#there were precariously balanced on stilts in the air | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

someonestolemyshoes · 3 years

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So... during the time skip, Hange is on a business trip to Marley. Levi stays home to deal with some installation or important project for Hange, gets injured in some stupid way, falls off scaffolding or something. And he doesnt think too much of it because it's such a stupid way to get injured. And he hides it even when it gets worse and Hange is the only one who notices because she knows him so well. BUT when she gets back, it gets worse. And Levi hates hospitals so Hange forces him to go <3

Hello! Thank you so much for the prompt :) I’m not super thrilled with the way this one turned out, but I had a lot of fun anyway, and I hope you enjoy it! Angst ahead, if that’s not your thing.

(Drinking game: take a shot every time Levi says he’s fine)

Levi was no stranger to pain. While he had been luckier than most, Levi had sustained his fair share of injuries. Bruises and breaks were commonplace. Pain became easier to handle, wounds less debilitating to endure.

It didn’t make them hurt any less.

It wasn't a particularly bad accident, but it was a particularly stupid one.

Hange had been tied up in meetings for days, stuck inside Sina with other military personnel, with carnivorous media, with business moguls eager to ensure their pockets would be well lined by any negotiation plans with Marley and their neighbouring countries.

She had taken Armin and Jean alongside her; Armin had a mind with similar mechanics to her own, and as such he was best suited to help her formulate a compelling case with their higher ups, while Jean had attended at Levi’s insistence. Hange had already made it clear that, with Armin gone, they needed somebody to oversee continued construction on the railway line, and Levi, uneasy with the idea of Hange being without an attack dog, had demanded Kirstein attend in his place. The brat was becoming something of a budget Moblit, always trailing after Hange whenever she was around—Levi thought he looked a little pitiful, following her around like an eager puppy, but he supposed he was grateful for it now, if it meant he had no objections taking a trip into the interior with her.

Levi had been left with the rest of the brood. Eren and Mikasa worked diligently, though Eren—distant and despondent as he had been since the Queen’s address after Shiganshina—remained sullen, while Mikasa alternated between shooting Eren looks of concern, and staring scathingly at Levi whenever he came into view. She tolerated him far better, these days, but Levi was unsure she’d ever fully forgive him for his public display at Eren’s trial.

No matter. She did as she was told, reluctantly as may be. Connie and Sasha, on the other hand, were proving problematic.

They lacked focus. The four of them were working on construction of a rail house near the coast, somewhere to store equipment for maintenance, with a few flat beds for workers to rest in between commutes. The walls were coming along, but the space was still lacking a proper roof, covered only by tarp to keep the metal beams and frames inside from rusting before they could be treated and on the tracks. Eren and Mikasa were working quietly on one side, while Connie and Sasha were goofing off on the other.

Levi clicked his tongue. The work was, in theory, far less hazardous than slaying titans had ever been, but they were still a couple of stories in the air on flimsily constructed scaffolding, without any gear to catch them if they fell. The drop wasn’t deadly in itself, but the inside of the half-built hut was full of great mounds of metal, beams and poles and wires covered only by papery thin sheets. A fall onto that, from this height, would result in breaks and bruises at best.

"Oi,” Levi called, making his way around the rickety structure. Connie and Sasha either did not hear him, or chose to ignore him. That had been happening upsettingly often, of late; whatever intimidation tactic Levi had employed when they were still bratty kids had lost its effect. Connie teetered around Sasha as she tried to smear mortar on his cheek, edging along the scaffolding on only his toes until he made his way around her. Levi picked up his pace and called again, more of a snarl this time, a warning, but Sasha let out a shriek of delighted laughter as she managed to slap a trowel full of mortar on the top of Connie’s head. Neither of them heard him.

“You fall and break your necks and Hange will kill me,” Levi said. Sasha twisted to look at him but offered only a smile. Levi was within feet of them, when Connie moved quickly behind Sasha—he was doing nothing suspicious that Levi could see, but Sasha, awaiting retaliation, tried to scurry hurriedly away. Her foot missed the edge of the scaffolding, and there was a fraction of a second in which her eyes widened, body tilting, before Levi moved.

His hand closed around her wrist. With a sharp tug, he jerked her back onto the safety of the scaffolding, but in his rush to grab her he hadn’t the time to brace himself—with his weight unbalanced, the force of his pull sent his body careening forward, tipping over the edge of the plank.

He barely managed to release his grip on Sasha before he lurched over the edge.

It didn’t make them hurt any less.

Levi hit the beams with a resounding clatter. Metal clanged and wood splintered, dust gathering in great plumes as Levi hit the tarp. The beams, built with enough strength to hold steam engines, had no give to them—Levi struck one solidly with his side and his body bowed around it. Something—his ribs, his spine—crunched on impact. The sudden stop made his neck whip down, temple cracking hard against the stone floor.

Every last drop of air punched out of his lungs and a white, dizzying pain exploded in his head. He slumped the rest of the way to the ground, gasping fruitlessly, but his chest, all empty, crushing pressure, would not expand, would not allow for a single wheezing breath.

He lay in a heap on the cold stone. Dimly, he could hear voices, the clatter of feet on wooden planks and the echo of sturdy shoes on the scaffold poles as the kids clambered their way down to him, but everything sounded muffled and distant, warbled by the pound of his pulse and the rush of blood in his ears. He blinked rapidly, squeezed his eyes closed to push the fuzziness from the edges of his vision, then gathered himself slowly, shifting to lay on his back. His every muscle felt tight, seizing from the shock of the impact and sharp, stabbing pain, but despite the tension, something in his side felt loose. He sucked in a few small breaths, pausing at every spike of pain before trying again, and then he pushed himself up to sit. His head felt thick and full, stuffy, too heavy for his neck to hold up. It throbbed with the change of position, a crack of pain so sudden he thought his skull might split in two. He resisted the urge to grab at it as the kids’ footsteps sounded close by, several sets of feet scuffing and clicking against the stone.

Levi pre-empted their concern with a wheezy, “I’m fine,” as Mikasa, followed swiftly by the others, rounded the corner and stopped short of him. “Get back to work.”

None of them moved. Levi focused his swimming gaze on them as well as he could, attempting a glare, but the corner of his eye and the side of his face felt fat, skin tight over the rapidly swollen flesh, and his breathing was tight, uneven, chest jerking with each attempt to fill his empty lungs. Nobody looked intimidated by the sight of him—in fact, all four of the little brats looked almost frightened.

“Captain…” Eren said. Levi scowled, fought not to wince.

“I’m fine.” Gritting his teeth to muffle each pained grunt, Levi grabbed a nearby beam and used it to drag himself up to his feet. His head spun, the ache intensifying to something almost unbearable, and that, coupled with the sickening grinding sensation in his side as he straightened up, was enough to make him sway on the spot. Mikasa was the first to step forward, hovering awkwardly. Levi suppressed the manic urge to laugh—there was some irony somewhere in Mikasa, grudge so steadfastly held, being the one ready to catch him if he fell. Levi shooed her away. His chest ached something terrible, a persistent, resounding swell behind his rib cage. It should be impossible to feel so full, so bloated, yet so empty at the same time.

“You should rest a little more,” Eren said, at the same time Sasha erupted with a wailed apology. Connie looked pale and guilty behind her.

“Hange wants this—shitty thing—finished, by the time—she gets back.” Levi hitched stilted breaths as he spoke. He took a careful step forward. His side screamed, and his head pounded, but he remained upright, which was good enough. He passed by Connie and Sasha, who both looked ashen-faced, and clicked his tongue against his teeth. They’re too tall now, so tall he almost lost his precarious balance when he stretched up to pat them both roughly on the head. Then he brushed past them with as much ease as he could manage.

“Hurry up. The damn walls won’t build themselves.”

Levi had expected to be better by the time Hange returned.

The pain had not subsided at all in the three days that passed between the injury and Hange’s arrival—if anything, it had intensified, and Levi’s bouts of dizziness and breathlessness were near constant. He hid it as well as he could from the others, compensating with vicious scowls and quick, barked instructions, but he couldn’t escape their concerned glances.

The building, at least, was almost complete. They had laid the rafters for the roof the day before, and were hammering on the felt when Hange, Armin, and Jean appeared in the distance.

The weather was blisteringly hot. Eren and Connie had removed their shirts long ago, while Sasha and Mikasa had tried fruitlessly to keep their hair off the base of their necks and out of their faces. Despite his lack of manual labour Levi was just as sweaty as the rest of them, though his skin was pale in comparison. He had argued, albeit rather feebly, to do his part in aiding the construction, but the damn brats had put their foot down on that, at least—as such, Levi had spent the last three days sitting beneath the shade, glumly watching their progress.

He stood when he saw the horses approaching. The others climbed down from the scaffolding, wiping sweat from their hands and faces. They cast Levi a sidelong look, and he glared in return.

“Not a word,” he reminded them coldly. Levi had already demanded that they keep the details of his incident quiet. The swelling on his face had gone down some with the aid of a bag filled with cold sea water, but the bruises were persistent, mottled from his eye to his ear. He could play it off as a far smaller incident than it was, so long as he could keep the ugly welt on his torso well hidden. The bruising there was dark, a deep, violent shade of purple, wrapping around his side and bubbling out over his back.

Eren looked uncertain. Mikasa gave him a stoic, level look, while Sasha and Connie still looked sheepish, avoiding his gaze. They had apologised profusely, and on multiple occasions, for causing such a mess. Levi had, at their insistence, scolded them for messing around, but in truth he had little energy left to care.

Hange waved as soon as they were close enough. She kicked her horse on, Jean and Armin following dutifully behind her. The three of them pulled to a stop and dismounted, leading their horses to shade and water, looking tired, but satisfied. Levi kept his angled down, twisted to one side. He was prolonging the inevitable, he knew, but if he could get Hange talking about the meetings, or with some luck the upcoming expedition, or maybe even the mostly completed rail house, Levi could at least wait until they were alone before Hange battered him with questions.

All three of them had dark circles under their eyes. Armin yawned widely, he and Jean bumping into one another as they walked. Hange, as tired as she looked, strode forward with a delighted confidence—Levi, in spite of himself, quirked his lip in a small smile. It has been too long since Hange looked excited about anything. The prospect of an expedition had breathed some life into her.

“We’ve still got to work out some kinks,” Hange said, “but things are looking good. We’ll set up another meeting with Kiyomi. It might take a little while, but we’ll get out there ourselves. See the world with our own eyes, and—more importantly—let them see us.”

Connie and Sasha exchanged excited glances. Mikasa and Eren shared a more subdued look. Levi understood both perspectives—the prospect of venturing out into the world opened them up to a lot of risks. Each of them carried targets on their backs. One wrong move, and they would be in trouble. But, if all goes according to Hange’s plan, there would be plenty of reward. Freedom was worth any price they could pay, if only they can secure it.

Levi listened as the group reacquainted. Eren and Mikasa seemed pleased to have Armin back in their company, while Sasha hounded Jean endlessly until he relented, and surreptitiously pulled a small pack of cured meat from the inside pocket of his jacket. He had the decency to look embarrassed when he caught Levi’s eye on him, but his abashed expression quickly turned to one of confusion when he caught a good look at Levi’s face.

“The hell happened, Captain?”

Hange, who had been quietly engaged with Armin and the other two, looked around. Levi tutted and curled his lip, letting his fringe fall to cover part of his bruised brow.

“None of your business,” he said. His chest spasmed and he clenched his teeth, fighting the sudden urge to cough. “If you’ve still got the energy to stand around talking, you can get up there and help them finish the damn roof.”

Jean, who either hadn’t quite developed the same immunity to Levi’s brash tone as the rest, or was nervous about Levi scolding him for stealing food from the interior, nodded once and shrugged out of his jacket. Sasha’s eyes followed longingly as he hooked it over the nearby cart sitting on the tracks, but then her gaze shot back to Levi, and she scurried after Jean towards the rail house.

The others followed. Hange’s eye was still on him, and she waited until the group had scrambled up onto the scaffolding and picked up their tools before she crossed over to him. She bent a little, tilting her head to get a good look at his face. Hange let out a low whistle.

“Quite the bruise,” she said. Levi gave her a somewhat guarded look, and carefully shrugged one of his shoulders.

“Brats were messing around,” Levi said simply. “Caught me with a stray elbow.”

He didn’t dare look Hange in the eye long enough to determine whether she believed him. He nodded towards the rail house and said, “They’ll be done in a few hours.”

Hange beamed, bracing her hands on her hips. “They’ve made good progress! I wasn’t sure they’d get it finished by the time we made it back.”

“You wanted it finished,” Levi scowled, “those were your orders.”

“Calling it an order is a little harsh, Levi.”

“You’re our commander, Hange,” Levi said. “You tell us to do something, we do it. By definition, it is an order.”

Hange grimaced. It had been years since Shiganshina, years for Hange to come to grips with the position that had befallen her, and to her credit she had taken to it admirably enough, on the outside. It was only in small, private moments like this that she allowed herself to show doubt. The lack of cooperation from Hizuru had been a blow Hange had expected, but hoped to avoid—she had worked hard on her proposals and her negotiations had been sound, but the rejection stung nonetheless. With each new trial and each new error, Hange felt herself all the more lacking. Her distaste for her own position, for Erwin’s faith, grew stronger, and showed face more often.

Levi took in her sullen expression and winced internally. After a moment of heavy silence, he said, “They give you a hard time?”

“Who?”

“Zackley. The reporters. The kids.”

Hange let out a low chuckle. “Zackley’s as rigorous as ever. Picked apart every last thing we had to say, highlighted every possible flaw in the plan. Made us work hard, as usual. The reporters...asked a lot of questions we didn’t have answers to. They’ll smear our names in the papers tomorrow, no doubt, but it can’t be helped. We did our best. Armin was a huge help, though. He’s still a little nervous, but—so clever! So full of interesting ideas, and he negotiates well. He’ll make a good commander one day.”

“And Kirstein?”

“He’s an excellent paperweight,” Hange said, shooting Levi a sideways grin. “I appreciated the company, but I think we would have been fine without him.”

“Never know,” Levi said gruffly. He couldn’t be sure whether it was the heat of the sun or simply standing too long, but Levi was beginning to feel woozy. Breathing was still a chore, a concentrated effort to suck air into his aching chest and let it out again without choking, coughing, and more often than not he felt lightheaded. He nodded towards the boxes he’d been using as a seat over the last couple of days. “Sit. You look like shit.”

“For once, I don’t think you get to judge me for that.”

Levi had already begun walking stiffly to the boxes, and made no comment. He had no valid argument to give—he did look like shit, far worse than Hange, and he felt even shittier. He dropped a little heavily onto the box and bit back a grunt of pain.

