’t expected to see anyone from the Tower ever again.

“You were a cute kid,” he said.

“I still am,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest.

You stepped into the room, taking a hesitant seat in your dad’s old armchair. He looked at you and you shuffled uncomfortably. You’d never liked taking the spotlight in Tony’s gaze. It always made you feel as if you were being judged for something you were bad at.

“When are you coming back?” he asked.

“I’m not sure I am,” you replied, looking at your fingers twisting together in your lap.

“Have you told Bruce?”

“I keep meaning to send him an email…” you trailed off, not wanting to admit this was the kind of scenario you were trying to avoid.

You sat in silence, wanting him out of your house, wanting him to leave you alone so you could try and get your life back on track. You had one more semester left and then you could try and transfer to another college somewhere on the other side of the world and get your doctorate.

“I think you should come back.”

You looked up at Tony, not sure if you’d heard right. There was no way Tony wanted you back, not after all the shit you’d put them through.

“I don’t think I should.”

He gave you that half smile you’d seen in so many pictures. You didn’t like disagreeing with him, not when you knew he had so much more experience under his belt and more brains in his head than you could count. You didn’t feel qualified to disagree with him.

“Bruce is lost without you,” he said, “and he’s not the only one.”

“If you’re talking about Loki then you can stop. I’m not coming back,” you snapped.

“Don’t pretend like this isn’t his fault,” he said, “I never took you for a coward.”

“Really? Because everyone, including me, did,” you said.

“He might piss me off, the little shit that he is, but he was more manageable when you were around,” he said.

“You hated me being with him,” you scoffed.

“I think you can do better but I also think you can do worse,” he said, “he makes you happy and given you lock yourself away in that lab that’s no small feat.”

“He’s a murderer,” you said.

“Not for many years, and he’s actually saved more lives than he’s taken,” he said, “much to everyone’s surprise.”

“That doesn’t make him a good person.’

You couldn’t meet his eye. You stared out the window, watching a storm gathering in the distance. You’d only been home a week. He couldn’t be that unmanageable yet. It wasn’t your problem if he was. He was his own person.

“Do you know how many people are dead because of me?”

You looked up at Tony, not sure what he was getting at. He was staring at you as if he could see the thoughts in your brain. You wanted to hide.

“But you never meant to kill them,” you muttered.

“Don’t be so sure.”

You sat in silence. You didn’t have an answer to that. You knew he wouldn’t kill innocent people, knew he cared more than that, but you also knew that some of his actions must have killed people. You’d seen the results of the fight in New York. They’d tried their best, and even though it had ultimately been Loki’s fault, you were sure they hadn’t been able to save everyone.

“I used to manufacture weapons,” he said, “I have blood on my hands.”

“I know.”

“So what’s the problem?” he asked.

“It’s different.”

“Is it?”

You didn’t have anything to say to that. You knew his past, knew what he’d done before he’d become Ironman. Everyone knew. It was common knowledge.

“Do you miss him?” he asked.

“Yes,” you admitted.

“So what’s the problem?” he asked again.

“Everyone in that tower thinks it’s disgusting that I’m with him,” you said.

“Who told you that?”

“No one had to tell me. I can see the way they look at me.” You didn’t realise you’d stood up until you looked down at Tony, “they come and look at me like I’m in a fucking zoo.”

“They come to see the woman who tamed the snake,” he said, “we’ve known him a long time and we’ve never seen him so amiable.”

That shut you up. You’d never thought that maybe the looks weren’t a bad judgement. You had thought the worst and might have fucked up the best thing in your life. You felt sick.

“Come on.”

Tony grasped your arm and steered you past your parents. They watched with worry on their faces as he led you out the front door. He paused on the porch. You looked out, expecting to see some expensive car in the drive. Instead there was a man with his back to you and hands in your pockets.

“Loki,” you breathed.

You were pulling out of Tony’s grasp, flying down the steps. Loki turned in time to catch you as you flung yourself into his arms. You clutched at him, feeling the tears gathering in your eyes. If he was here it had to mean all hope was not lost.

“Love,” he said, his arms wrapping tighter around you, pressing you into his body as if he wanted to absorb you.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, “I’m such an idiot.”

“Perhaps,” he said, “but I forgive you.”

“I’m so sorry,” you said.

He pushed you back, cupping your cheeks, wiping the tears away. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to stop them. A cold pair of lips were pressed to your cheek. You opened your eyes, watching him draw away, a smile on his face.

“I missed you,” you said.

“I missed you too,” he admitted.

You reached up, pulling him down into a kiss. He wrapped his arms around your waist, lifting you off your feet. You laughed, pushing your fingers into his hair. He laughed with you, swinging you around.

“I’m coming back,” you said, “today. I’m coming home today.”

“Home,” he repeated with a smile.

“Yes, home.”

Tags: @sheridans-dynamos @tumultuous-love @juniperbab @internetgremlin @true-queen-of-mischief @sev7en @fleurs-en-ruines @lokilover2000 @hakuoyuki @el-eldritch @foreverbeingthunderbuddy @fuckthatfeeling @dangertoozmanykids101 @bluestaratsunrise @dark-night-sky-99 @justanothermarvelfanaccount @themusingsofmany @loving-life-my-way @loki-poki-foki @nobody0660 @grahoundart @cobra-anon @libellule2001 @1800-fight-me @themusingsofmany

#loki #loki imagine #loki x reader #caught in the heat #loki x you #marvel imagine

69 notes · View notes

clocksfanfiction · 6 years ago

Note

Number 100 bwahahahaha jk. Number 98 “Why can’t you just believe me?” - “Because you lied about it before.” Omegaverse or Cardverse, whichever you feel like writing :)

Send me a dialogue prompt!“Why can’t you just believe me?” - “Because you lied about it before.”

Thank you for the request!! It’s really helping me get back to writing and I really enjoyed writing this one. I’m not sure if I went the way you were hoping with it, but I enjoyed it. And honestly I’ll take every excuse to write cardverse.

“You are the most infuriating person on the face of thisearth.” Arthur spat, furious as he stormed up the grand staircase towards thequeen’s chambers. Alfred followed on determinedly, unfazed by the venomous lookthrown over a shoulder at him.

“What would you have me do different? Unsettle half thekingdom with a vague diversion?”

“I would have you not speak at all if you will only lie!”Arthur’s shout echoed through the empty hall, undoubtedly loud enough forwhatever guards or staff were around to hear each syllable with disturbingclarity, but neither monarch seemed to care. He’d turned finally to face Alfredon the top step, the dark line of his suit cutting him an imposing figureagainst the dim candlelight and only intensifying the thundercloud of his eyes.

Alfred stopped still on the steps below him, gazing up atthe man he so usually found himself looking down at as that accusation rung inhis ears. His brows knit together, lips parting in effort to find someobjection to his indictment and drawing only blank. When he was met only withsilence, Arthur released a huff of breath, turning once again on his heel andcontinuing on the warpath toward his bedroom. It took Alfred only a momentafter to move as well, keeping hot on Arthur’s heels despite the queen’sobvious desire to have him gone.

“What lie did I tell to earn me such a look?” He demanded, ahard edge to his tone as anger crept up on him too but it was far below therage that had consumed his husband.

“Do not insult me with this feigned ignorance, Alfred, youhave already humiliated me enough for one evening.” They neared Arthur’s doorand knowing well how swiftly Arthur would shut him out with locks and magic ifhe got beyond the threshold, Alfred surged forward to slam his hand across thewood and prevent Arthur’s entry. Arthur stilled before the door, his eyes onlyon the arm across his doorway. “Move.” He commanded, with all the authority ofa man used to only needing to say something once.

Alfred didn’t move. He stayed put, glaring at Arthur’saverted gaze. The king and queen of Spades had not managed to attain the mostharmonious of relationships, attested by Arthur’s remaining presence in thequeen’s chambers instead of the larger king’s chambers designed for the marriedpair. Most times the castle was peaceful, but their turbulent relationship wasenough for Alfred to have seen the edge of Arthur’s anger before, but never sointensely. Arthur indeed wasn’t the type to lose his temper so completely;Alfred had witnessed the far scarier icy glares of an Arthur irate, luckilynever directed at him, but he’d almost believed the man capable of causingfrostbite in a glance with the freezing capacity of his anger when he sodesired. But that was an anger borne of control. This fiery, stinging emotionthat Arthur had ripped forth the instant their guests had filed out wassomething entirely foreign.

“When did I lie to you, Arthur?” Alfred pressed, unrelentingin his hold and his gaze.

Slowly, Arthur turned his head, gracing Alfred with a lookso full of untempered aggression that it might have melted the flesh off hisbones if Alfred himself wasn’t capable of just as much fury. His eyes narrowed,saving Alfred from some of that fire if only in the name of a pissed-off glareof condescension.

“Do you wish me to repeat the words you gave to the Diamondambassador or is the reminder enough?”

Arthur didn’t need to repeat them. Alfred could hear his ownvoice just as well as he could feel his veins run icy at the reminder.

The celebration this evening had been the same event theSpades royalty had been holding for two hundred years; the midwinter ball.Spades held several similar galas throughout the year, but the midwinter ballwas the only one significant enough to warrant the attendance of all three setsof kings and queens from the other kingdoms. Along with whatever entourage ofhigh ranking officials those monarchs thought necessary. It was only Alfred andArthur’s second time hosting this ancient event, and their first time inagreement that their marriage was not a happy one.

They had found themselves at one point opposite sides to asmall circle of officials, all happily chatting and enjoying the atmosphere ofmidwinter celebration as they jokingly chastised one another for veering intopolitical topics. Arthur was a surprising expert at navigating suchconversations given how Alfred knew his dislike of nearly every other humanbeing in existence, but his noble upbringing had to account for something.Alfred himself was personable and friendly, and more than happy to lift theburden off of Arthur as often as he could. Until the ambassador from Diamondshad turned to him and asked with a sly grin how their first year of marriagehad gone.

Vultures for gossip, all eyes in their small circle and whatbusy eavesdroppers there were had turned to Alfred. Alfred hadn’t missed thenigh-imperceptible tensing of Arthur’s hand on his glass of champagne. No oneoutside of the castle was aware of the tumultuous relationship between theSpades king and queen. They made an astounding pair to deal with when united onthe political front, indeed between those meetings where international affairswere on the line he and Arthur could even claim to like one another as theymanaged easy chatter. There had even been those handful of occasions where oneor other or both of them had seduced the other into bed. But beyond thosefleeting moments of peace almost all the rest of the time was filled with tenseand petty arguments to the point that they couldn’t stand to be in a room together.

And what was it that Alfred had replied to such a question?

I believe my queen would testify to how grossly in lovewith him I am.

Arthur stared up into his eyes, the accusation in them alltoo plain and clear even if Alfred hadn’t been able to place precisely whyArthur was so furious. Not only had he told a set of high ranking officialsthat they were utterly in love, but he’d forced Arthur to agree with his lieright then and there. Which Arthur had, elegantly cool in his affirmative replyand turnaround of the conversation towards dancing.

He’d had to spend several more hours with people referencingtheir apparent matrimonial bliss and yet while Alfred could feel Arthur’stension with his hand upon his waist, he himself had not hated it. More thananything, a part of him he’d been quietly and steadily brewing over had beenelated to hear Arthur’s affirmatives whenever they were together for the restof the night.

“What if it was true?”

That was not the reply Arthur had been expecting. It was no dramaticconfession, no sincerely worded expression of a harboured passion that Alfredhad been clinging to through months of torment. It was merely a question. Asuggestion framed in such honesty that Alfred could almost see the flinch inArthur as he registered the meaning. His excellent control of his expressionflickered for just a moment from anger to confusion before it was hidden againin the venom, but it was a moment enough for Alfred.

“I told you not to insult me, Alfred.”

“Why can’t you just believe me?”

There was an admission there. More plainly spoken than thesuggestion of romance that his prior question had given and he was surprised byhow at ease he found himself as it was offered. Arthur was smart enough andknew him enough to need not decipher the meaning but hear it as plainly asAlfred meant it spoken and that thought should naturally have filled Alfredwith an anxiety that any confessor would recognise as the fear of rejection.But Alfred held no such worries.

Not until the heat drained from Arthur’s eyes and he foundhimself levelled with a chilly stare.

“Because you lied about it before.”

Arthur didn’t need to say more.

Alfred remembered it vividly. It had been the year previous,when in their first handful of weeks of knowing each other they thought indeedthat they could get along, be friends, perhaps even turn their obvious mutualattraction into a long lasting love. But Alfred remembered. He remembered whathe did, remembered the look on Arthur’s face as he told him he only had eyesfor his queen only to be caught later in a darkened corner with one of theguests at their ball.

Arthur hadn’t even had the decency to look betrayed. If he’dlooked hurt or wounded Alfred might not have felt so much guilt as he hadlooking back into Arthur’s blank stare as his queen informed him plainly thathe’d come in search of him for the last dance and apologised for interruptingas he left.

“That was different.” A weak defence, but the only andtruthful one Alfred could give.

“How?” Arthur’s voice had drained of venom, greeting Alfredwith the empty tone of a man beyond emotion and freezing him to his core at thesound. “How is it different to say you wanted me then, before we did antagoniseone another, than it is to plainly say you love me now when you make ityour every mission to show me how much you despise my presence? I didn’tbelieve you then, Alfred, I’m not foolish enough to believe you now.”

Alfred should’ve been fazed by such a cold remark, it shouldhave sent him scampering away with a heavy heart and painful rejection. But itdidn’t. More than anything Alfred found himself spurred on by Arthur’s lack ofany emotional response.

“Because I didn’t love you then. I do love you now.”

That was enough to startle Arthur out of his icy reserve,his narrowed eyes widening with a disbelief he couldn’t quite control back intoan aloof expression. He settled for an affronted scowl instead and Alfredcouldn’t help thinking that it was only his pride that kept him from backingaway.

“And you expect me to believe that? With no proof?” Arthurspat, the venom still lacking from his voice but now not quite so entirelyemotionless.

“No.” Alfred’s answer was plain, so utterly simple in itshonesty that Arthur couldn’t quite seem to keep his grip on that carefullycontrolled expression. “But I have every intention of showing you if you wouldgive me more than ten seconds of your time.”

He stepped forward, startling Arthur enough out of hisshocked reverie that he very nearly tripped over himself and ended up stoodwith his back to the door Alfred had previously been guarding. Whatever groundhe’d gained hiding behind his fury was gone then, the stormy anger and coldaloofness lost to bewilderment that Arthur still tried fiercely to hide inhalf-scowls and tight lips.

“I-” Arthur began, regret instantly evident on his face whenno further words followed, leaving him the appearance of a stammering fool withAlfred looming so frightfully close. “Gods, where did you get this ideathat you can do just anything you like all of a sudden?” The bite was back inArthur’s words, another pushed protest to find the anger that had been curlingin his gut all evening, but the fire simply wasn’t there.

“I didn’t.” Alfred leaned closer, eyes locked on Arthur’s.“Say the word and I’ll leave you alone again, I’ll even pretend to despise youas you so think I do, if you wish.”

Arthur said nothing.

He didn’t say anything when Alfred leaned closer still. Hedidn’t say a word when Alfred’s lips hesitantly brushed his, nothing but astuttered breath and leaning up that fraction more to seal their lips together.

Alfred’s hands found Arthur’s waist, hair, pulling him upclose as that soft brush turned to fervent kisses. Arthur’s lips parted, aquiet, desperate noise that could’ve been equal parts need and relief muffledbetween them as Alfred pushed him against the door. Arthur’s hands slippedunder his suit jacket, the waistcoat and shirt beneath still insulatingAlfred’s skin from his touch but not his body from the firm press of Arthur’shands at his back demanding that he stay close.

“I closed you off.” Arthur murmured, not breaking from thosekisses even to speak so much as breathe the words between. “I shut you out,why,”

“I know.” Alfred interrupted, turning his lips to Arthur’sneck instead, or what of it he could with his shirt collar still neatly inplace. “I want you anyway.”

Arthur grabbed at his hair, threading fingers into Alfred’sgolden locks and ruining whatever careful styling had gone into them for theevening’s festivities, but he couldn’t bring himself to care when Arthur wasdragging him up to meet his gaze again. The corridor they were in, tangledtogether up against the door of the queen’s chambers, it was silent save forthe sound of their heavy breaths, shared only between them in what little spacethey would allow to separate them at that moment. But Alfred could hear withequal clarity the pulse pounding in his ears as Arthur broke the quiet.

“Then take me to bed.”

Alfred stared at him, a handful of seconds that seemed tostretch on forever with the depth of meaning he heard in those words. Hereached for the door handle but Arthur grabbed his hand, pulling it away withthe slightest shake of his head.

“Not here.”

It took just a moment for those words too, the weight ofthem, the desire and command and frustration and fear all hidden in thebreathless tone of Arthur’s voice to register with Alfred. But it took him onlya breath to sweep Arthur up into his arms. There was no protest to the carryingfrom Arthur, no spluttered objection in the name of his perfectly functioninglegs, no chastising the fact they weren’t the protagonists of some high romancenovel. Only Arthur’s arms winding around his neck and the warm, insistentkisses under his jaw that assured him of Arthur’s very real presence as hewalked down the hall towards the king’s chambers.

#usuk #ukus #usukus #cardverse #usuk fanfic #usuk fanfiction #beiei #libertea #cardverse usuk #aph cardverse #aph usuk #clocks writes #Anonymous

196 notes · View notes

artemis-entreri · 6 years ago

Text

Just One Word

Part 2: Prayer | Part 1: Despair

Rain. It bore down like a relentless army, clattering against slick rooftops like blades against shields. Peals of thunder beat incessantly like the drums of war. Lightning streaks ignited the sky like volleys of flaming arrows. The city, which was barely more than a town, shuddered against the relentless onslaught, its citizens as subdued as farmers huddling in a barn while swords drank their red fill less than a field's length away. Even those surrounded by stone that was wrapped about sturdy frames and thick beams had much to fear, for upon the waves of the Sea of Swords came squalls like charging cavalry with sabers raised high.

In hushed tones, the town-city's denizens whispered to one another, hesitant to raise their voices despite the nigh-impossibility of being heard above the tumultuous cacophony. Despite the shadows that deepened every corner, few candles were lit, as though folk feared challenging the effulgence of blinding light that so oft seared the skies. The Storm Lord Talos might as well have made the fledgling coastal city his domain, the aberrant intensity of the storm befitting the will of a god of destruction. Indeed, it was beyond foolhardiness to attempt to brave the tempest, and even a fool would've been wise enough to recognize the folly of challenging a god.

The lone human who walked the street was neither foolhardy nor a fool. Shielded from the scrutiny of other mortals he was, his heavy dark cloak rendering him no more than another flickering shadow on the darkened street. But shielded from the judgment of the heavens he was not, for although it was not The Storm Lord nor any named deity whom battered Luskan this night, the prowess of the rainstorm and its gales were sufficient to force even this most capable character to acknowledge the divine-like dominance. His normally balanced gait was irregular as he picked his path across the cobblestones, their slick unevenness making them as dangerous as sharpened knives. The sodden man's characteristic surefootedness surrendered to shuffles and stumbles, for it was all that he could do to keep himself upright against the raging storm that buffeted him this way and that, changing directions as unpredictably as though the gusts were driven by the wings of a crazed dragon.