Hange sat next to him. The box shuddered. Levi tensed as pain lanced through his side. He took in a quick, sharp breath, holding it high in his chest when the pain intensified. He could feel Hange’s eye on him and clenched his teeth, fighting to keep his face somewhat neutral.

“You sure you’re okay?” Hange said to him. Levi grunted. He busied himself taking slow, shallow breaths, staring resolutely ahead, avoiding Hange’s keen stare. “You look a little clammy.”

Levi made another quiet noise. Levi wasn’t very talkative at the best of times—this, he knew Hange was aware of, and most of the time Hange was content to fill the silence herself, but today she was quiet, and watching him too closely. Scrutinizing. Levi had often praised Hange for her powers of observation—she had an incredible eye for detail and a knack for spotting patterns and anomalies, a talent which had served the Survey Corps very well, but right now, Levi was cursing it. He didn’t need Hange surveying him.

He was hurting. He’d had a near constant headache since the incident, and his chest felt tight, riddled with pain both dull and sharp, stabbing whenever he breathed too deeply or gave in to the pressing urge to hack out a cough, but more than that, he felt unwell. Groggy, sickly, light-headed. His heart beat frantically, and his skin did feel clammy, cold sweat sitting on his brow. He stared ahead, blinking the fuzziness from his head and resolutely ignoring Hange’s steady stare.

Hange’s palm pressed to his forehead. The sudden touch made him jump—his muscles tensed, his ribs screamed in protest, and Levi let out a strangled groan, biting his tongue a second too late to trap the sound.

He was barely aware of Hange’s fussing as he fought to draw breath. Air grated in his battered lungs as Hange’s hand pressed flat to the back of his neck, her voice warped and muffled in his ear as she felt his sweat-damp skin. His vision tunnelled. He blinked rapidly to clear the black spots and wheezed in the humid air. His chest felt like it might split open, pressure billowing out from behind his ribcage, pressing agonisingly against his damaged bones.

He breathed short and shallow until the haze of pain lessened. Hange’s voice was loud beside him, the sharp, deep bark she used when she felt it necessary to assert her authority. Through the fog in his head he could barely make out her words, but he knew exactly what it was she was demanding. Sasha’s voice was meek in comparison, but it still carried over the distance enough for Levi to hear her.

“It was an accident,” she was saying. “It was our fault—my fault—”

Levi hissed through his teeth. Hange’s hands—one still at the back of his neck, the other curled around his arm—tightened their grip on him.

“Drop it,” Levi said. “Stop grilling them. It doesn’t matter what happened, I’m fine.”

Hange had the audacity to laugh, but there was no humour in it. “Fine? Levi, you can’t even move. You can barely breathe! What the hell did you do?”

“Fell,” he said shortly. His voice sounded weak, but he didn’t have the breath to put more force behind it.

“From where? When? Hell, Levi, when did this happen?”

“Hange, leave it.”

Hange turned her question to the rail house, and Connie answered immediately. Traitors, Levi thought scathingly. Mikasa explained without prompt that they didn’t know the extent of his injuries, that Levi had refused a proper medical examination despite the head wound that had left him unable to stand straight. She explained that they had managed with very little effort to get him to observe the construction from the ground, which, it seemed, was enough to concern Hange—Levi wasn’t the type to sit around doing nothing. He despised being idle and she knew it.

“You should see a doctor, Levi.”

“I’m fine—”

“No, you’re not. What else did you hurt? Just your head?”

Levi felt ill. Hange’s persistent questions were making his head spin and his entire body felt sore and spent. He mustered enough strength to glare at her, but nothing more. Hange was watching him carefully, brow furrowed in concern, but at his silence her expression hardened, and she stood abruptly. Levi bit back another groan as the box moved beneath him.

“You can ride, then?”

Levi squinted up at her. “Hah?”

“If you’re fine, you can ride back into town with me.”

No. “Sure.”

Hange stared at him a little longer, waiting, no doubt, for him to backtrack, admit defeat. Levi clenched his jaw and maintained steely eye contact. Hange narrowed her eye at him, then turned towards the rail house.

“Oi!” Hange called up, cupping a hand around her mouth. Six heads turned their way, popping up over the roof. “We’re heading back early. Leave the scaffolding when you’re done, we’ll send for it tomorrow. Good work!”

She turned on her heel and headed towards the horses, still tacked and tethered beneath the shade of a small copse of trees.

“We’ll go get your head checked.”

“Hange, I said I’m fine.” It was a weak argument, made even moreso when he stood too abruptly and swayed on the spot. Hange darted back towards him and steadied him with a hand on his shoulder, and a little of her angry resolve cracked, worry creasing her brow. She led him, more slowly now, towards the horses with her hand hovering over his back. He braced himself for the agony of her touch, if she pressed her palm against him, but Hange—perhaps in fear of not knowing what other injuries he had sustained—didn’t touch him.

“Humour me,” she said. “If you’re really fine, and it’s really nothing, no harm done. I’ll feel better knowing, and you—” she drew them to a stop by the horses and turned to face him fully, grinning, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, “—you get to say I told you so.”

Levi said nothing. The thought of riding for hours on end made him feel nauseous.

“This is pointless,” he said. “I’ll rest here, if you’re so worried.”

Hange shook her head at him. She untied her own horse and Jean’s, holding the reins out for Levi to take.

“We’re going back now, Captain. That’s an order.”

An hour into the journey, Levi began to struggle in earnest.

No part of the ride had been pleasant—the heat was oppressive, and the motion of the horse required a fluidity in his hips and back that sent sharp jolts through his side with every step. Hange was uncharacteristically quiet, occupied instead by watching Levi from the corner of her eye. His head pounded with increasing intensity the longer they travelled, and between the pain, and the scorching sun, and his pitifully shallow breathing, Levi was feeling more faint by the second.

It was an unsettling sensation. Injuries were always difficult, but Levi had never felt so completely wiped out by physical damage in the past. Three days was enough time for his body to at least begin healing, but Levi had seen no improvement since the moment he struck the beam during his fall—if anything, he’d felt worse by the day.

Now, he was fighting to keep himself upright in the saddle.

They were approaching another clump of trees, great leaves wilting in the heat, when Levi, jaw tight and teeth bared, grunted out a request that they stop.

Hange looked torn. She wanted to hurry back into town, and was already impatient enough that Levi had requested they walk—”It’s too hot, for the horses”—but something on his face must have reflected the severity of his discomfort. Hange directed them to the treeline, dismounting and taking Levi’s reins while he did the same. His feet hit the ground and his knees buckled.

Hange caught him about the elbow but only after he had sunk to the grass. He felt shaky, weak, but more than that he felt vulnerable. Realistically, Levi knew that there was no shame in being hurt, in needing help, but he was a stranger to it. He had been self-sufficient since he was in Kenny’s care, and had grown up with the express understanding that showing weakness was a death sentence. And then again, in the Survey Corps—an injured soldier was titan bait.

There were no titans now, but Levi felt distinctly exposed, sitting in the long grass with his vision swimming and his lungs burning, barely functional.

Hange knelt next to him in the grass. She brought a hand up to his face, fingers curling against his jaw. Her gaze darted over his face, all of her righteous anger forgotten as she took in his state. Levi wanted to shake her off, to shake off the spinning in his head, to stand up and get back on the horse and continue their journey, but he couldn’t find the strength to gather his legs beneath him. Hange’s hands—one on his arm and one still on his face—kept him sitting upright.

“Levi…” Hange said slowly. Words sat on his tongue, reassurance that he was fucking fine, that he just needed a minute, but try as he might, he couldn’t get enough air in to voice them. His chest bubbled and rattled as he drew in a thin breath.

“Levi,” Hange said, sharper this time. Levi blinked blearily and searched for her. Neither of them were moving, but Hange’s image wavered and blurred in front of him. He swallowed. Wheezed. His heart hammered in his ears. Hange’s fingertips found the pulsepoint in his neck, pressing, counting. “Levi—what else hurts?”

Levi swallowed thickly, a nauseous tremor under his tongue. After a moment, he choked out, “cracked a few ribs, probably.”

Hange sucked in a sharp breath. “Let me see.”

He didn’t have the strength to fight her as Hange began unbuttoning his shit. He swayed where he sat, struggling to balance without her hands keeping him upright, until he heard Hange’s hiss as she uncovered the bruises wrapping his chest and back.

Levi looked down and grimaced. The bruising was worse than he remembered, stretching further up his chest, dark and mottled, the flesh tight and swollen.

“Levi, this is bad,” Hange said. “We need to get help.”

“Just need rest,” Levi said. His voice sounded slow and slurred in his own ears. Hange’s hand cupped the side of his neck, her thumb tipping his jaw up to look at his face. His eyelids felt heavy.

“I know it hurts,” she said, “and I know you don’t want to move, but—Levi, please. C’mon, I need you to get up.”

It had been a long, long time since Levi had heard that frantic tone from her. She sounded urgent, panicked. Desperate. Levi dragged his eyes open, but found he couldn’t focus on her face anymore. His lungs protested violently as he tried to speak, only coughing instead, dry and hacking. His chest burned.

Hange dragged him to his feet. Levi’s limbs felt heavy and clumsy, detached and completely out of his control. He leaned heavily into Hange’s side as she moved him across the grass.

“C’mon, Levi—work with me.”

Hange hefted him up onto one of the horses. Her horse, he realised, as she clambered up with him. She settled behind him, her arms gripping the reins either side of him. Levi tried to sit up right, but as she kicked the horse on, he slumped back with a low groan. Hange’s voice rumbled through her chest when she spoke.

“You good?” Hange asked quietly, and then, “stupid question, of course you’re not.” Levi found the strength to scoff, but it was a pitiful sound, and followed swiftly with another pained grunt and a fit of coughing. “Bear it a little longer, okay?”

Consciousness drifted, as they rode on. Levi was dimly aware of the sun on his feverish skin, and of Hange’s warm, solid body at his back. Her jaw brushed his head when she moved. Her voice was constant now, a rumble up his spine and in indistinct mumble in his ear. At times he could pick out her words, but his comprehension was hazy, mind unable to string sentences together, to find meaning in her chatter.

In this state, there was no focal point for the pain. It was consuming, indistinct but ever present, impossible to isolate in any one location. His whole body ached. His breathing was quick and laboured. There was no real respite even in this state.

Hange’s hand repeatedly found his throat, fingers feeling for his frantic pulse.

Time passed strangely. The ride seemed to last a lifetime, with Levi waking a thousand times to agony, consciousness barely breaking before he succumbed again to his feverish dozing.

At times, he awoke to new sounds and new sensations. The echo of multiple voices around him, all talking frantically over one. The scratch of crisp sheets beneath his bare back, the click of shoes on tiled floor. New, stinging, fiery pain, sudden and excruciating enough to make his body jolt in discomfort, followed swiftly by strong hands on his arms and legs to keep him still. Cool air blowing gently over his heated skin. His hand caught in a loose, tangled grip.

The aches in his battered body settled, localised. Levi felt it acutely in his chest, though the pressure no longer felt as intense. Breathing still hurt, but the air came easier now. He felt his lungs fill with it, little by little, for the first time in days. He opened his eyes, blinking rapidly in the light, then rolled his head slowly to look around.

The small window had been cracked open, the fresh, cool air lifting Levi’s fringe, tickling at his brow. Thin morning light poured in, illuminating the small, sparsely furnished room. Besides the bed he lay on, there was only one small table and a stiff, uncomfortable wooden chair.

Hange was slumped low in the chair. Her legs were sprawled out in front of her, her chin dropped to her chest while she slept. She had discarded her military jacket, eye patch, and glasses in a heap on the floor, and her sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, the top buttons of her shirt undone and splayed open. Her hair hung limp and ratty around her face. She looked pale and exhausted.

Levi’s tongue was dry, tacking to his teeth and the roof of his mouth. It took him three attempts to say her name, and when he did it came out raspy and ragged. He tried to move, to reach over and nudge her awake, to ask what the hell had happened since he’d last been lucid—but as he leaned over a sudden, white hot agony ripped through him, tearing into his side.

He gave a strangled groan and pressed himself back into the mattress, squeezing his eyes closed as he rode out the spasms. Wood scraped by the bed; Hange must have startled awake at his outburst. Levi squinted an eye open to see her blinking rapidly, rubbing her knuckles into her eyes before scooping up her glasses and taking in the sight of him.

The pain subsided little by little, though Levi didn’t dare move again. Hange sat on the edge of her chair and reached for him, her hand stopping short of his and falling to grip the bed sheets instead.

“How you feeling?”

Levi cleared his throat. “Like shit.”

Hange managed a weak smile. The bags under her eyes were considerably darker than they had been before, her skin paler, papery. Levi frowned at her. “You still look like shit.”

Hange waved him off with a small laugh, sitting back and scrubbing her hands over her face. She hung her head over the back of her chair, fingers pressing into her eyes beneath her glasses. She sat for a long while, observing the backs of her eyelids. Levi watched her through pinched eyes as the burn in his side settled to a more familiar ache.

“Don’t do that,” Hange said, voice strained by the stretch of her throat. “Don’t do that again.”

“Which part?” Levi said.

“All of it. Don’t get in stupid accidents. Don’t pretend you’re fine when you’re not. Don’t—”

She stopped short, then, with a sudden hitch of her breath. Levi watched her dig her fingers harder into her eyes, watched the bob of her throat as she swallowed reflexively. For a moment she was quiet, then she sat up straight and turned watery, bloodshot eyes on him.

Hange was strong. She was a far more emotionally available person than he could ever be, but she had an incredible capacity to compartmentalise. To switch off. To accept the necessity, the inevitability of loss, to evaluate and recalculate and move forward. Hange mourned—Levi had witnessed the aftermath of it plenty of times before, repaired broken tables and reorganised upended bookshelves in the wake of her disaster—but she mourned later. Alone. Felt all her fears and frustrations in isolation, away from prying eyes.

Hange wasn’t the type to cry at peoples besides and beg them to live.

And yet.

“Don’t leave me on my own.”

“It wasn’t that—”

“You dare tell me it wasn’t that bad and I’ll kill you myself.”

Levi clamped his mouth shut. Hange was glaring at him like she might really mean it. Instead of arguing, he said, “what’s the damage?”

Hange slumped forward, elbows on her knees and head hung low. “Broken ribs. Ripped up a few muscles in your back. Collapsed lung. The air pressure in your chest was restricting blood flow to your heart.” She put her head in her hands and dug her fingers into her messy hair. “You got so fucking lucky, Levi. If we hadn’t left when we did—”

He watched silently as Hange groaned into her palms. She breathed deeply, back and shoulders raising as she did.

“You could have died.”

“I didn’t.”

Hange’s head shot up. “By the skin of your teeth, Levi. You—” she took a long, steadying breath, but her voice still shook as she continued, “—you were barely breathing. You couldn’t talk to me, you would hardly even respond to me.”