A few times, he came close to falling, but the most that he'd allow was the touch of one leather gauntlet-covered hand against the craggy stone street. As though to punish him for his hubris, a blast of wind that was at least as much water as it was air slammed the defiant man against a rickety wall, the impact sending a loud crash shuddering through the boards. Startled cries rang out from the people cowering behind the dubious cover, but much quieter was the grunt that the collision drew from behind the cloaked man's clenched teeth.

As he allowed a breath to compose himself, the assassin glared at the stormy skies with mutinous gray eyes. The heavens mocked him by whipping ice-cold globules directly into his steely gaze. But he didn't blink, paying no heed to the trailing beads that ran down his face, where they lingered imperceptibly upon his high cheekbones before rushing down the deep grooves that outlined his scowl. The watery trails might've looked like tears, but for the defiance so unconditionally written in the resolute man’s countenance that it belied even the faintest suggestion of weakness.

But even the strongest will has limits, the most tenacious discipline its outer edge. The resolute man's hand betrayed a quiver before he stilled it, his shoulders slumping before he forced them square once more. As he lurched to a stop before a sturdy two-floor building, he summoned a facsimile of the reserves of energy that'd already been spent, and pushed in the door.

Like starving wolves sensing fresh prey, the torrent rushed in through the exposed entryway. A streak of lightning threw an elongated impression of a humanoid across the newly-wetted floor, a gust nearly extinguished the single lamp sitting on the counter. The small flame flickered dangerously but did not die out, stubborn as the figure whose shadow was many times longer than its caster. Though normally, a warm light in the adumbral space would've been a welcoming sight to the thoroughly soaked man, he hesitated. For many heartbeats longer than it took his darkvision-enhanced eyes to ascertain that no threat lingered amidst the seemingly secure refuge, Artemis Entreri paused in the doorway. Meanwhile, the downpour lost none of its chill as it permeated his weatherproofed heavy cloak, passing through his already saturated dark locks and flowing down his neck as though threatening to drown him from within. Yet, still he stood, accepting the deluge, his hand too tired to grip the door's handle even whilst each drop in the streams that ran from his boots stole away a bit more of his already thoroughly-tapped reserves of life-sustaining heat.

Finally, when he felt as though he might be forced to enter the room by gracefully toppling onto his own face, the assassin yanked himself past the threshold with a forward jerk of his neck, as though it were a rope tied to the leaden block that was his body. His feet clomped against the wet floor, loud as falling bricks and no less unfeeling. A sudden reverse in the current sucked the door shut, and it was instinct alone that drew the exhausted man's hand out of danger. Had he a chance to think about it, he might've attempted to stop the door from shutting out the maelstrom, for although the elements had battered and besieged him, they stung his skin with acute sensation and rang in his ears with a deafening noise that at least served to force consciousness upon him.

But now, even though the sturdy walls barely muffled the tumult outside, Entreri felt as though a layer of wax coated his ears, just as the familiar but unwelcome numbness spread through his chest and mind. Mechanically, he shrugged off his cloak and tossed it at the rack. The entire ensemble tipped, unable to support the multiplied weight of the water-laden garment. It clattered loudly against the floor, a plain white mask tumbling free of the cloak and rack and rolling a few paces away, but all of that only drew an absentminded glance from the items’ owner. One who'd gazed into those same dark eyes out in the storm would not be able to recognize their stare now, vacant, uncomprehending, diffuse. The owner of those empty eyes started to move towards the fallen apparatus, then stopped, the disorientation within his gaze spreading through the rest of him. As in so many instances in his life, Entreri forced his body into motion again, but it wasn't with a growl, but with something akin to a deep moan. As he lifted the pole and attempted different ways to balance it with his soaked cloak, his hands moved with the imprecise ponderousness of a dock worker rather than the graceful cadence of an artisan. As he struggled to keep the whole ensemble upright, his attention was the coarse survey of a digger rather than the acuity of a surveyor.

When the cloak hanger was finally re-erected, its intended burden laid in a soggy pile at its base. The puddle forming around the heap grew with the contribution from other shed garments, which were similarly tossed aside and lying in a sloppy arrangement formed from convenience rather than pragmatism. The puddle continued to grow, augmented by the run-off from the shivering man standing amidst the haphazard assortment. The direction of his eyes pointed at the cabinet with drawers full of neatly-sorted towels, clean shirts and trousers, but his gaze did not take any of them in. When Entreri's mind finally reeled his vision back to that which was before him, still, he didn't move, his body even turning slightly away as though preparing to enter a defensive crouch against the inanimate items.

Outside, water continued to fall in unrelenting sheets. The assassin's vigilance was suddenly shattered by his body starting to keel forward without his behest. Only then did the exhausted man break his stillness, catching himself and transforming his momentum forward into the hooking of a handle, his recovery of his balance pulling the drawer open. He stripped off his shirt and tossed it aside, the soaked garment falling into itself like a fishing net on the floor. However, the burden that should've fallen away with it instead shifted to his chest, adding to the weight that already sat upon his heart. Removing his breeches was like pulling hide from his flesh, so thoroughly had the water permeated the leather, but so, too, did freeing his skin from the confines shift the constraints inwards. Entreri kicked the leggings to the side but found no satisfaction from the motion, instead feeling as though he kicked away a stone from the base of an already-crumbling wall. His frame shivered violently, but he did not snatch up a dry towel, instead pinching it by an edge as though it were a soiled rag. He did not work the water from his dripping black locks, instead settling the towel over his shoulders as if it were a short cloak. This brought him no true measure of warmth, and were he himself, he might've felt ridiculous for his utter inefficiency at performing this most simple of tasks.

But neither efficiency nor efficacy even neared the forlorn assassin's thoughts as he gazed upon the pitch-black staircase stretching up away from him. He stared, motionless again, until his body gave another forward lurch, and this time, he only managed to catch himself after one, two, three stumbles. With a long sigh that was drowned out by the din of the cascading cacophony, Entreri halfheartedly wiped the moisture from his skin and hair. Without bothering to sidestep the the discarded towel, the assassin forced his bare feet one in front of the other until he could set his hand on the railing that accompanied the steps.

The flickering candlelight faded behind him, taking with it touches of color but none of the forms. So, too, did the fading light take the colors from inside him. Entreri shifted his mind to his soles, feeling the balls of his feet rolling against the cooled wood, counting the half-breaths that his heels grazed against the smooth boards. This alone kept him moving, toes flexing with each rhythmic touchdown, the predictability of the pattern an anchor in a life that had become so unpredictable.

Suddenly, the the forlorn sequence froze. A rattle sounded from above, feeble as distress signal amidst the relentless onslaught, but promising that hope yet lived. The assassin's pause lasted not even a heartbeat, and before he knew it, his body was at the top of the landing, his quickened exhales bouncing off of the closed door even while his mind still counted his heel-falls. Before Entreri could understand his own thoughts, his fingers had already disarmed all of his meticulously-set traps. A twitch of his muscles had already thrown the door wide, before his mind could warn them to not move.

Despite his self-preservation instinct, his eyes went to the bed first. He knew that his magically-enhanced sight could see perfectly in the total darkness, but still he stared, disbelieving. He'd heard movement, so why did Jarlaxle still lay so still?

A ruse, Entreri thought, as his heart thrust forward against his chest, as though eager to leap to the prone form’s side, even if it meant doing so without the rest of his body.

It's just like him to try to trick me as soon as he woke up, the assassin told himself, but his leaden feet would not move.

He then saw the empty cup, still rolling back and forth where it'd fallen, and felt the remaining strength leave him. Entreri managed to catch the frame of the door with a hand that felt like it had no bones in it. He told himself that he held fast to avoid going to his knees, but a guilty voice deep within whispered the truth of his cowardice.

As the rain had soaked him until it threatened to permeate his skin, so too did the gnawing ache burrow through his limbs like a devouring worm. Shame of his early dawdling sped the enervated man to the vulnerable figure's side, whereupon all haste was lost, transformed into delicate exactitude. Tenderly, he laid a palm against the smooth ebony forehead, then winced when he felt less warmth than from his own rain-chilled skin. Nonetheless, the assassin carefully drew the blankets around the lithe form. As he'd done countless times already, he slid one hand behind the unconscious drow's back while the other tucked the blankets around the lifeless body. The tired man's arms repeated the motions that'd become so painfully familiar to him while his mind balked, until the mercenary sat partially-upright against the headboard.

A rumble of thunder sounded so close by that Entreri felt it reverberate within his rib cage, but so tightly had he boarded the shutters closed that no flash of lightning distorted the colorless consistency of the room. No matter what elements raged outside, he'd ensured that the space he'd "sanctified" in his own way was as peaceful as it could be. His usual thoroughness had paid off, as everything was consistent -- too consistent, Entreri noted with anguish. As he studied his companion, the only other occupant in the room, he felt as though he were frozen in time. Jarlaxle was as still as the furnishings, yet so at ease that he could've been simply closing his eyes for a moment.

A moment without end.

Entreri roughly shook the thought from his head and gruffly grabbed two dark blue berries from a small bowl on the nearby table. He'd long stopped reaching for the ones at the bottom, for those that he didn't use disappeared after a day anyway. Even though he needed its magic, the assassin almost wished that the bowl didn't replenish itself, for each morning that he looked upon the newly-spawned pile of dew-kissed fruit, it seemed as though he were taken back to the previous day in a torturous cycle without end.