“Sorry.”

Levi wasn’t sure what else he was supposed to say. Hange looked distraught, her composure tenuous. Levi’s fingers twitched on the sheets, itching to reach out and touch her, offer some kind of reassurance that he was here, he was fine—but he wasn’t fine, and moving so far was out of the question. He gripped hard at the sheets instead. “Sorry.”

“Not you as well,” Hange said quietly. Levi’s chest tightened painfully at her tone—she sounded so small in that moment. Scared. Levi wasn’t sure he’d ever heard her sound so frail before. “What am I supposed to do if you—” she cut herself off again, shaking her head.

“Same thing you always do.” Hange curled tightly in on herself. Levi turned to stare at the ceiling instead. “You keep going, Commander.”

“Don’t. Don’t do that.”

“One day or another, everyone you care about eventually dies. You said that.” He listened as Hange’s breath hitched, but refused to look at her. “It sucks. It hurts. But we keep moving forward.”

The mattress dipped by his hand. Levi rolled his eyes down, and found Hange hunched out of her chair, her face pressed into the blankets. Levi sunk his fingers quietly into her hair.

They lapsed into a painful silence. Hange hiccupped and sniffled now and then, while Levi scratched lightly at her scalp. After a long while, Hange spoke again.

“I know those were my words,” she said thickly. “But I can’t accept that. Not now. Not after everything.”

“Stubborn,” Levi said quietly. He pulled lightly at her hair until she raised her head, wiping her cheeks and nose messily on her arm. “Disgusting.”

Hange managed a bare, wobbly smile. Levi’s hand fell from her hair as she straightened up, and Hange scooped it up in both of her own. She played absently with his fingers, curling and flexing them, rubbing her thumb over the lines on his palm. She seemed to be gathering herself, brow a little furrowed in thought.

“I know we can’t guarantee anything. I know how uncertain our world is. But just—” Hange paused, closing Levi’s fingers around her own, then looked up at him with a fierce determination. “Promise me anyway.”

Levi blinked sluggishly at her. “Promise you what?”

“That you’ll survive.”

Levi tensed. “Hange…”

“Indulge me. Just this once, please.”

A promise of that kind was unrealistic, Levi knew this. Hange had said so herself: there were no guarantees. Except, that wasn’t quite true—death, at least, was a constant. The only inevitability they had. The island may be free of titans now, but the threat of attack loomed over them like a persistent storm cloud, black and heavy, ready to give at any moment. And accidents, as he had painfully learned, could happen in the blink of an eye.

Levi was resilient, but he wasn’t invincible.

But Hange was looking at him steadily, her resolve unwavering. She wanted his word here and now. Needed it, maybe, but Levi knew her. Hange valued honesty over everything else. There was no way she could feel at ease with such an empty promise.

Levi sighed.

“You’re a brat, you know that? Looking at me like that.”

Hange’s gaze held firm. Levi felt her grip on his hand tighten.

“I can’t promise shit like that, Hange,” he said. She squeezed his hand tighter still, and her body tensed, shoulders drawing up to her ears. “You know I can’t. Nobody can.”

For one horrible, gut wrenching moment, Levi thought she might cry again. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes but when she opened them again, her good eye looked terribly blank.

“You’re right. Sorry, sorry!” She let go of his hand and sat back in her chair, hands resting on her legs instead. Her voice sounded lighter, more like Hange, but there was something off about it. Something forced. Strained. She adjusted her glasses but didn’t meet his gaze again.

This was the Hange he knew. The Hange who could bury her feelings in the moment, squash them down and push them aside to focus on the rational, the plausible. Seeing her like that didn’t relieve him the way it should have. It left a sour taste in his mouth and a discomfort in his gut, knowing that he was the cause of the grief she felt she had to hide.

It was stupid, the whole situation—how a moment of carelessness lead to this; Levi bedridden, and Hange struggling to hold herself together.

The space between them grew stagnant. Hange seemed a little lost in thought, gaze caught blankly on Levi’s blankets, while Levi watched her, waiting for her to say something else, to change the subject, to be Hange again. But Levi was never one for giving inspiring speeches, and in truth, he didn’t know that anything he could say now would make anything better. Hange would do what Hange always did—wait until she was alone, and vent in whatever way she could.

And Levi, as soon as he was able, would do what he always did, too—pick up the broken pieces and mend as much as he could.

“You should rest.”

Hange blinked tiredly over at him. It had been an age since Hange looked well-rested, years since Shiganshina and the exhaustion of that particular battle had never left her. The burden she carried—everything Erwin had left behind and all that they had discovered since—was so impossibly heavy, the expectations put upon her too much for any one person to handle. Hange had enough to deal with, she didn’t need to be worried about him, too.

“Eat something, bathe. Sleep. I’ll still be here when you come back.” After a pause, he added, “I’ll promise you that much.”

Hange gave him a weak, wry smile as she fished up her eye patch, strapping it into place and righting her glasses over it. “I guess I’ll take that. And then tomorrow, you can promise me the same again.”

Levi rolled his eyes. “Fine, whatever. Go.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll nap for a couple hours and come back. You should sleep some more too, you know. It’ll help you heal faster.”

Levi grumbled in response, and grumbled louder still when Hange stepped up to the bedside, but he fell quiet when she leaned over, brushing his fringe back from his forehead and pressing a small kiss to his hairline. It was such a simple gesture, and nothing out of the ordinary—Hange had been a physically affectionate person as long as he had known her, always grabbing and hugging and kissing whenever she got the chance—but there was something so tender in it, this time. Levi’s eyes fluttered closed.

Hange lingered longer than was strictly necessary, and yet it still didn’t feel like enough. Levi could easily have let her stay close, feel the warmth of her breath and the softness of her lips on his skin until he drifted into sleep, but she straightened up after a moment and Levi was left instead with the cold breeze from the open window. Levi blinked sluggishly up at her. His own exhaustion barrelled in, making his eyes sting, lids heavy. Hange folded her jacket over her arm and pushed the chair into the corner, out of the way.

“I’ll see you soon, okay?” She said.

“Mm.”

“You’re gonna feel like you got crushed by a titan when the pain meds wear off, so make the most of it.”

“Got it.”

“And you should let the doctor know if anything changes. Straight away, don’t wait around.”

“I will.”

"And there are nurses around, if you get hungry or thirsty. The bathroom is just down the hall too, but they've got bedpans if you need to—"

“Hange.”

“I’m going, I’m going.” Hange had already crossed the room as she spoke, but she paused in the doorway, fingers curled around the frame. She deliberated with herself for a moment longer, then said, “hey, Levi?”

“Hm?”

Hange chewed on her lip, contemplating something, a faint blush building on her cheeks. And then she shook her head, gave him a small smile, and said, "Ah, doesn't matter. Sleep well."

She left quickly after that, closing the door quietly behind her. Levi stared at the space she'd vacated, brow a little furrowed; her hesitancy confused him.

But he was tired. His body hurt. His head felt thick and fuzzy, and without Hange's presence to keep him occupied, he consciousness began to drift.

Tomorrow, he thought hazily. He would ask her tomorrow. For now though, he would follow his own advice; for now, he would rest.

#snk #levihan #my writing #man I had a hard time with this in the end hjhgjj I can't say I'm that satisfied with it #but!! I am sticking to my philosophy after the Drabble week #someone somewhere will like it #levihans relationship ended up more ambiguous but hey ho #also ended up being a lot of angsty hange

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junicai · 3 years

Text

painting.

| summary | Aria moves into the 127 dorms, and does a little bit of bonding with her new leader.

| word count | 1.5k

| warnings | none

| era | circa. 2016

13. “The paint’s supposed to go where?”

Aria groaned in exhaustion as she bent forwards, various objects falling from the precarious stack she had carried in her arms previously. They bounced and rolled across the floor, one canister of hairspray coming to meet the tip of a man’s shoe from where he was leaning against the open doorway.

Taeyong coughed out a chuckle at Aria’s folded form, pushing himself off the doorframe to make his way over to her. “Need a hand?”

Aria waved him off with a forced air of nonchalance, still panting heavily despite her best efforts to get her rapid breathing under control, “No, no I’m good. The stairs just tried to kill me that’s all.”

Taeyong snuck a glance at the closed doors of the elevator, blocked off by a single piece of red signage reading “Out of Order” in bold font. The lift had coughed and spluttered it’s way through the last two months, and had finally given out on its last stand yesterday evening, almost leaving Jaehyun and Winwin trapped inside if they hadn’t decided to take the stairs down.

How unfortunate it was, that the following morning was the day that Aria was due to move in.

In hindsight, Taeyong probably should have gotten some of the other boys in to help them carry the boxes that Aria had shoved her things into; the sweat was beading at his forehead by the time they had dragged the cardboard through into the living room, and Aria had pulled off her sweater to allow herself to cool down.

She leant against the wall, breathing through her nose as she chalked up the distance between the living room and her new bedroom to be too far to continue for the time being.

“Oppa?” the word still felt unfamiliar on her tongue, unused to the honorific. It had been at Taeyong’s request that she used it in the first place, him wanting her to feel comfortable around him; but Aria was still finding her ways around the Korean honorific system, and found herself stumbling over her words more often than not.

The first time she had tried to use honorifics had ended in Aria having extremely red cheeks, flushed with embarrassment, and Mark trying to explain to her that hyung was the name he used for the older members, and oppa was the one she was to use.

It had gone a little like this.

“Ari- Ari, you gotta, like, you gotta use oppa not hyung, ya’know? Because hyung is like, an older brother to a brother, but oppa is an older brother to you? Because you - you’re a girl? An’, and then you’d use unnie for the make-up nooans but I’d use noona, like I just did. So to you, they’re the make-up unnies, and to me they’re the makeup noonas. Johnny hyung, Johnny oppa. Does that make sense?”

Aria had looked at him with the most bewildered face, eyes widened and lips parted slightly.

From across the room, Taeil had bit his lip to stop himself from laughing, before swooping in to offer an out for poor Mark, who was beginning to delve into another convoluted explanation.

“Yeah, Aria?” Taeyong’s voice came from across the room.

Aria looked up, searching for the taller man and her eyes found him shuffling around in the kitchen, two glasses of water on the counter top.

“There you go,” he pointed towards one of the glasses. “If one of the others aren’t back soon to help, we might have to drag the boxes in ourselves,” he smiled ruefully. “I knew we shouldn’t have let Jaehyun go out today.”

Aria thanked him, before picking up the glass with her two hands and turned to the side to drink.

The silence was buffering, and ate away at whatever comforting atmosphere Taeyong had tried to create.

It wasn’t that Aria was uncomfortable around him - no not at all. It was just the fact that she knew the boys were being more than accommodating for her, she knew that Yuta was sharing a room with Winwin now because they insisted on her having her own space, she knew that she was toe-ing a barely there line between intruding and just being downright entitled.

Having voiced these thoughts during the early hours of the night to Donghyuck almost a week ago, Aria knew exactly what kind of spiel she’d be on the receiving end of should she protest the room changes - but that didn’t stop the little pool of guilt from settling in the bottom of her stomach when she snuck a glance around and saw the empty bedroom’s door partially opened, all of Sicheng’s things having been moved out two nights ago.

“Oppa,” Aria tried the honorific out again, finding that it still felt fumbled out, but from Taeyong’s affirming hum she must have sounded less stilted than the last time, “Do you think you could help me move the box of paints into my room? I can carry the rest, but that box is really heavy, and I don’t want to drop it.”

Taeyong turned around to her, “Yeah no problem, Aria. Which one is it?”

Aria pointed to the singular plastic box among the cardboard ones; spattered with white and yellow and various other colors. The pair of them made their way over, hands curling around the lip of the box.

“On three?” Taeyong nodded.

He counted them through before Aria was heaving up her side of the box and Taeyong was slipping his arm underneath it to hold some of the weight steady. They paused momentarily once they had the box in the air, finding a good balance and ensuring nothing inside had tipped over, before Aria began her shuffle backwards.

“Mind behind you,” Taeyong warned, and Aria lifted her feet over the box that would have tripped her otherwise.

The small steps they took to bring the paint box into her room felt never ending, and by the time they passed the threshold, both Aria and Taeyong’s arms were shaking lightly.

“The paint’s supposed to go where?” Taeyong’s voice was breathless, anticipating the moment when he could give his arms a rest.

“Maybe - just in the corner? Over there, out of the way.” Aria jerked her head towards the far corner, on the opposite side of the room of the bed and empty desk.

The box was placed down with a thud, and Taeyong straightened up - shaking out his arms. Aria sat down harshly on the bed free of coverings, legs beginning to burn from the numerous flights of stairs she had climbed earlier on in the day. Taeyong joined her after a moment, sitting down beside her.

“You need a hand taking in the rest of your things?” he questioned, turning to look at her.

“Nah,” Aria shook her head. “I might wait a while and get Hyuck to drag them in for me.”

Taeyong snorted slightly. “You know, I think you’re the only person who can get that boy to do something he doesn’t already want to do.”

“Jokes on him, I just convince him that it was his idea.”

The silence settled again, less acidic this time.

It was broken after a second by Taeyong. “I didn’t know you could paint?”

Aria cast her gaze over to the stained box in the corner. A dry paintbrush was sticking out the top of it, the bristles clean but the wooden handle covered in splashes of colourful paint - intermittent with streaks of white and black and a mixture of the two.

“Yeah,” Aria hummed. “I don’t know when I started, I just. Always have, I think.”

“Did someone teach you? Your parents?”

Aria coughed to hide the laugh that threatened to break from her chest. “Oh no, no. Youtube taught me most of what I know, I won’t lie. And I’m not, very good - it’s just, therapeutic? Like poetry, but you don’t have to concentrate on finding the right words.”

Taeyong nodded knowingly.

Aria supposed he would understand the sentiment; given the hours he spends doing what it is he does in the practice rooms or the recording studios for hours after their ‘official’ days end. She supposed that there has to be hundreds of wordless messages hidden in forty second tracks on the USB stick he keeps on his keychain.

“You know, Ten is really artistic,” Taeyong begins again. “I never really understood it much - the colours and the images you pull out of nothing - but he seems to. A lot more than I ever could. He gets it a little bit more, I guess. The whole, unspoken words thing. I’d love to know how he did it.”

His eyes had shifted into something sincere now, and he was gazing down at Aria. She got the sense that they weren’t just talking about painting anymore.

“I’m just saying that, if you ever need someone to talk to - about painting - then I’ll always have an open ear.”

Aria supposed Taeyong didn’t quite understand what those words meant to her just yet.

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monsterywriting · 3 years

Text

Dirrath pt 11

Masterlist

word count: 3,201

AN: finals are officially over and i’m finally free! here’s the next part of Dirrath and 13′s story that surprisingly doesn’t have all that much Dirrath in it.

“Are you sure you can do this?” Dirrath asked, withholding the knife from you just before you could take it from him, “You have to concentrate, even if the pain becomes unbearable.”

“I know, I’m the one who told you that,” you scoff in exasperation, “and if I can’t, you can scrape my guts off the floor and heal them back into place.”

The demon begrudgingly relinquishes the knife to you, watching silently as you bring its sharpened edge to your leg and making a long stripe up your thigh, barely breaking the skin.

You glance briefly up at your coconspirator as you hand him back the knife, your eyes meeting as you both steeled yourselves in preparation for what you were about to attempt.

The certainty with which Dirrath had accepted your proposition was replaced with anxiety now that you were on the verge of going through with the plan. He had been fairly easy to convince with your theory for healing yourself, even if you couldn’t exactly show him the proof of your healed paper cut.

But the apprehension was understandable. A lot of things could go wrong with this. You could lose your focus and set back your healing even further or be unable to perform the same trick twice. Or you may die of exhaustion or blood loss before you even got close to healing your stab wound. There was a lot at stake here, but the potential reward could be you regaining your strength faster and actually be able to use your magic again for the remainder of your time in Roquechade’s castle.

You weren’t going to be able to fix the glamor issue in a week, but with Dirrath’s growing impatience for a cure, you might finally be able to at least convince him to tell you more about his curse.

For now, however, you concentrate your entire attention on healing the wound on your gut. You weren’t sure how you can focus the strain of using magic to the cut on your leg, but you tried first visualizing it; imagining the magic exiting your thigh and entering into your stomach.

You didn’t know much about the theories behind magic, your tutors believing it much more important to learn its applications and teaching you extensively means of harnessing magic easier. This was the easiest method for you, imagining magic as a tangible object, moving and acting upon the world around you. So, instead of questioning whether this was possible, you instead focus on making the magic work.

For a few tense moments, nothing happens. Dirrath says something, but you quickly tune out all outside distractions and focus harder. Soon enough, you feel a tug in your abdomen.

It isn’t like the work done by the castle healers in Altruria; they could undo an injury completely, turn back time on broken bones, cuts and bruises until the patient was as good as new. This was the distinct sensation of your wound stitching itself together.

You don’t feel the pain in your thigh immediately, so you don’t realize it’s actually working until you feel warm liquid running down your leg. A good sign that the deterioration only happens there, at least.

The pain grows steadily as the cut deepens but just as it begins to grow unbearable, Dirrath begins to heal it.

It gets harder to focus as both wounds now heal simultaneously, constantly catching yourself before you can flip your attention to the wrong one. Dirrath also heals faster than you, constantly having to stop his own healing to allow the wound to deteriorate again but also serving as another distraction for you.

Your body was also quickly tiring. The tutors always said you had a bad habit of using magic incredibly inefficiently, falling back to these bad tactics even after learning less taxing methods and counteracting any natural talent you may have held. It didn’t matter to you much then, having very little practical use for magic in your life until that point.

Now, however, you felt it, realizing they had been right as your strength began to crash. You forced yourself onward, the muscles of your arms and legs convulsing as you pulled energy from them.

Dirrath was yelling, you think, but you still don’t break your concentration even after you no longer felt the pull of healing in your abdomen.

Suddenly, Dirrath was shaking you out of your trance and your magic halting with your broken focus. You felt as though you just ran a marathon, drenched in sweat and panting for air.

You look down at your stomach, relieved to see the stab wound had been reduced to a white line. You were just about ready to pass out, no longer concerned with the task of healing as Dirrath finished up healing on his own end.

“Stay awake,” the demon said, snapping his fingers in front of your dazed eyes, “You didn’t concentrate it on the cut at the end there. You have some deterioration everywhere.”

You blink away the sleep, though you can’t help but relax into the plush mattress and pillows. You know Dirrath’s right, this point the most critical in keeping you alive, but it’s difficult to fight how sore you feel everywhere or how your eyes throb with the need to close immediately. However, the moment you feel your eyelids begin to slide down involuntarily, the door slams open.

“What the hell happened here?” Olek demanded from the doorway, his sudden entrance succeeding in keeping you awake, adrenaline coursing through your veins at being caught by the one person who you did not want to catch you.

Your captain looked downright livid as he took in the scene before him. Granted, you could imagine exactly how bad it looked. You were definitely looking a complete mess; sweat rolling down your face into your eyes, your legs still twitching with residual spasms and your entire body feeling like one giant bruise. Worst of all, standing next to you with knife still in hand was Dirrath, the one person still in the castle who wasn’t currently locked away that the captain still mistrusted.

You try to explain, your words coming out so hoarse and stilted even you had trouble understanding what you were trying to say. You instead switch tactics to tapping one finger on the small scar that now adorned your stomach, a sharp contrast to the angry red, puckered flesh that had been there before.

“Gods above, what have you done? You could have died!” Olek snarled, an all-too-familiar vein beginning to pop out of his forehead once he turned to Dirrath, “And you- I’ve held my tongue about your for long enough. This was the final straw!”

Olek stalked into the room straight towards Dirrath, slamming the door shut behind him. The demon, to his credit, didn’t outwardly flinch, but it was clear by the way his body tensed that he was not underestimating the captain.

Before Olek could reach him, Dirrath thankfully let the knife fall onto the bed, making the captain’s grip on the handle of his sword lessen slightly. Only slightly.

“Stop,” you croaked, mustering the strength to swing your legs over the edge of the bed and somehow managing to stand on wobbly knees. No matter how precarious your balancing act, you’re determined to take the few steps necessary to put yourself in between your captain and the demon.

“You shouldn’t even be able to stand right now,” Olek chided, stepping forward to try and sit you back down.

“Well, I couldn’t go to the banquet injured, and this way I can be of more use if something does go wrong,” you retort, your patience running thin, “What’s done is done. It’s over now.”

“What you’ve done- it was stupid. If you had killed yourself, then everything would have been for nothing! You should have told me instead of trusting this idiot-”

“Well, he’s done more to help me than you! What would you have been able to do, Olek?” You snap, the words that left you sinking in just moments later and all anger immediately dissipating as you tried to backpedal, “Wait, Olek-”

Your stomach twists as Olek’s expression also drains of anger, unreadable as he abruptly turns to leave. He pauses, not looking at you as he turns back to grab Dirrath by his collar and drag the demon out the room with him. You flinch as the door slams shut behind him, leaving you alone once more.

You sit heavily on the edge of the bed, your body still aching but unable to fall asleep with the lingering regret on your mind as your words repeated themselves on it.

Garreth was the one to bring your food that afternoon - a testament to Olek’s current standing - standing nervously in the center of the room while he waited for you to finish eating.

“Sit,” you gesture to one of the couches, unable to handle the formalities normally shoved upon you at the moment.

Most of the members of your guard refused to speak informally with you. Whether that was because they found you unworthy of your title or because they respected it too much to get comfortable with you, you had no clue. Garreth was one of the few that normally reciprocated your attempts at small talk, but evidently word had gotten around about your spat with Olek. But while you didn’t quite feel up to the normal chitchat, you did take the opportunity to interrogate the guard.

“He didn’t say anything when he returned. Just started ordering everyone to stop lazying around. Then he ordered me to bring your food when the servant brought it. He still tasted it, of course, my princess.”

You frown at the sudden inclusion of your title, which deepens with the new information that Olek would test your food. You had no doubt it was in case of the eventuality that it was poisoned, but you couldn’t help the bitterness settling deep in your belly at how you now had to be constantly watched over and protected for the rest of your life. But now was not the time for that, still trying to gauge how badly you’d ruined things between you and Olek.

“Is this your first time arguing with him?” Garreth asks slowly, the awkwardness of his tone shifting into something softer, understanding even. You nod glumly, the urge to right your wrong overpowering any sense of embarrassment.

“That’s… surprising,” he replied, shifting in his seat, “He was always arguing with the 13th, er- the one before you. The 8th was always breaking up their fights.”

Your head shot up to stare at Garreth, studying his expression for any sign of deception. A million questions circle in your mind, each vying to be the first out your mouth. You didn’t know which new piece of information to address first. The fact that Garreth thought Olek particularly belligerent or that Olek would actually come to blows.

But what you truly wanted to ask about was your predecessor; the 13 before you. You knew nothing of the person you replaced. The only bit of information you’d been given was when you first arrived, the castle still grieving at the time. All you knew was that you were replacing them because they had died, not the usual vacancy left in the court after an older member retires or dies and all the subsequent titles shift down a number. You didn’t ask questions at the time and no one bothered to fill in the details for you.

What would they fight about? How could it get so heated they would actually, physically fight? Olek was a stick in the mud, sure, but you never thought he’d actually fight you over the things he’d get annoyed with you about. In fact, he was always so patient with you, it used to make you feel bad how he would have to explain things about the capital or your studies.

“It got so bad, the High Queen would threaten to intervene. In retrospect, I suppose if Captain Olek had been the problem they would have just transferred him out,” Garreth continued, seemingly unaware of your inner turmoil.

“What were they like? The 13th?” You ask, feeling it somehow wrong to condense the magnitude of a person with all their complexities into such a simple question, but unable to keep yourself from asking it.

“Captain Olek could tell you better than I,” Garreth said truthfully, smiling sheepishly as you deflated at the reminder of your ongoing conflict with your captain, “Can I ask what exactly happened?”

“I did something stupid- and when Olek tried to tell me that, I said something very insensitive that I regret,” you grimace, wanting to fold in on yourself at the very memory of what exactly you said, unable to bring yourself to repeat them to Garreth, “Thank you, I’m done.”

You present your empty plate, watching as the guard takes it and leaves. Before he closes the door, Garreth turns to look at you one last time, seemingly deep in thought before he speaks.

“Olek is tough and loyal. I’m sure he wasn’t hurt by what you said, but he would definitely be worried about you doing something that would put you in danger.”

You’re left alone once again, Garreth’s kind words unfortunately doing little to assuage your guilt. And, despite clearing your plate, you were still starving, your body seeking to restore the energy lost in your earlier misadventures.

Eventually, you’re able to briefly fall into a fitful sleep, jolting awake with every errant noise in the castle - which was many in such a large structure.

You wake suddenly one final time when you hear your door creak open. For a brief moment, you think it will be Dirrath bringing the cart of sayerba before remembering there’s no more need for it with your healed stab wound. Instead, it’s Olek, carrying in another tray of food.

Your stomach growls at the aroma of the hot meal, but you say nothing, feeling as though you had to address the elephant in the room but unsure how to proceed.

Olek shouldered that burden for you, clearing his throat as he approached your bedside, “I knew you’d still be hungry after expending that much energy.”

“I’m sorry, Olek,” you blurt out, unable to take his offered truce without at least saying as much, “what I said was a low blow and-”

“It’s alright, Princess,” Olek smiled for a brief second, setting the tray down on the bed for you to take, “I’ve head far worse things growing up. I know you did not mean it maliciously.”

You ate in relative silence, Olek sitting on his usual armchair in the corner. You try to think of something to say as you shovel the food down your gullet, wanting to alleviate some of the tension you still felt, even if only imagined.

“Growing up in the outskirts, no one really had any magical ability. You would have been pretty normal out there,” you finally manage, though it doesn’t come out as quite the compliment you imagined, so you quickly add, “well, the girls in the villages would have been all over you, probably. You look like you’d be a strong farmer.”

Your joke elicits a snort from Olek and you beam.

“I don’t think I’ve every heard you talk about your life from before,” Olek said, the silent prompting not going unnoticed by you.

“Oh yeah, everyone was too afraid to ask in front of you, but they all wanted to know if we really had no plumbing or electricity, or if we all had to make fire from rocks,” you smile wryly, Olek frowning, “In truth, yeah. With no magic, people had to rely on other contraptions, but supplies were hard to come by from the capital and resources were better spent putting them back into the farms.

“The only ones I knew of back then were me and my mother. But there was once a young man who had serious talent,” you falter a bit as the memories flood back, Olek thankfully remaining silent as you worked out what you wanted to say, “He even went to study in the capital for a time. But when he came back, he wasn’t the same, or so his family said. Obsessed with becoming stronger in magic. We got called out after one of his many failed attempts at doing higher magic, but my parents were busy so I was sent ahead. When I got there, he was a mess of innards held together only by his skin.”

Olek sucked in a breath and you realized at some point while you spoke he had leaned forward in his seat, “How old were you?”

“Hm. Twelve?” You ponder, not too sure but settling on that. It had been a long time ago, either way, “But that’s not the point. The point is, he survived for six days like that, his family watching as my mother and I tried to fix him. For a long time, I never wanted to do magic because I was scared of it, thinking that would happen to me.

“But then I was taken to the castle and I learned that magic wasn’t some scary, unknowable force, just a tool that can be used incorrectly like any other. And that I wasn’t scared of magic in and of itself, but that it would drive me to do something as selfish as to watch the people I care about have to see me like his family saw him… and I did that to you today.”

You trail off, losing momentum as you tried to put your concluding thoughts into words. You didn’t feel much lighter, as was commonly said of divulging such burdensome memories to someone else. You just felt sad, all over again. There was no weight lifted, or release after having said it. It was still there, just as heavy and omnipresent as it had been before, but now Olek knew. And perhaps that made you feel the tiniest bit better.

“You’re right,” Olek murmurs, and you sink into the mattress, “Magic is a tool, and while you did use it stupidly… you weren’t using it selfishly. You were trying to help, be useful in a way only you could be. And that’s something that makes you fitting for your title.”

“Thank you, Olek,” you smile, though it quickly falls when you sigh, “But that doesn’t excuse what I said out of anger. You’ve done so much to help me without magic. Remember when I first arrived in the castle? You were the only one who would stop to help me understand things that were happening. And don’t say it was just your job. I know it wasn’t your job to help me cheat on that aptitude test my first week.”

Olek’s mouth fell open and a sound of pure indignation escaped him, but when he was ultimately unable to say anything in his own defense, he burst into laughter. You join in immediately, relieved there’s no searing pain in your abdomen as you laugh.

#exophilia #monster boyfriend #reader insert #Demon Boyfriend

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sloppy-butcher · 4 years

Note

could u write some hcs for kate and jane (like, separately) and a survivor whos completely whipped for them so in trials theyre always unhooking them, acting as a distraction when theyre being chased by the killer and theyd totally headbutt the killer and get hurt just so that jane/kate can escape safely. just literally anything to make sure they stay safe. thank u

i will absolutely write ANYTHING for the sweet ladies! thank you so much for the request and i hope these are good!