With eyes fixed upon his companion, Entreri set the two berries carefully between his teeth. He gingerly slid onto the bed with the immobile figure, his attention focused to such a degree upon minimally jostling the mattress that he didn't notice the soft coos and assurances he breathed around the berries. He eased the unconscious drow's head close enough until he could lift it with a nudge of his own, and, with one hand gently but firmly cupping Jarlaxle's shoulder, Entreri pulled open the mercenary's mouth, took one of the berries from between his teeth, and pushed it onto his companion's tongue. With practiced ease, the assassin then guided the mercenary's jaw up and down. He paused to nuzzle his cheek against his companion's forehead, whispering a soft apology as the bristles on his jaw brushed roughly against the smooth black skin. Before the drow's head could tip too far back, the attentive human caught it with a raised shoulder, his free hand already massaging the bared throat. Purple juices leaked from the corners of the mercenary's pale gray lips, but the assassin's hand was already there, accepting the staining onto his own skin.

As he guided his companion, Entreri tipped the remaining berry back into his own mouth. Chewing and swallowing in conjunction with the mercenary both soothed and stung his heart. This had become how they would dine together, and tonight, the weeping heavens serenaded them.

The bitter melody was almost too much to bear.

"The other 'Lords' are as obnoxious as ever." the assassin began, the way his words cracked marking his throat as the only part of him not having been soaked by the relentless rain. His voice echoed hollowly in the empty room. He attempted to swallow what felt like a rock lodged in his throat.

"So fixated are they upon their delusions of grandeur that they still have not noticed that I've taken your place."

Entreri felt his breath catch, so he pasted a self-deprecating smile on his face. The forced flexing of muscles briefly distracted him from the intensifying feelings of despair rising inexorably within his heart.

"They've finally agreed to allow Luskan to use their precious highways," he pushed on. "You would've found much humor in their chagrin in being forced to acknowledge the fruits of your work."

Your work.

Pain flooded the assassin's chest, as though a hole had ruptured his flesh and bone and the still-hungry wolves had found him in the same instant. The deluge of depression, despair, doubt and defeat poured in. He gasped for calming breaths, desperate not to allow the flood to distort his voice. His shaking frame shifted the precious consignment in his arms, causing the drow's head to fall forward against his neck to rest perfectly in the crook.

“This was made specifically for me,” Entreri heard Jarlaxle’s musical tone croon in his thoughts.

The embankment that he had struggled so hard to build over the past months blasted wide apart.

Even while his mind screamed at him in horrified admonition, the distraught human roughly gathered up the far too still form, pulling the drow over his own legs and encircling him with his arms. Unable to stop the convulsions of his own body and the disgusting racket coming out of his own mouth, the assassin threw his mind far out beyond the walls, where the tumult spared him his own shameful display. He imagined himself floating weightlessly amidst the maelstrom, the sheets of water passing through him as easily as did the streaks of harsh light. He wanted to drift away even farther, but he could not, perhaps as penance for his indulgence.

Moistness on his arm called his mind back to his body. Entreri looked down and saw the cooling streams that ran off of the smooth black arms onto his own, the hairs of the latter delaying the wetting of the blankets around them. Cursing, the assassin slipped out from the bed before his show of weakness could cause further disruption, roughly wiping his arm against his bare back and berating himself with words sharper than any blade that'd ever punctured his skin. Delicately, he straightened the sheets that he'd ruffled around the drow, then gently smoothed the covers over the still and quiet mercenary. He found and flattened every ripple in his ritual of atonement, until he realized that his efforts achieved an effect akin to a burial shroud.

Entreri’s hands dropped to his sides and he slowly sank down until he felt his heels dig into his bare thighs. His mind began issuing the customary instructions for climbing onto the mattress with minimal disturbance of his unconscious bedfellow, instructions that he'd followed for countless nights, but his body didn't move. It wasn't exhaustion that pinned him there, but the weight of awareness. Awareness that his skin was still chilled from the rain, awareness that the deluge had tainted him with the city's filth. Awareness that the garments that would provide an acceptable barrier between his companion and his disgrace were absent, and an awareness that "acceptable" was far from sufficient.

Entreri's forehead fell until his messy black locks splayed out against the neat white sheet. His fingers clasped before himself in a vain effort to still the shaking of his hands.

"Jarlaxle, open your eyes." His voice was quiet, subdued. "Open your eyes, and look upon your city. Look upon this place that you've carved for yourself, in a world that wasn't meant for you. Look upon your accomplishments. You finally have all that you'd ever wanted. Please, open your eyes, and look upon them."

He swallowed. He could keep his heavy lids open no more. His willpower and discipline were stolen from him by the grueling passage of time, a merciless ravaging reaver that stole, too, words from his very lips.

"Jarlaxle, please, open your eyes, and look upon me."

#Just One Word #post-canon #Artemis Entreri #Entreri #Jarlaxle #Jarlaxle Baenre #Forgotten Realms #legend of drizzt #fanfiction

13 notes · View notes

danfanciesphil · 7 years ago

Text

Phan Teacher AU (Part 4)

(Part One)

(Part Two)

(Part Three)

This is all Mr Horowitz’s fault.

Okay, so it’s also a little bit Dan’s fault for forgetting to bring an umbrella, or even a sensible coat, but in his defence, he had no idea this would happen.

Normally, Dan’s walk to the bus stop after school is little more than two minutes, and so far he has always made it in time to catch the 3:17 bus. It’s a good thing too, because Dan knows that the next one doesn’t come for another hour.

He’d been on his way to catch this same bus, in fact, when Mr Horowitz caught his arm, asking whether, before he left, he’d just run upstairs to the labs and clear up the experiment from the last class. Dan, being the school’s servant boy, couldn’t exactly refuse. He’d raced up to the labs at just after 3pm, cleared the desks in lightning speed, run a broom over the floor and sprinted to the bus stop.

But alas, the sight with which he was greeted was the tail end of it, chugging into the distance as the rain pelted down.

So now, Dan is stood, shivering like mad, in the downpour. It’s currently 3:30pm, and he still has another 47 minutes before the next bus.

“Fuck you, Horowitz,” Dan mutters under his breath, which comes out in a silvery puff of steam.

He wraps his thin jacket around himself a little tighter, rocking on the balls of his feet. Students keep passing him by, some sending sympathetic looks, and some chuckling at his plight. Dan knows he must look an absolute sight; his hair is probably plastered to his head, and his smart shirt and skinny jeans are so drenched that they’d fill a few jugs if they were wrung out, he’s sure.

“Wanna use my Physics textbook as an umbrella, sir?” A Year 11 student Dan vaguely recognises calls out as they walk past, laughing.

Dan shakes his head with a grim smile. “No thanks,” He replies, as tactfully as he can bring himself to be.

It’s at this moment that a car pulls up to the bus stop, pausing right beside where Dan is stood.

The window rolls down, and Dan’s immediate instinct is to run away - a product of the copious amount of ‘stranger danger’ warnings instilled into him during his teacher training.

Then, the driver of the vehicle leans across the passenger seat, and Dan nearly wails. It’s Phil. Of course it’s Phil.

“Hey!” Phil says, a glimmer of amusement in his cobalt eyes. “Need a lift?”

Trying his best not to think about the fact that he looks the worst he ever has, Dan forces a tight smile, leaning towards the open window.

“Hey, hah- yeah, I didn’t exactly prepare for the weather today.” Dan says, chuckling at himself. “But it’s okay. Thanks for the offer but I live really far away. I’ll just get the next bus.”

“When’s the next bus?” Phil asks.

A car behind him slows to a stop, unable to get past. Dan glances up at it worriedly. The driver, an older man in a suit, looks impatient.

“Um, in forty-five minutes. Ish.”

Phil’s eyes widen, his mouth falling open. “What?! You’re planning to wait here in the rain for that long?”

Dan tries to give Phil a bright smile, like he’s fine with it, but a raindrop falls from his forehead into his eye, making him wince.

“Y-yeah, it’s okay, I’m-” Dan cuts himself as a sneeze surges up out of nowhere; he just about manages to turn away, aiming it into the crook of his elbow.

When he looks back up at Phil, he does not look pleased. “Dan,” he says, his voice dropping to his firm, teacher tone. “Get in the car.”

Partly because the gentleman behind Phil has begun honking his horn, and partly because his knees have jellified at the sound of Phil speaking to him this way, Dan pulls open Phil’s passenger door and climbs in.

It’s so warm inside that he could cry.

“I’m gonna get your seats all wet.” Dan says mournfully, trying to take up as little space as he can.

“They’ll dry.” Phil tells him, turning the heater up until it’s blasting over Dan’s face and chest. “There are more important things than courtesy, you know Dan.”

Dan turns to him, trying to work out whether Phil’s annoyed. He watches silently as Phil pulls away from the kerb, joining the thick muddle of after-school traffic inching its way towards the main road.

“My mum raised me to be a polite young man,” Dan jokes, trying to lighten the mood.

“My mum raised me not to put my health in danger for the sake of asking a friend for a lift once in a while,” Phil replies, looking over at Dan. The windscreen wipers squeak as they battle the awful weather. After a moment, Phil sighs, his expression softening. “Sorry, I don’t mean to have a go at you. But come and find me if you miss your bus again, okay? I’d rather drive a bit out of my way today than have you turn up tomorrow with pneumonia.”

Dan nods guiltily. “Wait till you see how far away I live before you get too generous.”

“Wow,” Phil whistles, eyebrows raised as he stares down at Google Maps on his phone. “You weren’t kidding.”

They’ve pulled into a layby, the rain still thundering against the glass. It doesn’t matter though, because Phil’s car is warm and dry. It’s littered with little plastic toys, highlighting Phil’s quirkier side. There are Marvel superhero bobble-heads blu-tacked onto the dashboard, and the cupholders are filled with keyrings that look like they were won out of those two-penny slot machines.