HeadCanons For Kate Denson and Jane Romero with an overly-altruistic S/O

Kate Denson

Many would say that Kate is one of the more subtle of the lady survivors. But when compared to the likes of Nea and Meg, anyone can be made to look extremely dainty and girly. Kate, however, sits precariously between refined and bat-shit crazy. She starts off quick and kept-to-herself but when fire sparks under her feet she can be pushed to do the most outlandish and unexpected. So imagine what it must have been like in that first trial with you and her.

Kate is getting chased by a rather pissed off Huntress when suddenly out pops a fiery head, screaming and rushing over with the grace of a giraffe on stilts. You holler at Kate, waving your hand over your head not only to greet the beautiful girl but also to distract the killer. Huntress goes to swing and you manage to push Kate just enough to narrowly miss the attack. She looks at you with wide, impossible eyes.

“Why did you do that?” Kate gasped, passing her attention between you and the killer who was quickly gaining distance again. You grin a most marvelous smile, “I dunno. Just wanted to help.” Kate scoffs. “You’d help me more if you did gens.” Then the chased started anew but with the addition of a rather annoying tag-along. She found you most bothersome but when ultimately she and everyone else escaped unscathed, Kate turned to with a bright expression. You smiled at her again, reaching out and grabbed her hand in yours and lifting in triumphantly in the air. You were too busy cheering to notice the gentle blush that accompanied her fond face.

That is how things would go from then onward. God help the killer that had to deal with your combined tom-foolery, when the two of you were together no one could be caught - it was simply impossible. If you were the first one to be found and chased, Kate would be by your side in a heartbeat. Oh, you’d die for her? Well not unless she dies first. However, like nuclear atoms, the two of you bounce off one another until you created a toxic reaction. Unstoppable and unbeatable.

In a fit of rage, you once slammed a toolbox into the back of the Trapper’s knee causing him to buckle slightly and drop your Kate. She fell gracefully and disappeared into the brush with a grateful ‘Thank you’ look. Later in that same trial when the Trapper had finally cornered you, Kate appeared and viciously grabbed at the various spikes sticking painfully from his back. Thrown off-balanced he chucked you in her arms. Kate looked down at you and raised a cocky eyebrow, “Just wanted to help.”

Kate waited for you at an open exit gate, arms open and calling as you ran with the killer still hot on your heels after a 5 gen chase. She explodes in delight as you smash into her wrapping your own arms around her body and hugging her close. She starts peppering kisses along your neck, with each one pulling away momentarily only to smile. By the time she reaches your face, you have already pulled her into your lips, kissing deeper and deeper and tipping her over slightly. She melts into you, giving you everything she has to offer. Finally, you break apart from your blissful embrace only to see the killer roll their eyes in either annoyance or disgust and hurridly shoo you out.

Jane Romero

Jane is the most regal lady. Though sensitive to others with a heart big and deep enough to swallow the ocean whole, she is able to always get the job done regardless of the strain it would put on her. She is a workhorse, bearing the yolk of her suffering with determination and diligence. She prefers to work alone however, it is easier to only blame yourself when things go wrong and not drag others down with you. But that all changed when you showed up. From the first moment you saw her at the campfire, back straight with one leg crossed over the other, you knew that she was the one. A most gorgeous creature, mother nature incarnate. She looked so beautiful bathed in the golden light of the fire that for a moment you forgot exactly the type of place you were in - oh right, this was purgatory. And you were all going to die.

You vowed then that as long as you could run, as only as you could breathe you would try your absolute damnedest to protect Jane, no matter the cost. And that’s exactly what you did. It started off subtle, always showing up exactly when Jane needed healing or assistance, and slowly progressed to you actively taking part in her chases. She taught you how to stun killers by jumping out of lockers and quickly you put your new skills to good practice, stopping killers who were gaining too much distance on her. Jane appreciated your help but never expected that there were deeper implications to your doting help. It was only after you sacrificed yourself for her did Jane finally notice everything.

She approached you at the campfire, eyes watery and fists balled. “Why did you do that!?” She demanded, standing over you looking like on the verge of a breakdown. Fearing the worse you rise to your feet and with palms open, you reach fr her. “Jane, dear, what is wrong?” Before you could make contact however Jane pulled away, “Why did you sacrifice yourself for me back there?” You frowned, confused about what she was referring to. At your expression, she scoffed, turned her head away, and wiping a hand over her face to catch her falling tears. She inhaled deeply, body shaking from the physical and mental exhaustion she had been enduring for so long. Your heart arched to ease that long-worn suffering. “You died...” Jane tried again, not daring to face you for fear of losing all control again, “You died back there. For me.” There was a stretch of silence between you two, one that allowed you a moment to piece together her tragic story. You had sacrificed yourself for her, taking her place at death’s door and giving a second chance at life. When you died you must have forgotten it all but when you caught wind of the muffled sobs Jane tried desperately to choke back. She moved you by doing almost nothing at all, your fingers burning for only an inch to move forward.

“You are so stupid.” Jane finally composed herself enough to speak without wavering. Her head turned to look at you with red, weepy eyes and a trembling hand clutched to her chest. “Why would you die for me? I had everything under control.”

“Because I love you.” You said without hesitation, taking a bold step forward, your heart calling out for her to please not block you out. Surprisingly, Jane did not retract from your approach and instead stared at you with the most heartbroken and sad face. Very quietly as if not even said, Jane whispered, “That’s what you said before.”

Jane would accept your love with the only condition being that you would never go out of your way to be stupid for her sake again. And though you did dial it back by some degrees, there were still some hairy moments like taking a hit for her when a killer tunneled or going in for the risky unhooks. She, of course, never appreciated your uncalculated actions and often scolded you with a lecture and wigging finger like a mother would a child. But afterward, when huddled by the warm campfire, Jane would wrap you in her sweet-smelling arms. She breathes out and the world would be good and she would rest her head on yours. No longer was this her burden to bear alone and how relieved she was for you.

#dbd imagine #dbd survivors #dbd jane romero #dbd jane romero x reader #dbd x reader #dbd kate denson #dbd kate denson x reader #dbd headcanons

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middleofnowhere92 · 3 years

Text

Jetka for @the-messenger-hawk for my ATLA Valentine’s Day Oneshots

Conversation Hearts

Chapters: 1/1 Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jet/Sokka (Avatar), Jet & Sokka (Avatar) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - College/University, College, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Modern Era Summary: It's Valentine's day, not that Jet gives a fuck. He almost gives a fuck about his midterm tomorrow, so he sits waiting for his new tutor.

Read on ao3 or below the cut

Jet leaned back precariously in his chair in the athlete student center. He grabbed his pencil and flicked it at Longshot who was across the room with his tutor, some girl in engineering named Smellerbee. Pipsqueak and his tutor, Aang, laughed at Jet’s shenanigans as they packed up their things and left the study area. Jet huffed some of his unruly hair out of his face.

He wished Aang was still his tutor, but the advisor for student athletes had switched around schedules with the spring semester. Now Jet was getting someone new. He chewed on the chalky heart candy in his mouth. It wasn’t the best taste, but it satisfied his incessant need to chew on something.

Longshot and Smellerbee packed up too and soon Jet was left alone, waiting for some tutor that probably wasn’t even gonna show up. He glanced at the clock. He really should just leave. Tutoring hours were done. Jet guessed whoever it was had a Valentine’s date that was more important than tutoring him.

He should just leave, but he had a midterm tomorrow in his agriculture econ class. He needed at least a C to play on Saturday. He glanced down at his blank study guide that he should have been filling out throughout the semester. The stress gnawed at him, so he gnawed on more conversation hearts.

The door was calling him, telling him to just leave and sleep through tomorrow’s exam like he typically would, but finally someone walked into the room.

Jet immediately recognized Sokka.

He also immediately recognized that he was fucked for tomorrow’s exam.

Sokka barely looked at him, “Look, I’m not in the mood to deal with your fucking bullshit. Let’s just go over your study guide so I can get paid and we can both go home.” Jet continued balancing in his chair, “It’s good to see you too, Sokka.”

The other boy didn’t even look at him. He unceremoniously dropped his backpack, plopped down in the chair and pulled Jet’s empty study guide towards him. Jet tossed up a few hearts and caught them in his mouth. Sokka’s gaze never left his unimpressively blank study guide.

Jet, always uncomfortable with silence, shifted the discomfort to Sokka, “I’m surprised Zuko isn’t taking you out tonight, or are you doing something later?” Jet wasn’t college smart, but he was people smart. He knew exactly how to push people’s buttons. He took a perverse joy in riling up Sokka, only because he made it so easy.

“I explicitly said I’m not in the mood for your fucking brand of bullshit,” Sokka gritted out. His hands were grasping the meaningless study guide, causing almost enough tension in it for it to rip. Jet hadn’t calculated on Sokka getting this worked up over a simple question about his boyfriend.

Jet wasn’t one to apologize. He liked Sokka enough to almost want to, but he popped another candy heart in his mouth instead. The chalky taste seemed more unpleasant, but he swirled the candy around his mouth anyway, lodging it in the back corner of his jaw right above his molar.

Sokka shoved the paper back in front of Jet. He looked exasperated as he said, “You should try to fill it out. See what you know.” Jet scoffed, “I’m at tutoring because I don’t know jack shit.” Sokka’s cheeks sucked in like he had bitten something sour . He hissed venomously, “Two hours of tutoring isn’t going to make you pass an exam.” “Woulda helped if you had shown up on time,” Jet drawled as he leaned back in his chair, tossing up another heart to catch in his mouth.

Sokka barely moved, but his knee twisted just so, knocking Jet’s off balance. He sat up on the floor and glared at Sokka. He got up, thankful that he had just swallowed a heart and didn’t choke. He stood leaning on the chair, “What the fuck?”

Sokka pushed away from the table, turning on Jet, his eyes glassy and red, “I told you I couldn’t take your bullshit today. I fucking walked from the other side of campus, because the buses aren’t running, because there’s a little fucking snow on the ground. Why can’t people handle a few inches of fucking snow? But then I get here and I have to fucking tutor you and I tell you I can’t deal with your bullshit, but you serve it up steaming hot, because you are the king of all the assholes in the world and you can't help but be a douche canoe. No, not today, let’s just press all of Sokka’s buttons-”

Jet climbed over his chair and sat in the one Sokka had previously been occupying. He squeezed the other boy’s smaller hand just once as tears started to fall down Sokka’s cheeks. Jet fumbled for maybe the first time ever, “Shit, Sokka I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-” Sokka hiccupped loudly, his one tear morphing into a full on ugly cry.

“Zuko-" He wailed as he cried. “Broke up with me today.” His body shuddered in an effort to breathe through the sobs, “He was supposed to drive me here,” the last part came out as a broken off wail, “but we’re not together anymore.” Jet still held his hand drawing circles with his thumb.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” the word and the genuine feeling behind it were foreign to Jet. Sokka looked at him, his blue eyes still glassy and pink. He pulled his hand away from Jet’s and wiped his eyes, “S’not your fault. Sorry, we should really do your study guide.”

Jet cocked his head to the side, like an overgrown confused puppy. He chewed on a candy heart and asked, "You sure? I can say we did tutoring. You'll get paid and you can go home." Sokka shook his head, his chin length hair shifting with the movement, "No, that's okay." Jet rolled his eyes at Sokka's decency, but scooted back into his own chair.

As they worked through the study guide Jet couldn’t help but focus more on Sokka than the material. He was an engineering and business major, not an Ag major like Jet. But the material came easily to Sokka as he glanced over the textbook that Jet had never even cracked open.

At the end of the two hours, Jet shoved his completed study guide in his book and crammed both in his backpack. He didn’t miss the wince from Sokka at the sound of the paper crumpling. Jet smirked and slung his backpack over his shoulders.

He stilted his steps to be more in line with Sokka's smaller ones. He dumped a few candy hearts into his large palm. He glanced at the pastel candies, holding out one to Sokka that read Let's get busy .

Sokka glared at him as they pushed the doors and the cold February air greeted them. He pelted the heart back at Jet, who caught it in his big mouth. Jet raised his hands up in triumph.

Sokka just shook his head as they walked. Jet bumped his side into Sokka's shorter shoulder. The shorter guy looking over at the taller athlete, "Thanks." Jet tossed up another candy and caught it in his mouth, "For what?"

Sokka shrugged shuffling in the snow, "I don't feel as shitty as I did." Jet grinned, his teeth not perfectly straight, "See, you do need my bullshit."

Jet skidded with chaotic glee across the icy sidewalk in his slides, his socks soaking in bits of snow. He thought about offering Sokka a night to forget Zuko, taking the pretty boy back to his apartment. This could be Jet’s only shot at making Sokka his. But something in him made him keep his thought to himself.

He knew how in love Sokka had been with Zuko. They did seem dam near perfect for each other. Jet calculated as he tossed a snowball that purposefully just missed Sokka's hair.

He didn't want Sokka just for a night. If he got him he couldn't just let go. Tonight, Jet had actually gotten through the wall that always seemed to be between the two of them.

He jogged, not using his full speed as Sokka scooped up snow and flung it, hitting Jet on the back of his neck. Sokka's eyes were back to their normal clear blue. His laugh was enough to warm Jet, who was just wearing a hoodie as he brushed off the snow.

He put his hands up, "I surrender! There's a pizza place open up here. Wanna stop?"

Jet's heart seemed to stop as Sokka chewed on his lip, debating his answer. He nodded, "Sure. Can't turn down pizza." Jet followed him in the small dive. They ordered and sat. Surrounded by other couples, as they debated over whether pineapple was a viable pizza topping.

Their legs or elbows would inevitably brush as Jet swung on the stool he was perched on. He kept throwing out new topics for debate, getting a thrill over seeing Sokka's eyes get fiery over whether Pepsi or Coke was better.

As Jet finished off his fifth slice of pizza, Sokka glanced in disgust at the small pink box on the counter between them, "I don't know how you can eat those things."

Jet shrugged as he stuffed the last of the chalky candies in his mouth, "I'll put just about anything in my mouth." "Noted," Sokka quipped. The two of them burst out in laughter.

As they stepped back outside, Jet looked at Sokka through his shaggy hair. His slides scraped against the salted side walk, "Same thing next week?" The cold was making Sokka's cheeks tint a pretty shade of pink. He rolled his blue eyes, "You wouldn't need tutoring if you just paid attention."

Their bickering continued as they walked, lost in conversation.

#jetka #jet x sokka #my relationship with jet is still complicated #mids atla rarepair oneshots

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aethelar · 4 years

Note

*bursts through ur front door* nEWT RESCUING MERMAN!GRAVES FROM POACHERS

Newt is five the first time he goes to the circus. He trots behind Theseus, his hand securely held by his older brother to stop him slipping away and getting lost in the crowd. Not that Newt would intentionally wander off, but there was so much to see, so many sights and sounds and colours - over there, giant kites hovered in mid air, the one a flame-coloured goldfish with trailing red-yellow-orange ribbons, the other a glittering butterfly with reflective silver spots sewn over blue-green wings. There a man on stilts picks his precarious way through the thronged people below, his twelve foot trouser legs patterned in contrasting neon stripes. There, a lady selling candy floss, great sugar clouds of pink and blue on sticks and hanging in bags from the edge of her cart.

And there, ahead, rising above the mayhem like a gleaming castle, the big top.

Newt pulls Theseus ahead. “C’mon,” he says impatiently, tugging at Theseus’ hand. “C’mon, we’re going to miss it!”

“Calm down,” Theseus laughs, leaning back and moving at a deliberately slow meander. “It’s not going anywhere.”

“Theseus,” Newt whines. “What if all the good spots are gone and we can’t see?”

Theseus stoops down and picks Newt up, lifting him in one smooth movement to sit on his shoulders. Newt squeaks, his muddy shoes leaving black marks on Theseus’ coat and his fingers tangling in his brother’s hair for balance.

“There,” Theseus says, holding Newt’s feet in place. “Now you can see everything. Right?”

“You can’t pick me up,” Newt retorts. “I’m too old to be picked up.”

“Well, if you don’t want to be able to see…”

“No! I’m fine. I’ll let you carry me. Can we get sweets?”

Theseus changes course and heads for the candy floss lady. “And here I thought you were worrying about being late,” he says teasingly.

“Yes,” Newt explains with all the patience of a child having to state the obvious, “but that was when I was short and now you’re carrying me so I’m not. So, sweets.”

Honestly, big brothers were useful things, but they weren’t half slow sometimes.

In the tent itself Newt’s attention is torn between keeping himself and his oversized pink monstrosity of a candy floss stick balanced and laughing in delight at the show. He tries, he honestly does try to keep Theseus sugar free, but there’s distinct wisps of pastel in his dark hair by the time the first act finishes (not to mention the ones in Newt’s eyebrows, behind his ears, inching up his shirt sleeves and lodged under his collar). Theseus manfully ignores it and focuses on making sure Newt isn’t blocking the view for anyone behind them. The circus itself isn’t quite his cup of tea - the performers are brightly coloured, but their acrobatics are nothing special, really. He’s seen Newt do better trying to reach the cake jar on the top shelf.

It’s not the acrobatics though that are the star of this particular circus and the crowd falls into a hushed silence when the ringmaster comes out to announce, with great aplomb, the “Moment you’ve all been waiting for, the mystery and the magic, the magnificent and the magical; ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for MACUSA’s Marvellous Menagerie!”

The heavy velvet curtain behind him draws back and Newt gasps in anticipation, leaning forwards with wide eyed delight.

“A many gerry, Theseus,” he breathes. “Do you think they’ll have a tiger?”

Theseus ducks left to give Newt a better view. “They might,” he says. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

Newt’s protest about wanting to know now is drowned out by the roar from the crowd as the first creature, a long-necked camel bedecked with a gold and red tasselled head dress, is led out and paraded in front of the crowd. It walks with a strange, rolling gate and has two humps on its back, one of which stands straight and one of which flops over, and there’s bells tied to its feet that jingle with every step. It’s everything Newt could ask for, everything that should have delighted and amazed him -

But his attention is caught by something else. There, just there behind the edge of the curtain, he can see the narrow end of a glass tank. It isn’t very big; the end that Newt can see is maybe a metre square, the bottom resting on a dark wood trolley with a great hook at the front for a harness to attach to and top covered by an ornate gold lid. The light from the tent glints off the surface, playing tricks with Newt’s vision, but inside he sees - that is, he thinks he sees -

The camel is replaced by a lady with very little in the way of clothes, draped in the coils and folds of an enormous green snake, its scales dotted with small white flecks and its eyes staring unblinking at the crowd. The lady dips, holding out her arms to force the snake out of its tightly balled shape; it raises its head and hisses, much to the crowd’s delight.

She’s blocking his view and Newt cranes his neck to look past her.

“You see alright up there?” Theseus asks, shifting to the left to give him a better angle. Newt makes a distracted sound in answer, still straining to see the tank. The snake holder dances and twirls off the stage and Newt’s breath catches in his throat.

There’s someone in the tank.

There’s someone in the tank, and they’re looking at him.

Dark eyes set in a pale face, a halo of drifting hair around them; they catch Newt’s gaze and the rest of the tent seems to fade away. They twist, their face drifting upside down and right side up, and their hands come forwards to press against the glass. They come closer - he, perhaps, they’re a man, or something that looks like one. He comes closer, and mouths something, some words Newt can’t hear and doesn’t understand. At his blank stare the man repeats them, slower, mouth opening wide to exaggerate the movements and are those his teeth -

Theseus jostles him, shaking him out of the strange moment and Newt looks down automatically.

“So?” Theseus asks. “What did you think? You were awfully quiet up there.”

“I was looking,” Newt protests. He glances back up but the ringmaster’s back on the stage, his voice booming out something about a private showing and exclusive, never before seen creatures for those willing to pay the trifling price and step backstage.

The man in his glass tank is gone, blocked from view behind the curtain.

“Yeah?” Theseus asks. “Which one was your favourite then? I think I liked the parrots best. Weren’t they bright and colourful?”

Newt gives an irritated huff. He doesn’t want parrots, he wants to know about the man in the tank. Theseus is already turning though, moving with the flow of people back to the stalls outside.

“The camel,” he says, picking the first animal because it’s the only one he really remembers seeing. “But Theseus, we have to go back. There’s someone trapped there, he needs our help.”

“Trapped? Newt, you can’t go rescuing all the animals because you think they’re unhappy. They belong to the circus - that’s stealing.”

Newt tugs on Theseus’ hair in frustration. “Not the animals, the person. He was underwater. What if he drowns?”

There’s a steady stream of people curving round the back of the stage, going to where the ringmaster is waiting to welcome them to the private exhibition, and Newt’s mind whirrs.

“I don’t think -” Theseus starts hesitantly, but Newt has a better plan.

“Let me down,” he says. “I’m all numb, and I don’t need to see anymore.”

Theseus makes a dubious noise, but lifts Newt over his head and down to the floor all the same. “Ok little brother, whatever you say. But stick close and - Newt! Newt!”

Newt squirms out of his brother’s grip, ducking between people’s legs and scrambling under the raised seating areas at the back. Theseus curses as he chases but Newt slides under the striped canvas of the tent wall and makes a mad dash through the mud for the back. The back entrance is marked exit only and guarded by a bored looking girl in a faded circus uniform; she frowns as Newt careens into her.

“Hey, kid,” she starts, but Newt cuts her off.

“My brother’s in there, I got lost but he’ll be mad if I don’t go in,” he babbles. She tries to take his hand but Newt’s more mud than person by this stage and he slips free while she’s trying to find something to hold onto that won’t leave stains on her uniform.

“Kid, wait!”

Newt ignores her. The inside of the tent is dimly lit and smells of a heavy, foreign smoke. It’s hung with low coloured-glass lamps and swathes of brightly patterned silk, and decorated with assorted urns and jewel encrusted masks chosen more for their cost than any cohesive design..

Newt hurries past the lavish opulence with barely a glance. Real or fake, the effect is lost on him and the perfumed smoke only serves to irritate his lungs. He fights the urge to cough and creeps past a china pot that claims to hold a faerie inside - in any other circumstance he’d’ve stopped to look inside, but he’s too focused on his goal to stop. If he’s worked things out right, then the tank should be just to one side of the stage curtains which would put it… There.

In the low light, he can only make out the outline of the tank, straight sided glass walls and an overly decorated iron lid. It’s not until he’s standing right by it that he can see the man inside and he barely manages to stifle a gasp because the man isn’t a man at all.

No, that’s not quite right; he has a head, two arms, broad shoulders and a muscled torso - those things look like a man. But he also has a ridged fin running down his back, trails of dark, glittering scales wrapping down over his ribs, and in place of his legs there’s a sinuous, curving tail.

“You’re a mermaid,” Newt breathes. He hears a quiet rap and jerks his gaze up; the mermaid is frowning at him, one fist raised where he’d knocked on the glass. Newt flushes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare,” he says.

The mermaid lifts an eyebrow and studies him for a moment before his frown morphs into a satisfied smile. With an encouraging trill he lifts his arms and stretches out as much as he can, turning slowly in the water. He twists his head round as he does so to keep his eyes on Newt and make sure his audience appreciates him showing off.

“Wow,” is all Newt can say, and amends his earlier statement: “You’re a beautiful mermaid.”. He comes closer, both hands pressing against the glass. Now that the mermaid is moving he can see that the tank’s too small; his tail is coiling back on itself just to fit in and the sharp-edged fins at the end of it are crushed awkwardly against the sides.

The mermaid knocks again, and when he has Newt’s attention he gestures pointedly to his bare chest.

“I don’t understand,” Newt says, confused. The mermaid rolls his eyes and makes a vaguely obscene curving gesture over his front, then shakes his head and goes back to running his hands down his chest again.

Newt’s face burns as he gets it. “Oh,” he says, and trips into apologies again. “Sorry, sorry, I don’t know - what do you call a boy mermaid?”

The mermaid who isn’t a mermaid mouths something, lips twitching up in humour but Newt still can’t make out the words. He hears a noise behind him - the ringmaster, leading his private tour. He squeaks in panic and drops to the floor; the tank sits on iron feet, like a fancy bathtub, and with some frantic crawling and squirming Newt just manages to get underneath. There’s barely enough space to fit; he tilts his head to the side and squeezes his eyes shut and tries to take shallow breaths.

The mermaid knocks on the glass above him.

“They can’t see me,” Newt whispers back as loudly as he dares. If he believes it hard enough, then it’ll be true; like keeping the nightmares away at night, like Theseus taught. He hears footsteps and the low murmur of the approaching crowd and repeats it to himself: they can’t see me, they can’t see me, until he feels it settle over him like a safety blanket.

“And here,” the ringmaster announces, pride and glee threading through his oily tone, “here we have it ladies and gentlemen, the mighty monster from the deep: MACUSA’s own mermaid, the only real one to be found in any circus, anywhere. A genuine treasure, ladies, genuine treasure.”

Newt holds still. His heart is too loud - why is his heart beating so loud?

“How can you prove,” someone drawls, “that this one is real? It could be one of your stage hands in a costume for all we know.”

“Monsieur, you are wiser than your years! Come, come -” the feet obligingly step closer and Newt shrinks smaller in terror - “See, there’s no air in this tank. See there? Ah, my friend, don’t turn away - it’s shy, forgive me - those, those marks on its neck? Those are gills. Could a man spend all his life underwater without drowning, I ask?”

There’s an impressed rumble of agreement, but the same voice points out, “You could have a pipe hidden in the corner. That lid’s certainly large enough to hide one, and all your man would need to do is breathe from the pipe when no one’s looking.”

“Truly, an observant gentleman!” the ringleader praises with faked delight. “I see then you won’t be satisfied with anything but the truth, so watch, watch.” There’s a metallic groan as the lid is lifted open followed by an angry, distorted shriek that seems to sink into Newt’s bones and shake them apart. He presses back further under the tank and clamps his eyes closed, one step away from sobbing. The thud of the lid falling back into place cuts off the mermaid’s shrieking but Newt still can’t stop himself crying, muffling the sound in his sleeve.

“You see,” the ringleader says proudly. “You see now, do you see? Are you satisfied, my doubting friend?”

“I’m satisfied,” the other man agrees quietly. There’s something covetous in his harsh almost-whisper that the ringleader boldly ignores. They exchange more words, more boasting and more nodding at the right places and more making the right sounds of appreciation, but Newt stays pressed against the ground with his eyes closed until after they’ve shuffled off to marvel over the next thing in the tent.

The mermaid knocks on the glass.

“Go away,” Newt says. “I want my brother.”

He knocks again, more urgently this time.

“Go away!”

“Newt!”

Newt scrambles out, scraping his knee on the ground and banging his elbow against the tank but he doesn’t care because that’s Theseus.

“I’m sorry,” he says, stumbling over his feet as he flings himself at his brother. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok,” Theseus soothes him, dropping to his knees to hug his brother. “It’s ok, I’m here now. You’re alright? You’re not hurt?”

Newt shakes his head. “I’m not but - but Theseus, we have to help him.” He turns to point urgently at the mermaid in his tank and falters in shock.

There’s a cut across the mermaid’s tail, just below where his hip would be if he were a man. It’s not a deep cut, but the water draws the blood out in a dark cloud and every movement of his tail makes the wound glisten an angry black.

“They hurt him,” Newt says in horror, pulling against Theseus to go to the glass.

“Newt,” Theseus says, stunned and still trying to get over it. “Newt, that’s a mermaid.”

Newt tugs sharply, annoyed by the delay. “He’s not,” he says crossly. “He’s a merboy and we need to help him.”

“Of course we do,” Theseus says faintly. The mermaid - merboy - scrapes his fingers against the lid, the clawed tips making a harsh scratching sound against the metal.

Newt darts in and pulls himself up on the tank’s feet, pushing futilely against the lid. “Theseus!” he says, jolting his brother into action.

“What do we do when we get the lid open?” Theseus asks, but he comes forward to help all the same. “He can’t swim out and we’ll get caught if we carry him - Newt, move - and mercy Lewis I’m asking a five year old for plans what am I doing with my life.”

“He’ll figure something out,” Newt says confidently. “He’s smart.”

In the tank, the mermaid darts a quick smirk in Newt’s direction.

The lid is heavy, heavier than it should be for how it looks and Theseus strains against it. It’s not until Newt joins in again and stubbornly puts his shoulder against the rim to help that it creaks its way open. They freeze, both of them darting nervous glances behind them to check that no one heard, but now that the lid is open a crack the mermaid gets impatient.

He slides a hand under the edge of the lid and, in one smooth movement, flings the whole thing off the tank to fall with a loud crash down the other side.

“Oh gods above,” Theseus moans. He makes a grab for Newt but Newt twists aside, hooking his fingers over the glass to watch as the mermaid lifts his torso out of the water. This close, Newt can see how very human his top half looks, but at the same time all the little things that so clearly mark him as different. His ears extend into points, long and low and dusted with dark blue scales. His eyes blink twice, the second, clear set of eyelids making them seem to glow in the dimly lit tent, and the eyes behind the eyelids are so dark they look like they lack a pupil. His teeth, showing in his open mouth as he pants for air, are curved down to sharp points. His gills flare with every shallow breath.

He mouths something, the words coming out as a soft croon.

“I don’t understand,” Newt says.

“Newt, we have to go,” Theseus urges.

The mermaid points at Newt, then at himself, then gestures at his legs, then finally back at Newt. He mouths the same word again but Newt shakes his head, frustration making him shout, “I don’t know what you want!”