There are also sweet wrappers scattered around - skittles, starburst, pick ‘n’ mix, or anything sugary and colourful.

None of it seems anything other than incredibly endearing, though. Dan could spend hours rifling through this car, which is so intrinsically Phil, just learning about him through his clutter.

“Yeah,” Dan says awkwardly. “It’s a forty minute bus ride.”

“You do that every day?” Phil asks, looking up at him in wonder. “Twice a day?”

Dan shrugs. “It’s not that bad.”

It would be a lot worse if he had nothing to look forward to once he actually got to the school, Dan thinks privately.

“Um, don’t worry about taking me all the way,” Dan says quickly, “just drop me at another bus stop or something on your way home-”

Phil flaps a hand at him distractedly, turning back to his phone. He pinches the map, searching the screen for a route to take.

“No, no, I don’t mind taking you,” Phil says, chewing his lip. He looks up, out of the windscreen, appearing to have some sort of internal debate. “It’s just... well, do you mind if we make a stop?”

Dan blinks at him.

“Uh, a stop?” He asks, uncomprehending.

“Yeah,” Phil replies. “It’s just that I need to let my dog out. Would you mind if we stopped at mine on the way? I’ll take you straight home after.”

Dan pauses for a moment, the words not sinking in straight away. Phil wants to take him to his house, where he actually lives, and he’s asking if that would be a problem.

“Phil, you’re literally rescuing me from a storm,” Dan says slowly, watching the bashful smile spread over Phil’s gorgeous features. “You could drive me via the Eiffel Tower if you wanted.”

Phil grins at him, putting his phone down and releasing the handbrake. “Maybe we should save the Eiffel Tower for another time.” Phil side-eyes him, questioningly. “Like in two weeks?”

Dan’s already racing heart picks up a little more speed, the fact that he is currently en route to Phil’s actual house beginning to seep into reality. He laughs, feeling awkward about what Phil is implying.

“Yeah, I still haven’t decided whether I’m coming on the trip yet,” Dan says, hands clasping together in his damp lap.

“You know it’s free for teachers, right?”

“I’m not a teacher.”

Phil smirks. “I’m sure I can persuade John to let you in free of charge.”

“Who?” Dan asks.

“John. Mr Green.” Phil clarifies; Dan just stares blankly. “Vice Principal of the school?”

“Oh,” Dan says, vaguely remembering a ‘VP Green’ showing him round on his first day. “I haven’t seen him since I first started. Sorry.”

“Well, he’s coming on the trip.” Phil tells him. “So, that’s a perfect opportunity to get to know him better.”

“Right, because having an awkward conversation in Paris with the Vice Principal of a school I’m heavily under-qualified to work at is top of my to-do list.”

Phil laughs heartily, pulling off the main road into a suburban maze of small houses. They can’t be more than ten minutes from the school. Dan gazes out of his rain-speckled window at the idyllic neighbourhood, trying not to be too obvious about how badly he wants to soak it all in.

“You’re not under-qualified.” Phil says, leaving no room for argument. You’re one of the best TA’s I’ve ever had.”

Dan stays quiet in the face of this statement, not sure how to handle it.

“Besides,” Phil continues, to Dan’s relief. “John’s actually a pretty cool guy,”

As it has rather often since the film screening on Wednesday, Dan’s mind wanders to thoughts of Paris, of being there with Phil and the rest of the Year Nine class. In his current state of awkward, socially inept pining over the class’ teacher, Dan’s not sure he’d be able to handle the experience.

Yes, it would be an amazing opportunity, and undoubtedly fun at times. But the class already tease Dan, sensing his overly-fond opinion of their favourite teacher despite him trying to keep it under control. It’s hard to imagine an entire weekend of that, in the so-called ‘city of love’, whilst attempting at least a shade of professionalism.

Not to mention how uncomfortable the whole thing could make Phil.

“But I don’t wanna pressure you.” Phil says, interrupting Dan’s tumultuous thoughts. “I just think it’d be fun if you came.”

Before Dan can properly comprehend that statement, let alone reply to it, Phil is pulling the car over and switching off the engine.

They’re parked in the middle of a quiet, orderly street, right outside a cute little bungalow, complete with a neat front garden and little pathway to the front door.

“You live here?” Dan asks, awed by how... lovely it is.

Phil chuckles, unbuckling his seatbelt. “No Dan, I brought you to someone else’s house and we’re going to break in.”

Dan turns to narrow his eyes at Phil, who just laughs more.

“Come on, let’s get inside - it’s still belting down.” Phil says, unfastening Dan’s seatbelt before he gets the chance.

Dan takes a deep breath in a vain attempt to prepare himself for what’s about to happen, and follows Phil as he hops out of the car, and jogs to the front door.

If Phil’s car is telling of his personality, his house is as though he’d cracked open his chest, scooped handfuls of his soul out and splattered it all over the walls.

Dan has never seen any sort of interior design that represented a person so well before. It’s not just visually appealing, it’s also a spectacle to behold. Dan’s sure that by just opening one random drawer in Phil’s house and glancing at the contents, he’d understand a thousand more things about this man, strange and enigmatic as he is.

They enter into a small entrance hall, painted a sunny yellow. There’s a semi-circular welcome mat on the floor, made to look like half a pepperoni pizza. On one wall hangs a large mirror, in a bizarre, warped shape, the edges curved as though they’d been drawn by a child.

There’s a tall cheese plant in one corner, and on a table below the mirror sits a potted scarlet anthurium. It’s a colourful room, and Dan’s very aware that this is only the very entrance of Phil’s house.

Before Dan can comment on the aesthetics - which he greatly appreciates, having lived in a cheap, falling apart, ‘student house’ for some time now - a small creature tears through the doorway on the left, bounding towards them, barking shrilly.

Phil crouches down to greet it, gathering the bundle of excitable fur into his arms immediately, laughing. Mouth falling open in an adoring ‘o’, Dan drops to the floor instinctively, an overwhelming urge to pet this animal forcing him to its level.

“Dan,” Phil chuckles, receiving several licks to his face. “This is Buffy.”

It lets out a ‘ruff!’ upon hearing its name, turning to Dan, tongue hanging out as it surveys him. In a millisecond, the dog is wriggling in Phil’s arms, struggling to be free. It worms its way out of Phil’s grip in a second, leaping across to Dan’s lap, tail wagging excitedly.

“Oh my God,” Dan says, cuddling the dog close to himself as he strokes and scritches and pets its soft, caramel fur. “This is the cutest dog I’ve ever seen in my life. What breed is it?”

“She’s a paperanian,” Phil says, moving to sit cross-legged on the floor. He laughs as Buffy begins frantically licking at Dan’s face, front paws on his chest as she attempts to reach him. “A pomeranian-papillon mix.”

Phil strokes along her back, fondly, his hand occasionally brushing across Dan’s.

Dan is giggling into the shock of Buffy’s fur, relishing the adorable, happy temperament of this dog. His only family dog had been a springer-spaniel when he was young, and it had died before he’d had a chance to bond with it properly.

“Unff-” Dan says, voice muffled as Buffy licks eagerly at his chin. “How long’ve you had her?”

“About a year and a half?” Phil replies, smiling warmly. “I used to volunteer at a shelter when I lived in France. I didn’t mean to get attached, but I couldn’t help it. So I adopted her.”

“She’s adorable,” Dan says, stroking over her soft, pointed ears as she begins to calm down, happily settled in Dan’s lap. “I think I’m in love.”

Phil glances up at Dan, eyebrow raised. For some reason, Dan finds himself blushing. “I get it.” Phil replies. “I fell in love on sight.”

Dan holds Phil’s gaze for a moment, any responses getting caught in his throat. Buffy barks, stealing their attention, and Phil giggles at her. He stands, scooping her up from Dan’s lap and into his arms.

Dan tries not to pout about this.

“Come on, then,” Phil says, presumably to the dog, “I’ll let you out for a bit.”

Dan stands too, following Phil through his hallway and into the room on the left.

Again, he is struck by the amazing decor of the room in which he enters, which seems to be a spacious living area, but he barely has time to appreciate it before Phil is heading into the kitchen at the other end, Buffy still tucked in the crook of his arm.

At the back of the kitchen there’s a glass sliding door, leading to what appears to be a tiny back garden, surrounded by a tall wooden fence. It’s through here that Phil lets Buffy out, barking happily as she scampers across the wet grass, not bothered by the rain in the slightest.

Phil slides the door shut after her, turning to Dan with a smile. “I’ll just let her run around for a bit. She’s been cooped up all day.”

“I guess you have to leave her here while you’re at school?”

“Yeah,” Phil replies guiltily. “It’s not as bad as some jobs, because I can let her out in the morning, and then I finish quite early in the day, but I still feel bad.”

“I’m sure she’s used to it.” Dan says, trying to make a positive comment.

“Yeah, I suppose.” Phil says. “If I ever have to stay late, I can call my brother to come and check on her. He lives just down the road.”

“That’s convenient, at least.”

Phil shrugs, turning to his kitchen counter and retrieving the bright red kettle.

“It’s not perfect, but it works okay.” Phil says. “Anyway, I’m rarely away from home. It’s not every day I have to rescue damoiseau’s in distress caught in rainstorms because they missed their bus.” Phil winks at him; along with the casual french he dropped into the sentence, it makes Dan feel a little dazed.

“Do you want a cup of tea while she runs about for a bit?” Phil asks.

Dan feels his heart flutter, and wonders whether any of the other TA’s have ever had the honour of coming here, of meeting Phil’s dog and receiving hot beverages on rainy days.

“That’d be great, thanks.” Dan answers quietly, still feeling like an inconvenience.

As Phil fills the kettle and gets the mugs, Dan takes the opportunity to look around his kitchen. It’s beautiful, just like the rest of the house, but with a few youthful, quirky touches that indicate Phil’s sillier side.

The walls are cream, as are the countertops, but there are splashes of colour everywhere. The microwave is bright yellow, and there are a host of tiny herb plants in red, green, blue and orange pots atop the windowsill.

Phil’s fridge is a light blue, and around his light wooden table, the chairs are varying sizes and colours, mismatched, but in a way that seems put together.

“It’s so homely in here,” Dan muses, not really meaning to say it aloud.

Phil turns to him, evidently surprised. “Thanks! Most people say it’s a bit much.” He pours the boiling water into the mugs, chuckling. “My brother said that it’s as if I gathered a random load of furniture and scattered it about without thinking.”

“Did you?”

“Kind of, I suppose.” Phil allows, shrugging one shoulder. “I just pick up bits and pieces that I like the look of, and fit them in as best I can.” He laughs, opening his sky-blue fridge to get the milk. “I don’t pretend to be an expert in interior design. I just like things to be...”

“Pretty?” Dan supplies.

“I was gonna say colourful,” Phil says, smiling at him. “But yeah, I suppose. Thanks.”

Dan blushes faintly, casting another look around. He notices for the first time that Phil’s fridge door is covered in those alphabet magnets, some of which spell out the phrase ‘normalness leads to sadness’. There’s also a photo pinned there, of Phil and a man Dan vaguely recognises as his brother. He’s holding Buffy in his arms, smiling a very Phil-like smile.

“Milk? Sugar?” Phil asks, tearing Dan’s attention away.

“Just milk, thanks.”

Phil pours the milk, humming to himself, and adds two lumps of sugar to his own cup from a gnome-shaped pot nearby. He places the mugs down on the table, and pulls out a chair.

“You can sit down, you know,” Phil tells Dan amusedly, slipping into one of the seats.

Dan obeys, sliding into the chair opposite him and retrieving his mug. “Thanks.”

He sips, even though it’s far too hot, trying to think past his nerves, for something, anything, to say that isn’t ‘wow you’re pretty and your house is pretty and your dog is the cutest thing in the world and I think I’m crushing on you far, far too much to even be here let alone go to Paris with you in two weeks’. He comes up blank.

Then, quite unexpectedly, Phil reaches across the table, and pushes a strand of his fringe away from his eye, a slight smile playing on his lips. Dan freezes, a deer in headlights, as Phil’s fingertips brush his forehead, acutely aware of how damp he is still.

“Your hair,” Phil says softly, wonderingly. “It’s curly.”

Dan blushes furiously at once, ducking away from Phil’s touch, feeling self-conscious. “Shit, yeah. The rain, y’know...”

Phil draws his hand back to his mug, smiling amusedly. “It’s cute.”

Dan looks at him in surprise. He’s never, in a million years, considered the idea that anybody might find his natural, untameable curls anything other than ridiculous, but all of a sudden he has a powerful urge to never touch a pair of straighteners again.

Dan lifts his hand to his head, patting the mess of curls that are drying there.

“I... never really liked them.” He admits, sheepish.

“You should embrace them,” Phil says encouragingly. He shrugs one shoulder. “I mean, if you want. I think they suit you. But then, it’s not my hair.”

All of a sudden, Dan shivers, partly because he’s wet and cold, but mostly because Phil is being so sweet that his body actually seems to be rejecting the sentiment, not sure how else to process it.

Phil frowns, noticing the tremble. “Hey, take that off.”

He gestures to Dan’s torso, standing from the chair. Dan just looks, bewildered, at Phil’s outstretched hand.

“Um...”

“Your jacket, Dan.” Phil says, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I’ll throw it in the dryer.”

“Oh, no it’s okay-”

“Dan, you’re actually shivering.” Phil interrupts, voice firm. “I’ll just dry off your wet jacket, it’ll take ten minutes.”

“It’s warm in here, you really don’t have to.” Dan mumbles, but he’s already shaking the damn thing off his shoulders, because Phil is using his teacher-voice, and it’s drilling right into his chilly bones.

Phil just takes the jacket from him, opening a secret cupboard door under the kitchen counter to reveal a washer-dryer. He places Dan’s jacket inside, presses a few buttons, and smiles in satisfaction as the dryer begins its cycle.

He turns back to Dan, frowning again as he takes in the sight of him.

“Hey, drink your tea, it’ll warm you up.” Phil instructs, moving across the room, towards the doorway. “I’ll be right back.”

Dan doesn’t get a chance to object; Phil slips out of the room, leaving Dan sat at the table in just his damp, clinging, white shirt, hands clasped around the mug of tea.

Then, in a moment, he’s back again, a bundle of green material in one hand. He hands it to Dan casually, then moves to sit back in his seat.

“Um, what’s this?” Dan asks, confused. He turns the green item over in his hands carefully.

“A hoodie,” Phil says, like it’s perfectly normal. “You’re cold.”

Dan swallows, squeezing the material in his fist. It feels thick and warm. “Oh, th-thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Phil says, beaming. “Put it on, you’re not allowed to be cold in my house.”

“I didn’t realise you had such strict house rules,” Dan replies teasingly, but pulls the hoodie over his head, threading his arms through the sleeves.

It smells - oh, Lord - it smells just like him. It’s cinnamon sweet, with a fresh, plant-like overtone. A cooling, freshly baked apple pie on a windowsill, the breeze sweeping in its delicious aroma, carrying the notes of the newly cut spring grass.

Dan has to force himself not to bury his nose in the sleeves that hang down over his hands.

He tries to distract himself by looking down at the text on the front of it, which reads ‘York University’. “I see I’m repping your college.”

“Hah, yeah, sorry about that.” Phil says bashfully, sipping more tea. “I guess it’s a bit weird to hang onto that, isn’t it?”

Dan shrugs. “Not if you liked it.”

Phil smiles at him appreciatively. “I liked the uni, yeah. And I like the hoodie. I like it even better on you.”

Simply because Dan doesn’t trust himself to speak further about this without melting into a gooey puddle, he decides to change the subject.

“So, is it Buffy as in... the vampire slayer?”

He nods towards the screen door, through which Phil’s dog is sprinting happily across the grass, pausing every so often to sniff a patch, tail wagging furiously.

Phil turns to watch her for a moment, laughing. He nods, turning back to wink at Dan. “I mean, it is the greatest show of all time.”

Dan considers this, nodding. “It’s definitely up there.”

“You’ve seen it?” Phil asks, sounding surprised. “Not many people have, these days.”

“You spend too much time around teenagers.” Dan says with a wry smile. “The kids in your classes probably weren’t even born when Buffy was cool.”

Phil sighs, nodding in agreement. “You’re probably right.”

“Hey, it’s their loss.” Dan says. “They’ll never know the awesomeness that is Buffy Summers kicking kicking the ass of every monster that dares to cross her.”

“Or the incredible hotness of Spike,” Phil adds, somewhat wistfully.

“Spike over Angel? Interesting.”

“To be honest, if I were Buffy, I think I’d have a similarly hard time deciding between them.”

“Same,” Dan agrees, staring down into his tea.

“Hey, I forgot,” Phil announces suddenly, his voice bright and cheerful. “I made cupcakes! Would you like one?”

Dan watches as Phil stands from his chair, heading to a cupboard to pull out a cake tin.

“Um,” Dan says; his stomach is rumbling at the mere mention of food, let alone cake, but he wants to be careful about how far he should run with Phil’s generosity. In the end however, his tummy, which hasn’t been fed since lunch, makes the decision for him. “Sure. Thanks.”

Phil finds a small plate and presents Dan with one of the most incredible looking cakes he’s ever seen. Putting bakeries to shame, Phil has piped rainbow frosting atop a small, palm sized cake. He’s also sliced off the top of the cake, cut it in half, and pushed the pieces into the icing in a traditional ‘butterfly cake’ style.

The whole thing is covered in some kind of edible glitter too, making it sparkle under Phil’s soft, overhead lamps.

“Christ, you made this?” Dan asks, staring down at it in amazement. “I feel like I shouldn’t eat something this pretty.”

Phil chuckles. “It’s either going to you or Buffy, so eat up.”

Phil takes his seat again, and Dan diligently begins peeling the glittery pink case from the sides of the cupcake. He glances up at Phil, watching him, and pauses.

“You’re not having one?”

Phil shakes his head. “Trust me, I’ve had about sixty already since I made them. He leans back in his chair, placing a hand on his stomach. “I’m cupcake’d out.”

Dan’s eyes fall to the cake in his hand, feeling awkward about eating it now.

Phil laughs at him, and Dan looks up. “What?”

“Afraid I’m trying to poison you?”

Dan splutters, having not even thought of that. Realistically though, he perhaps should be a bit more concerned. He doesn’t know Phil that well, after all.

Playing along, Dan eyes the cake suspiciously, bringing it to his nose and sniffing. “Well, it is awfully convenient that you just had to let Buffy out whilst you already had me in your car...”

Phil rolls his eyes, smirking. Without a word, he leans forwards, plucks the cupcake from Dan’s hand, and brings it to his lips. He takes a small bite, frosting and all, licking glitter and crumbs from his lips as he holds Dan’s gaze.

He hands the cupcake back over, looking triumphant. “There. If it’s poisoned, then we’ll both die.”

“Finally,” Dan jokes, taking a bite out of the cupcake, heart palpitating over what just happened.