There’s footsteps approaching, the sound of people coming to investigate the crash.

“Time’s up,” Theseus says, scooping a protesting Newt up in his arms and throwing the mermaid an apologetic look. With a growl the mermaid swipes his hand out, claws catching on Newt’s outstretched arm and leaving three bloody scratches in their wake.

Newt yelps and Theseus swears as he pulls out a handkerchief to wrap around the scratches. The mermaid ignores them in favour of licking the blood off each claw. He closes his eyes as though savouring the taste then takes a deep breath and hauls himself out of the tank, the glistening length of his tail unfolding behind him as he collapses over the side and falls to the floor -

And lands, rolls into a crouch, and stands up in one fluid movement.

“What the hell,” Theseus says, staring at him. His gills are gone, as are the long fins down his back and his tail, replaced by legs that are bare, muscled, and completely human. Theseus averts his eyes and covers Newt’s. Completely male human. The cut from his tail is now a wide gash over his left thigh, red blood clotting sluggishly around the edges.

“We need to go,” the man rasps, grabbing for Newt. Theseus backs away, keeping his brother out of reach.

“You think they’ll be lenient because he’s a child?” the man growls. “Come.” He stalks towards the curtain separating the back of the tent from the stage and disappears through it.

“Hey!” someone shouts behind them, and Theseus slings Newt into a piggyback and hurries out after the mermaid-turned-man. He pushes aside the heavy curtain and runs across the stage, praying that none of the staff were in there preparing for the next performance. The man is hovering by one of the side flaps, lifting it aside to peer out with an angry scowl.

He looks up when Theseus skids to a halt next to him.

“They won’t be far behind us,” Theseus pants. “What’s the plan?”

“The plan?” The man raises an eyebrow. “I go back to the sea. He comes with me.” He reaches for Newt again to lift him off Theseus’ back and Theseus spins to put himself between them.

“No.”

The man glowers. “I didn’t ask you.”

“He’s five,” Theseus spits, and grips Newt’s legs tight in warning when he makes a noise of protest. He doesn’t know what he’s doing - Theseus isn’t small by any means, but he hasn’t forgotten how the other man - mermaid - hell, whichever, how the other man casually threw the heavy metal lid it took both Theseus and Newt just to budge. If it comes to a fight then Theseus can’t hope to win, but Newt is his brother; Theseus can’t not defend him.

The sound of angry voices behind the curtain breaks their standstill.

“Fine,” the man snaps. “While he’s a child he’s yours. When he’s a man, bring him to the sea. I’ll find him.” He lifts the tent flap to go through and Theseus holds his tongue on pointing out his nakedness. Just before he goes he looks back over his shoulder and makes eye contact with Newt. “Oh, and before I forget,” he says, lips twitching into an amused smile. “My name is Graves, and I’m a merman if you don’t mind.”

“Yessir,” Newt squeaks, and Graves is gone.

“Do I have to go to the sea?” Newt asks in a small voice, gripping Theseus tighter.

Theseus glares at the empty space where the merman stood. “Not if you don’t want to,” he promises. “For now though, we have to go home before anyone sees us, so sit tight and keep quiet.” He pushes aside the tent flap with a foot, checks for passing naked mermen-given-legs, then slips out to join the crowd and hopes no one stops them to ask why Newt is quite so covered in mud, or why he has a makeshift bandage around his forearm.

He’s not yet sure how he’s going to keep his promise, but he will. If Newt doesn’t want to go to the sea then Theseus will make sure he doesn’t have to. He has thirteen years; he’ll find a way.

In the meantime, maybe he should look for a job further inland.

#gramander #newt scamander #theseus scamander #percival graves #mermaid!graves #according to the timestamp it took me three years to answer this #so uh #better late than never?#my writing #paintingraves

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schtroumpf-a-lunettes · 4 years

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Smurf Village Upturned, Chapter 15: Out of Sight, Out of Mind

Ch1 | Ch2 | Ch3 | Ch4 | Ch5 | Ch6 | Ch7 | Ch8 | Ch9 | Ch10 | Ch11 | Ch12 | Ch13 | Ch14

Read on: AO3 | FF.net | This post

Waking up, again to an empty room as the morning light streamed in through the windows, again to no indication that breakfast was underway. Well, not today, today would be different. Baby was going to find the smurf he wanted to see.

It was true, Greedy was in his kitchen, just as Baby had expected, but what he hadn’t been expecting was to find Greedy sitting on the floor in silence. The older smurf didn’t even seem to notice Baby’s entrance, didn’t look up or react. The kitchen usually felt so lively with how busily Greedy would be bustling about the room, but today, there was none of that usual commotion, and its absence was unnerving.

“Greedy,” Baby said, announcing his approach, “I’m hungry!”

He waited.

“I’m hungry,” he said again. Why wouldn’t Greedy move?!

“I want food!” he whined loudly. Real food!

Finally, Greedy seemed to notice he was there, shifted his gaze as he turned towards the source of the noise, but if he was going to reply, the process was rather delayed. He’d need to be louder, Baby decided, to really get it through to him, to break whatever spell he seemed to be under.

“Greedy, I’m hungry!” he yelled. He did not recall ever having shouted at Greedy before, but he needed something to eat and he was frustrated – on the cusp of a rather age-appropriate temper tantrum.

Baby’s words finally seemed to register as the lost look in Greedy’s eyes faded somewhat. “Something to eat…” Greedy’s gaze shifted away from Baby, and then, not getting up from where he sat, he reached over to a nearby box, and gave it a shove over to the smurfling. “Here, how about have some of this.”

“Cookies – for breakfast?!” Baby shook his head unhappily. He never thought the adults would actually allow him to have a breakfast like that! Normally he’d be pleased, but he was sick of just eating treats! That was why he’d come to Greedy directly in the first place instead of just sneaking some more goodies while waiting for some actual food. He could tell that if he just ate more cookies or more cupcakes, he wouldn’t feel so good.

Greedy didn’t seem to be listening anymore, having fallen back into his rather despondent state. Well then, Baby knew it was useless to stay here. He wasn’t going to get food here, so he would have to find it somewhere else!

Even just a bunch of smurfberries on their own would be good, Baby thought to himself as he walked through the village. He didn’t really know anything about the food storage shed in the village, let alone where it was or how to get inside. He did know, however, that it was routine for smurfs to go off into the forest and then they would come back with baskets and baskets full of smurfberries! That was easy. He’d just have to go into the forest and get some smurfberries – problem solved.

Baby walked to the end of the village, and when he reached it, he kept on going, walking straight out of the village altogether. No one noticed him leave.

He wouldn’t be too long. He just needed to get some food, and then he could go back to the village again. Simple.

He walked on, looking around carefully for any signs of smurfberry bushes. After a while… Yes! There they were – smurfberry bushes. He hurried over, shoving some into his mouth right away. Then he sat, picking them off the bush casually into a pile.

Before long, there were two goblins watching him nearby.

“Heh… Well, look what we have here,” the taller one smirked, and went to sneak up on the smurfling before his companion stopped him in his tracks with a hiss.

“What are you doing?! That’s a smurf! You know… A smurf!”

“So?” the taller one was unimpressed. “It’s all on its own! And it looks like it’s just a little kiddie one!” he rubbed his hands together, but still the other goblin shook his head.

“Yeah, but if the adult ones find out? There’s no telling…”

“Ah, well, I’m sure they’d pay us handsomely to get their precious little one back, don’t you think? And we were planning on moving on from here soon anyway, weren’t we? So we’ll just get our payment and move far away before they can try anything funny.”

The other goblin pursed their lips together, unconvinced. The taller one took this as permission to step forward in preparation to abduct the little smurfling. They could work out the details later. This was going to be a cinch – he was so much bigger and stronger than the little blue child.

All he would have to do is approach from behind, and – yes, that was it. He was in grabbing distance now. Close enough to touch. The goblin reached out a big, hairy hand to snatch Baby Smurf…

But Baby Smurf had managed to notice their presence in time, and Baby Smurf did not wish to be kidnapped. With a simple flick of his own wrist, the goblins were abruptly sent flying backwards, hurtling through the air and out of sight.

Out of sight, out of mind…

***

“Dabbler, did you… do this?” Brainy asked in wonder, adjusting his glasses meaningfully. Clumsy also looked at Dabbler curiously, from next to Brainy.

“Do what?” Dabbler asked, before realisation struck. “Oh… your glasses – they’re fully repaired! Did I…?” he fell into silence for a few moments. “I-I guess I did…?”

If Dabbler was being honest, he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t really remember anything that had happened, or that he’d done, since… since…

The past few days had all just blended together meaninglessly for him. Days? How much time had passed?

“Ah… But didn’t Clumsy mention you’d been seeing some strange things through those glasses lately?” Dabbler remembered, his tone quickly becoming guarded.

“Oh… No, not anymore. The spell broke completely, when…” Brainy went quiet. He didn’t need to continue.

“…Vanity’s mirror shattered too, yeah, but he’s got plenty more of those, so…” Dabbler trailed off, uncomfortably aware of how aimless and flimsy his words were. This conversation was pointless, and it was going nowhere. It was a strange act they were all currently engaged in, balancing their words so as to uphold a conversation that projected a precarious sense of “normality”. Merely standing around like this and just talking was a temporary reprieve from… the realities that waited to ambush Dabbler the moment he was alone again.

But no, even that was not entirely true, as their stilted dialogue and extended pauses could attest to. You could tell there was something off about all of them, and why wouldn’t there be? But right now, if just to hold a conversation, it felt necessary for them to somehow pretend, and to carefully dance around the fact that their beloved leader was dead. Until they could retreat once more to be on their own, or back into their houses.

“Yeah… if Brainy was still seein’ things through his glasses that he shouldn’t – you’d know,” Clumsy reassured Dabbler.

Well, he hadn’t known, before. He’d noticed that Brainy was different than usual, of course… Well, he supposed he knew what to look for now.

“So, how’d you do it, then? How did you fix my glasses?” Brainy prompted.

“Uhh…” Dabbler stood, racking his brains for any memory of the magical feat he’d supposedly pulled off, when all three smurfs turned towards a sudden commotion.

Without warning, Wild Smurf had stormed into the village chittering angrily, Baby Smurf by his side. The other smurfs looked on as he gestured animatedly at both Baby and in the direction of the forest, quite upset.

“In… in the forest?” Poet said distantly, “but…” he frowned.

Wild grumbled in exasperation, crossing his arms.

“He… wasn’t in the village?”

Wild nodded. His disapproving chitters couldn’t have been clearer in their condemnation of everyone’s utter failure to look out for Baby.

“Well!” huffed Miner, “who was supposed to be watching him?!”

“I’m way ahead of you,” murmured Harmony, retrieving and unfolding the little roster that had been done up for the village to default to, and cleared his throat. “Let’s see… Brainy Smurf?”

“I should have known!” Handy spoke up harshly, pointing at the named smurf. “You should have been watching him!”

“He could have gotten into serious danger,” Hefty chimed in unhappily, his voice sounding slightly hoarse. Those who noticed, however, didn’t find this fact too surprising. None of them were sounding very good at the moment.

“Now wait just a second!” Brainy looked over the schedule, “On the day I was supposed to take over, it wasn’t exactly possible. And if you hadn’t noticed, then my glasses were destroyed! I couldn’t watch over Baby Smurf – I couldn’t watch anything – I couldn’t see!”

“Mmm… those glasses, they look fine t’ me,” Farmer observed quietly.

Brainy threw up his arms in exasperation and went to protest some more, but Smurfette was already cutting in, just before Clumsy was also about to speak up.

“No… No, we can’t have expected Brainy to supervise Baby at all. Wasn’t that… Wasn’t that the same day… Wasn’t he missing that morning?” And he’d only just been put under supervision himself the night before, hadn’t he? “And then everyone was searching for him, and Clumsy and Vanity. In all that confusion, I think P… I don’t quite remember, but I think we were all supposed to be looking out for Baby, perhaps. I’m pretty sure at least some of us would have been told.” Given instruction of some sort.

Had she been told? Everything was a blur – there’d been a lot of confusion and alarm surrounding Brainy, Vanity and Clumsy’s abrupt disappearance, and things had only gotten worse on that day.

Back on that morning, everyone had been rushing about in a disordered mess. They’d all been so focused and caught up in it all… If there hadn’t been some other smurf specifically assigned to watch over Baby in Brainy’s place, it would have been easy to assume that it was already being taken care of, or for it to go unthought about altogether. Papa was usually the kind of smurf who would think of everything. Had he allocated a different smurf to look after Baby on that day, knowing that Brainy was unable? There was, perhaps, no longer any way of knowing for sure. And it no longer really mattered, now.

And then everything had gone to smurf… A lot had happened… a lot had happened. And clearly, regardless of whether or not Papa had taken measures to avoid it, Baby Smurf had slipped under everyone’s radar as a result anyway. That was the point of attention here.

Harmony cleared his throat awkwardly. “After Brainy, the main smurf responsible for Baby according to this schedule, starting today, was… Hefty Smurf.”

Several heads turned in Hefty’s direction wordlessly. Handy’s face lit up with shock.

“…M-Me? Ugh… I’m sorry.” Hefty’s head bowed low. “I just- I…”

“Now, now, sonny, the important thing is that Baby Smurf is safe and with us right now. We’ll all need to be a little more careful in future…” Nanny came over and gave Baby a little pat. “At the moment, I think all of you… need space. I’ll look after Baby. Don’t any of you worry.”

“And what about…” Smurfette looked pained. “Don’t you think we should… organise something like a… a funeral for Papa?”

“What’s a funeral?” Baby piped up curiously, picking up the new word amidst the conversation. But his question went unanswered, as Nanny voiced her agreement to Smurfette’s statement and the smurfs started tentatively discussing amongst themselves.

He could just go off to the side and play with his toys, then. That seemed to be what everyone wanted him to do, anyway. He’d just play alone with his toys… for now.

#smurfs #the smurfs #smurf #Greedy Smurf #Baby Smurf

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unpack-my-heart · 5 years

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Unpack My Heart With Words

Read on AO3 HERE

@violetreddie @constantreaderfool @xandertheundead @tinyarmedtrex @eds-trashmouth @mrs-vh

Chapter Six: Thus of every grief in heart he with thee doth bear a part

From: Unknown Number:

How dare you make me worry about you.

The phone, sat on his chest, burns a hole straight down to Richie’s rapidly thumping heart. The messages, from an ostensibly unknown number, were imprinted on the inside of Richie’s eyelids.

blink – how dare you make me worry about you – blink – today was a fucking disaster – blink – how dare you make me worry about you – blink – make me worry about you – blink – worry about you

There was no question as to who sent those texts, and Richie could practically hear Eddie’s snotty tone ringing in his ears.