The cupcake is glorious. Dan shuts his eyes, moaning a little in appreciation. It tastes like strawberry laces, and vanilla ice cream, and pure, unfiltered joy. It tastes like how he imagine Phil himself would taste, were he smothered in frosting and had a surprise, raspberry jam centre.

“Fucking hell,” Dan says eloquently, diving straight back in for another bite. “Phil Lester, you’re a genius.”

In three bites, Dan has devoured the entire thing, and he licks the remnants off each of his fingers, wishing he could go back in time and experience that slice of heaven all over again.

When he eventually meets Phil’s gaze, he’s looking a little dazed. There’s a pink tint to his pale skin, resting just above his sharp cheekbones. Seeming to gather himself, Phil clears his throat, and adjusts his glasses, smiling.

“Glad you liked it,” Phil mumbles, busying himself by taking Dan’s plate to the sink.

“You should apply for Bake Off,” Dan says sincerely.

Phil laughs, rinsing the plate under the tap, faced away from him.

“Actually don’t,” Dan says, changing his mind. “Just bake for me, instead.”

Phil stacks the plate on a drying rack, turning back to him. He doesn’t sit back at the table, though. He just leans against the counter, watching Dan from afar.

“And what do I get out of that deal, Mr Howell?” Phil asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Literally whatever you want.” Dan replies, meaning every word.

“Careful,” Phil says, typically flirtatious, making Dan’s stomach flip. “Some people might take advantage of a promise like that.”

Dan just laughs, staying quiet. In his mind however, he silently comes to the realisation that he can’t think of a single thing that Phil could ask for, that he would refuse to do.

Oh, dear.

By the time they leave Phil’s house, the rain has eased to more of a drizzle, but it pours continuously nonetheless. Dan says goodbye to Buffy about five times, softened by her sad little whimpers and puppy eyes each time he turns to go.

He doesn’t mind that her fur is soaked and a little muddy, he just cuddles her close, no doubt ruining Phil’s hoodie, though Phil doesn’t object. He doesn’t even tell her off as she tracks damp pawprints through the kitchen, he just uses a spare towel to dry her off, giggling as she wriggles about beneath it.

“Aw, he’ll be back another time, Buffy,” Phil assures his whining dog, and secretly Dan bursts with happiness.

They get out of the door eventually, and into Phil’s car. Phil sticks the heating on straight away, blasting them both as they rub their hands together. Dan wishes it would be socially acceptable to lean across and nestle into Phil’s shoulder, but alas, he settles for simply wrapping the hoodie more tightly around himself, pretending it’s Phil’s arms.

“She loves you,” Phil says, laughing. “She’s not going to let me forget that, either.”

“What a shame,” Dan says, faking a dismayed sigh. “I guess I’ll just have to come and play with her all the time.”

Phil grins at him. “You should. Buffy would really like that.”

“Buffy would?” Dan asks, feeling just brave enough to attempt a flirtation, fuelled by the adrenaline his own body has been pumping through his veins for the past hour or so.

Phil just smiles at him, eyes holding Dan’s for a moment, seeming to forget about starting the car. “Yeah,” he says after a while. “She really would.”

It’s quite painful to watch Phil driving away.

It’s only been a couple of hours, but in the short time he and Phil spent together this afternoon, Dan had grown rather attached to his presence.

This whole crush-thing would be so much easier if Phil was a difficult person to hang out with. But it’s so easy. They fall into banter as quickly as breathing, their conversations lasting indefinitely, because they could spring off each other’s witticisms for hours on end.

Phil is so funny, and so effortlessly charming. He’s intelligent and sharp, which is attractive on its own, but he has such a flirtatious streak, and it only makes things worse.

The more time Dan spends around him, in fact, the more he feels himself falling into a deep cavern of yearning.

When Phil pulled up to Dan’s house, right before Dan got out, he handed Dan another one of his cupcakes, which he’d hidden in a little Tupperware box in the glove compartment, unbeknownst to Dan.

Dan had protested at first, saying he couldn’t possibly steal another of his incredible creations, but Phil insisted on him having it. Eventually, Dan managed to create a condition - that he owed Phil a favour, not only for the cupcake (and the other cupcake) but for the cup of tea, and introducing him to Buffy, and the kindness, and for literally rescuing him in his hour of need and driving him forty minutes across town to his house.

Phil laughed, but agreed to these terms. Dan had gone to leave his car then, cupcake in hand, but Phil had stopped him, saying he had an idea for how Dan could repay him.

Of course, he had to say Paris.

So, because he’s helpless to refuse Phil anyway, and because he owes Phil a lot, Dan agreed. So, in two weeks, he’s off to Paris, to spend an entire weekend with Phil, in the most romantic city in the world.

Yes, there will be twenty or more teenagers along for the ride, but Dan finds it difficult enough to keep it together in Phil’s presence as it is, even during class.

Forty-eight hours of uninterrupted time in close proximity to this man is going to render him as useless as a smitten nerd-girl in any teenage rom-com that’s existed since the beginning of time.

He sighs, watching from his doorway as Phil’s car rounds the corner, out of sight. He opens the Tupperware, and takes a bite of the delicious cake, sighing in defeat.

“Okay, who was that?” Tyler’s voice says from right by his shoulder, making Dan jump.

“Is that hot, French, teacher-guy?” Teddy interjects from further inside.

Dan rolls his eyes, turning to push past both of them as he stalks into the house. “Don’t you guys have anything better to do than spy on me?”

“Aw, Dan we just want to see you happy!” Tyler exclaims, following Dan into the kitchen.

He wraps his arms around Dan’s waist, walking behind him like a drunk mum too into the conga line, until they reach the counter.

Dan puts his half eaten cupcake back in its box, placing it on the counter.

“How do you know I’m not?” Dan asks crossly.

“I mean, you’re fine.” Teddy says, strolling into the kitchen to rest his arm on Dan’s shoulder. “But fine isn’t good enough for our lovely Daniel. We want to see you being adored!”

Teddy pinches Dan’s cheek, smiling at him. Tyler kisses him on the temple, ruffling his hair.

Dan rolls his eyes, but smiles a little under the affection. “Thanks, but I’m good.”

He struggles free of them, intending to take an immediate shower in order to wash the rainwater off himself. He heads for the door of the kitchen, mind already on other things.

Phil things.

Paris things.

“Hey, Dan?” Tyler calls out, sounding confused. Dan turns on the spot, somewhat reluctantly. “I thought you went to the University of Manchester?”

Dan frowns in confusion. “Ty, we all went to the same uni. We literally met at uni.”

Teddy hides a smirk in Tyler’s shoulder. “Right, right.” Tyler says. “So whose hoodie is that?”

Having completely forgotten he was even wearing the thing, Dan flushes bright red, stammering in place of a response. It’s an absurd reaction, obviously, but it sends the others into fits of laughter, and Dan instinctively knows they won’t let this go for weeks, no matter how much he tries to insist it was a purely platonic gesture on Phil’s part.

“I hate you both,” Dan groans, practically running out of the room.

He slams the door of the bathroom, switching on the shower, cheeks still flame-red in the mirror. He pauses, caught by the sight of his reflection, swathed in the emerald green of Phil’s hoodie.

He strokes the words on the front, feeling how they’re beginning to flake from multiple washes, and from the creases Phil has made as he moves around in this same garment, when it’s wrapped around him instead.

Dan lifts the sleeve to his nose, breathing in that delicious scent. The vanilla-strawberry cupcake still lingers on his tongue, making it that little bit sweeter.

He’ll return this hoodie, he tells himself, saving it until last as he strips off for the shower. But maybe he could forget for a few days. Or maybe he could say that he wanted to wait until the next time he’s in class with Phil, which isn’t until Monday now.

He places the hoodie carefully to one side, not wanting it to get wet, and hops in the shower. He lets his mind drift, skimming across memories of Phil’s touch against his forehead, the sound of the rain pattering against his screen door as the dog played outside, the low, fond tone of Phil’s voice from across the table, the flame of something vivacious dancing in his glacial eyes.

Paris, he decides, as the light trickles of warm water travel over his body, might not be so bad.

(Part 5!)

#phanfic #phan #teacher au #my fic #prompts

87 notes · View notes

pencil-or-ink-blog · 7 years ago

Text

The Nereid and the Seachild

Day Two

The boy woke early the next morning, soaked to the bone, the pain in his ankle and side amplified from the cold and the wet. Shivering, he stood and limped his way back through the city, searching at every turn for a glimpse of the sea to guide him. As he grew close, he could hear the sound of bells from the docks, and he used that to lead his way like the point of a compass.

The bar was an old wooden structure that had stood in that location for over a century. The owner sometimes spoke of the grandeur of its early life, how his great-grandfather had created a warm and welcome atmosphere for all the rowdy sailors returning from long voyages and aching for a stiff drink, their pockets full of coin quickly burning a hole in the thin cloth.

Now, the wood was warped from a hundred years of saltwater wind and heavy rainfall. This close to the docks, none of the buildings fared well for long. And where it had once been a bustling first stop for many returning sailors, it was now mostly frequented by anyone who couldn’t afford the better bars that could be found both up and down the block.

Still, the boy looked on the place as a safe haven, the only real port he had in his messy life, and when he hobbled up to the groaning structure, he sighed in relief, pressing his hand against the wood, still saturated from last night’s storm, to reassure himself he wasn’t simply hallucinating.

The winds were beginning to pick up again, icy rain battering his face, so he settled himself beside the back entrance, sitting on an upturned bucket left out for the smokers on break, and hunkered down for three hours of waiting before the owner arrived and let him in. He slept sporadically, having slept very poorly the night before between his throbbing side, the sharp pains in his ankle, and the awful nightmares.

Occasionally something would pull him from his dreams and he’d look around – a particularly strong gust; shouting from the street; the bugle call announcing the arrival of The Commodore out in the port – but he always fell back asleep quickly. Once, he thought he saw the woman standing over him, her hands tucked into the pockets of her coat, but when he looked again there was nothing there.

It must have been a dream.

Finally, a set of heavy footsteps dragged him from the last of his sleep, and he stood up and straightened his clothes as the owner pulled his keys from his pocket and nodded once at the boy. “You gonna be falling over again tonight, or are you gonna be alright?” the owner asked, and then, remembering the boy didn’t speak, he repeated only the last question: “You gonna be alright?”

The boy nodded quickly, and the owner grunted. “Well good. Tonight’s set to be a busy one. Got the new ship that just came in, so I expect you to be at the top of your game.” He pushed in the door and ushered the boy in first, quickly locking it up behind them.

There was a coat closet in the manager’s office. The owner had always been kind enough to allow the boy to keep his most important belongings hidden away there. He wouldn’t let the boy sleep in the bar at night, but the boy could store his clothes, his spare money, whatever he needed. He changed quickly in the bathroom, using soap and water to clean himself before getting right to work, pulling down chairs and bar stools and relining trash cans that had lain empty all night.

Silently, the owner and the boy went about their own business, each focused on their opening tasks. As the other employees trickled in, the boy gained the courage to put his coat in its spot in the back of the break room, beside the vending machine. As quickly as he slipped in, he slipped out again.

The ancient machine made him even more nervous, now. He didn’t want to be alone with it.

~*~

Every night, the boy worked for the bar from when it opened at one in the afternoon to when it closed at three in the evening. The extra-long shift made up for the fact that the owner paid him half what he paid the other employees. “Look, kid, there’s no way you’re legal. I could get in a lot of trouble hiring you like this. If anybody found out, I could lose my license. I’ll pay you under the table, but I get half your paycheck – you know, for all the risk I’m taking. You’ll get four bucks an hour. But, if you’re good, I’ll stack up your hours. It’ll even out. You’ll be fine.”

It seemed like a fair enough deal. The boy kept his head down and worked hard. He didn’t notice when the woman came in again, her long legs making slow, even strides down the concrete steps and sweeping across the cramped floor like a dancer. He didn’t notice as she settled into the same spot at the bar, sipping on another whiskey and coke as she watched him, this time with a look of finality in her eyes. She had made her decision.

The boy didn’t notice woman at all, until a drunk customer knocked into him as he was pushing his way through the crowd with a broom, heading for a mess at the table nearest the bathrooms. The customer laughed uproariously and weaved his way to the bar, but the woman caught the boy in her hands and helped right him. He came eye to eye with the wild horse fish on the woman’s arm, and slowly he lifted his gaze to her face. For a moment, the world stopped. He could hear the sounds of the ocean in his head, and her dark eyes seemed to hold the ferocity of a tumultuous sea.

The bartender’s voice broke through the cresting waves in his mind. “Hey, kid! You alright?”

He came to, looking up at the bartender before quickly nodding and pulling away. He tucked his head and got back to work, but the rest of the night he could feel her eyes on him. Every time he looked, there she was, sitting at that bar and watching him with the same intensity.

She stayed the entire night, and between her and the vending machine on his breaks, the boy barely got a moment to calm his mind and breathe. Somehow, he made it through his shift without the owner threatening to send him home, and when it was finally closing time and the woman was gone, leaving him alone with the bartender, the boy was able to finish his tasks in peace.

“Where are you going tonight?” the bartender asked when the boy was finally done, and the mop and broom were locked away in their closet once more. The boy shrugged by way of answer and disappeared down the hallway. He could hear the soft buzz of electricity running through the vending machine, and for a long moment he stood in the doorway, looking up at it and wishing he hadn’t left his coat in there.

It took him too long to garner the courage to rush in and grab it, but when he turned to run out again he nearly ran head first into the bartender, who was suddenly blocking the doorway.

The boy sucked in his breath, his heart jumping in his chest. He shot a quick look at the vending machine, his eyes wide, before turning back to the bartender’s tall form taking up the entire opening. He stepped back.

“Does it spook you?” the bartender asked, motioning with his head toward the unnerving object in the corner. The boy gave no answer, and the bartender sighed. “What’s your name, kid? How old are you? Where do you live? How did you end up in this job?”

The boy opened his mouth to speak, his lips forming the words, I don’t know…, but no sound came from his throat and he felt the panic rise through his body, up his limbs, through his throbbing ankle and aching side. Finally, the bartender nodded and stepped out of the boy’s way. After one more glance back at the vending machine, the boy slipped out of the room, giving the bartender a wide berth before taking the employee exit and running into the night, his heart racing in his chest.

He stopped against the wall of the building next door, leaning over and bracing with one hand against the bricks, his free hand covering his ribs. He breathed deeply, working the stress of being cornered by the bartender out of his system. Overhead, the black sky poured rain and hail onto him, and the wind picked up. His heart sank; another sleepless night awaited him, and tomorrow, he would wake with an empty stomach and another day yet to go before the owner paid him his share. The boy collapsed to his knees, the water soaking through his thin pant legs, and for a moment he let the panic rush over his body again. He couldn’t tread this, couldn’t stay afloat in his own life anymore, and he wasn’t sure where to turn for help.

A gentle hand rested on his shoulder, and he jumped, looking up. The woman was crouching down beside him. She smelled of the ocean, of seaweed and brine, and he sniffed in hard and let her help him to his feet. Her hand brushed the wet hair from his face, and when he trembled from the cold and the uncertainty in his bones she simply nodded and pulled him into her chest, wrapping her arms around his back and embracing him.

At first, he didn’t know what to do with the motion. He hadn’t been held like this in longer than he could remember. Slowly, slowly, he lifted his hands to her sides, still tense and unsure. But the longer the woman held him, the calmer he felt, the easier it was for him to slip his arms around her back and hold her tightly in return.

This felt safe, and that wasn’t a feeling he had very often.

When she pulled away, it was too soon. He didn’t want to let go. But he tucked his arms around himself and looked at the ground, ducking his head and examining his feet carefully, focused on his old, grayish shoes with the holes that let the water in and kept him freezing on nights like this.

“Come on, then,” the woman said gently, and he looked up in time to catch her motion for him to follow. Swallowing hard and looking around, the boy obeyed.

~*~

They trailed through the winding backroads along the waterfront, away from the main nightlife filled with restaurants, bars, tattoo parlors, and convenience stores. They passed through the canneries, and up into the beachfront district. The winds swirled around them, but the gusts themselves never seemed to touch him; so long as he stayed close by her side, he could handle the cold.

The woman stopped at an old apartment complex, with peeling paint and wood warped from thirty years beside the saltwater, bearing the brunt of the storms that rolled in off the coast. It was pressed against the sea, its far edge touching the beach, with only a thin strip of land between it and the water. It lacked even the minimal protection from the sea the bar enjoyed, being set back from the docks by a few blocks of buildings.

She unlocked a door and led him up a steep, narrow staircase, to a creaking top floor. The wallpaper was peeling inside the dim hallway, the flowering pattern yellowed with time, and water damage seeped through the ceiling. The woman tugged lightly on his shirt, motioning him through a narrow doorway.

The woman lived in a large, comfortable studio, decorated with driftwood tied carefully to the walls and glass bowls and vases full of sea glass and shiny, polished stones. There was a main room with an enormous bed, sectioned off from everything else with light, gauze-like tapestries that hung from the ceiling, and to the side was a small bathroom. A raised platform in the distance held a kitchen that overlooked the beach. It was dark, but he could still make out the waves cresting on the sand as lightning struck and lit up the night sky.

He jerked back, hitting the wall behind him, his heart thumping in his chest. A roll of thunder came through and shook his bones, and his breathing grew unsteady.

The woman stopped halfway from the door to the kitchen, turning to face him. “It’s alright,” she said. “It can’t hurt you tonight. This room will protect you. Come in; take a seat. I’ll make us some dinner.”

Hesitantly, the boy pushed himself away from the wall. There was a small card table beside kitchen’s raised platform, with two folding wooden chairs, and he took a seat in one of the chairs and watched the woman as she moved about the elongated space with the strength and flexibility of a dancer, or perhaps a swimmer. He was entranced with her, his eyes unable to look away as she pulled two fish from a small icebox and prepared them on the counter with adept knife cuts. Each of these was pan fried with a few pinches of seasoning and some ripe, cut lemons. While the fish cooked itself in the pan, she deftly cut up vegetables, tossing them together for a quick salad. It took no more than fifteen minutes for everything to go from the ice box to the table, and the boy dug in greedily, his grateful stomach growling its impatience. A basket of flatbread was placed on the table between them, and the boy ate until his stomach was full to bursting, that sick, full feeling overtaking him a second time.

There was no more conversation between him and the woman. She snuffed out all of the lights and helped the boy to his feet, bringing his sore body to the bed and pulling off his coat, shoes, and socks. She tucked him in, stroking his hair and leaning over to kiss his forehead. “Sleep, and dream, child of the sea,” she whispered.

The familiar words jerked him awake, but she pushed him down lightly when he sat up, and soon the cocoon of warmth overtook him, and he drifted into an easy sleep. That night, his dark, surreal nightmares were replaced with vivid images of a group of fifty beautiful young women, swimming through the crystal blue waters of a distant land, riding steeds that were a mix of horse and fish beneath the watchful gaze of a shapeshifting figure who, at one point, seemed to turn to smile at the boy. Rest well, seachild.

#writing #fiction #short story #fairy tale #fairy tale retelling #little mermaid #nereid #greek mythology #fey

0 notes