“You didn’t text me when you got in, you said you’d text me and let me know you’re safe but you didn’t”

“Eds, baby, I’m sorry, I forgot”

“I was fucking worried, Richie”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry”

“It’s not fair of you to make me worry like that”

“Baby, you’re killing me, I’m sorry”

“How dare you make me worry about you”

The familiar words burrowed deep into Richie’s gut.

To: Unknown Number:

Eds?

From: Unknown Number:

It’s Eddie. Where were you?

To: Eds:

trying not to vomit soz will b there on Mon

From: Eds:

Good. Feel better.

Richie doesn’t sleep at all that night.

– X –

The morning after the night before isn’t a rehearsal day. They have every Sunday off. Richie silently thanks a God he doesn’t believe in that he doesn’t have to face Eddie for another twenty-four hours. That gives him time to prepare, to try to school himself out of feeling too much. It doesn’t work, because as soon as Working for the Weekend starts pumping out of his speakers Richie is nearly sick into his cereal as he remembers leaping around his shitty little flat with Eddie, drunks as skunks on shitty three pound cider and a whole lotta love.

He decides to walk it off. Like a stomach ache. Or a cramp.

Richie aimlessly wanders the streets, scarf wrapped tightly around his neck like a dormant boa constrictor, pressing just firmly enough so that the constant pressure against his throat reminds him that he’s alive. His hands are numb. He can’t feel his heart.

Eddie had always hated the cold. He’d bitched and moaned when Richie dragged him out into the January cold, hats jammed on heads and clasped hands buried in coat pockets. Richie always laughed as Eddie’s nose always turned bright red, where it poked out above his scarf. A red scarf with a large black check. Soft. Always smelt like soft cotton. Sandalwood. Eddie.

Richie adjusted the red scarf around his neck. It was practically threadbare.

Richie used to love the cold. The kiss of the frost, the sparkling of the black ice on the road. The puffs of air when Eddie spoke, spiralling into the air. Dancing on the wind that bit at their noses, ears, eyelashes. Eddie would always huddle into him, a penguin seeking shelter from arctic gales. Richie would welcome him in with open arms. He’d let Eddie gut him, and sleep inside his still-steaming carcass for warmth, if he’d asked.

Perhaps he still would.

Richie walks until he finds himself in the park that sits on the outskirts of the city. The plush grass is still wet from the morning’s rain. Trees litter the border, and people scurry across the surface like ants, ever busy. Richie stands and stares at them, cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t bother to try and catch it when it falls, cherry red fading to inky, dull black.

A bizarrely familiar figure crosses the park.

The figure walks across the field, holding tightly to a lead attached to a large black Labrador that bounds next to them. The stilted, harsh lines of the figure remind Richie of late nights and early mornings, of running through London with fire in his veins.

The closer the figure gets the more familiar he looks, until he’s stood right in front of Richie and of course it’s Eddie.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Uh – yeah. Yeah I feel alright now, Eds, don’t you worry about me”

“How many times am I going to have to tell you not to call me that before you listen to me?” Eddie huffs.

“Oh, infinity and one more time, Eds. Infinity and one”

“Were you really sick?”

“Something like that”

“Are you going to tell me the truth?”

“Probably not”

“He likes you”

Richie glances up at Eddie, from where he’s crouched on the floor scratching the Labrador’s ears.

“Lots of people like me”

“He doesn’t normally like strangers”

“I guess he knows I’m not a stranger”

Richie watches Eddie close his eyes.

“Are you not?”

“No”

“I haven’t seen you for over a decade”

“Doesn’t mean I’m a stranger”

“I wish you were a stranger”

“I know”

“I wish you weren’t my Hamlet”

“Do you really?”

A pause.

“No, not really”

“It’s really great to see you again, Eds. I missed you”

“I – Yeah. You too, Rich”

Richie watches Eddie walk away.

– X –

“Jesus Christ, woman! I do have ribs you know. I am not, in fact, an invertebrate”

“Coulda fooled me”

“Wh–what?”

“I have no idea. Now shut up, I gotta adjust your inseam”

The costume department of the RSC was a jungle of dresses, powdered wigs, crowns, swords, handkerchiefs, and, of course, a large Papier Mache donkey’s head hanging from the ceiling attached to thin wires. Richie was standing on a rickety wooden chair, balanced precariously whilst Beverly Marsh, head of costume, poked and prodded at him.

“I need to take around 50 measurements, Rich, so you gotta stay still for me so we can work as quickly as possible. I’ve got to do the first fitting of Mike’s dress later, and god knows how long it’ll take me to pin the corset around his waist”

“Bev?”

“Hmm?” Bev responded absently, pins sticking out of her mouth. Brave.

“You were in my year at RADA, right?”

“Yup”

“Do you remember Eddie?”

“Sort of. I was only in one class with him, and I dropped out of that to take more costume classes but – Motherfucker! Leather really is the most annoying fabric to work with, I swear to God, why did Eddie have to decide that this damn production needed you to be wearing skin-tight leather fucking trousers”

“We both know why he made that decision, Miss Marsh, have you seen my ass”

Bev stepped backwards, bringing her hand up to stroke her chin pensively as she stared at Richie’s leather-clad ass.

“So?” Richie prompted, waggling his ass at Bev as much as the constricting leather would allow.

“Yeahhhh,” Bev drawled, still stroking her chin, “I still don’t get it”

“You’re a fucking liar, my ass is great. Eds says that – I mean, Eddie used to say that – Aw, fuck”

Bev patted Richie’s arm comfortingly, helping him down off the chair.

“D’ya wanna grab a smoke?”

“Aw, Dahlin’, I thought you’d never ask”

Bev helped Richie shuck off the tight leather trousers, and they walked out into the biting November cold. Leaning against the wall, they puffed on their cigarettes in silence, listening to the wind whip around the walls.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Richie instantly knows what Bev means. She wants him to tell her about why he didn’t show up yesterday.

“About what?”

He’s not going to tell her if she doesn’t work for it.

“You know exactly what, why didn’t you show yesterday?” Bev responds, sharp as a knife but her words don’t slice at Richie’s skin.

“Red, we both know that you know exactly what happened yesterday” Richie deadpans, flicking the cigarette butt into the gutter. Bev offers him another one, but he declines with one sharp shake of his head.

“Do you still love him?”

“Aw, hell. What kind of a question is that?”

“The questioning kind”

“I haven’t seen him for fourteen years”

“And?”

“He left me”

“And?”

“He left me! He walked away. He made it pretty fucking clear he didn’t want me anymore”

Bev hums, flicking her own cigarette into the gutter. It lands next to Richie’s.

“He wrote to you, though?”

“He did”

“Did you ever respond?”

Richie stares at Bev with tired, don’t push it eyes. She doesn’t push it.

– X –

The door to the office was closed, and three minutes had passed since Richie was supposed to knock.

Three minutes, twenty-four seconds …

Eddie was waiting for him on the other side of the door. The days rehearsal had gone pretty well. He’d worked on the ‘get thee to a nunnery!’ scene with Mike, which had gone unexpectedly well. Mike Hanlon, it seemed, was an absolute tour-de-force and his Ophelia was heartbreakingly sympathetic. A rather large part of Richie’s brain was ecstatic that he’d have someone so technically skilled to bounce off of, but a small, nasty part of Richie’s brain was worried that Ophelia would steal the show. He’d have to work on that.

Three minutes, fifty-five seconds …

Richie still hasn’t knocked on the door. He nearly has, twice. He has raised his clenched hand to the door twice, and twice he has lowered it again without making contact.

Four minutes, three seconds …

Perhaps he will never knock.

Four minutes, fifty-nine seconds …

Perhaps he is locked in a cyclical system of nearly-knocking-but-never-knocking.

Five minutes …

The door swung open.

“Richie?”

Where the closed door once was, Eddie was now standing, hands on his hips, confusion imprinted onto his brow.

“Are you okay?”

“Uh – Yeah, yeah, sorry, I was just about to knock”

“You’ve been stood out here for five minutes”

“How did you know?”

“I could see your shadow under the door”

“Ah. Well, I was just about to knock, though, honest”

The ghost of a smile chased its way across Eddie’s face, left to right, until it had disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. His eyes remained brighter, though, stars reflected onto the irises. Eddie stood to the side, motioning for Richie to walk into the office. Richie slunk into the room, standing awkwardly in the corner as Eddie rounded the desk and sat down behind it.

“Whatcha wanna see me about, then?”

“I just wanted to talk to you about your no show on Saturday. You don’t have to tell me the reason you didn’t turn up, I understand that we are all complex life forms and some of us are more complex than others, but –”

A disbelieving snort forced its way out of Richie’s nose before he could stop it.

“Problem?” Eddie challenged, crossing his arms across his chest defensively.

“Nope. No problem, not at all”

“Richard”

“Edward”

“Can we – can we not play these stupid games? I thought we’d be more mature than this, that we’d be able to get past all this animosity and act like adults. We have a job to do. You have a job to do. Please fucking act like it”

Richie blinked.

“Sorry, Eddie”

“It’s okay, Rich. I’m just – you really screwed us over on Saturday. I had to get Bowers to stand in,” Eddie stopped talking to scrub his fists into his eye-sockets, before continuing, “and he’s … he can’t do it properly. He’s not – You do it…”

Richie blinked again.

“You can’t just not show up. You can’t do that to me, to us” Eddie implored, eyes and eyebrows earnest as ever.

“I won’t, I won’t do it again, Eds, I promise”

From his current position, standing in the corner of the small office like a spare part, Richie thought that Eddie looked awfully small. He’d always been small, of course, a tiny firecracker threatening to explode in your hands and burn off your fingerprints, but this Eddie was not that Eddie. Past Eddie, Richie’s Eddie, didn’t have these eyes that looked permanently punched by tiredness, frown lines etched into his forehead, or shoulders that dropped when he thought no-one was looking. This Eddie, not-Richie’s-Eddie, made Richie’s heart thump with something past-compassion and not-quite-yearning. Sitting behind the desk was a black sweater clad, fully formed human being that Richie didn’t recognise, with glasses and wrinkles and a slightly wonky front left canine. It wasn’t wonky when Richie had known him, when he’d been Richie’s-Eddie, he’d have known, he’d stared at the sun in Eddie’s smile that many times.

Richie wanted to ask Eddie why his tooth was wonky, and why the skin around his nailbeds was red and raw, but he didn’t.

“S’that all?” is what Richie said instead, rubbing at his left bicep furiously, scratching a phantom-itch.

“Yeah, yeah, you can go. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Good work today. You work excellently with Mike”

Richie wanted to take advantage of this seemingly unguarded Eddie, sit down in the uncomfortable looking chair and rip his still beating heart out of his chest and serve it to Eddie on a platter.

Why did you leave me?

But he didn’t. Instead he waved his fingers at Eddie, an aborted attempt at a wave, and left the room.

– X –

Hamlet and Horatio haven’t spoken for fourteen years. Richie hasn’t spoken to Stan for fourteen years, and he can’t remember how to talk to his former-best-friend without causing him to roll his eyes. What makes this worse is that the pit of jealousy in Richie’s stomach grows ever stronger each time Stan stays behind after rehearsal for one-to-one sessions with Eddie.

Richie has never had a one-to-one session with Eddie. He knows he’s going to have a one-to-one session, to work on the various soliloquys. He knows this, and yet his gut still twists angrily every time Eddie dismisses them for the day, and Stan follows him back into his office. Smiling. Eddie smiles when he looks at Stan, but his mouth only twitches when he looks at Richie. It’s not a smile. It’s more like a grimace, but not quite as heated.

It all explodes before Richie realises he’d detonated.

“Why are you giving Horatio more attention than me? I’m supposed to be the lead!”

Richie holds his breath.

The rest of the cast filter out of the rehearsal space like liquid.

“Pardon?”

“I mean – I guess – No, you know what, I’m confused. I’m supposed to be the lead, and we’ve been rehearsing for nearly two weeks and we haven’t worked on my soliloquys yet”

Stan rolls his eyes. Richie wants to scream.

“Stop being a fucking child, Richie”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re the lead. We all know this, it’s not like we’ve forgotten, but that doesn’t mean that this whole production revolves around you”

“I just thought that–”

Stan strides over to where Richie was standing, and stands toe to toe with him. Faces close, breath mingling. They were close enough that Stan could headbutt him right now, if he wanted to. Richie doesn’t think he would.

“You don’t have a claim to his time anymore, Rich” Stan whispers, and it’s kind, his voice is kind and soft but the words burn through Richie’s skin like acid.

Richie steps backwards, burnt.

“Woah, woah woah, Stanely the fucking Manly, I never said anything about that, this is purely professional”

“Is it?”

“Yes!”

“It doesn’t look very professional”

“Well it is!”

Neither of them say anything, just look at each other. Waiting for the other to strike.

– X –

The sky is mottled with stars. Stan’s humming a song that Richie doesn’t recognise as they lie on the grass out the back of Richie’s apartment building.

“You’re my best friend, you know”

“Aw, is this soft hours with Stan?”

Stan huffs out a laugh and smacks Richie on the stomach.

“Yeah, yeah it fuckin’ is”

“You’re my best friend, too” Richie replies, honest as the day is long.

They don’t say anything else. They don’t have to.

– X –

“What happened to us?” Richie asks, not wanting to hear the answer that he’s sure Stan is going to give him, anyway.

“There hasn’t been an ‘us’ since you ignored me when Eddie left,” Stan replies, eyes downcast, “I missed you, Rich, I rang you for two fucking years, of course I missed you. But this petulant child isn’t you. You need to sort it out. You can’t draw him in when you’re pushing everyone else out”

Only then does Richie remember that Eddie has been in the room the entire time, that Eddie has heard everything.

#reddie #eddie kaspbrak #richie tozier #Richie Tozier x Eddie Kaspbrak #hamlet au #theatre au #thefutureisbright #ao3 #unpack my heart with words #unpack my heart

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voiddrop · 6 years

Text

First Impressions

A/N

Requested by @slimegirl21 : 13th doctor x reader where the doctor meets the reader for the first time by saving her from some kind of alien creature and the doctor ends up falling for the reader and can you make it a fluff/smut type of thing

Low-key stole the idea of it being set in a cafe from my beta reader’s first fic that she posted, seriously check out @toogayforwords ’s little fic it can be found here it’s very gay and very cute and they deserve all the love and support for it.

Anyway, I hope this lived up to the request, it was definitely very fun to write. Not so much fluff or smut but I might make a part two to this because honestly it was so much fun but I didn’t just want to yeet headfirst into smut, so if you would like a part two with smut please tell me.

Strikethrough means it won’t let me tag you

Taglist: @femreader @probablypirates @etxm @rose-edith @caduceus-clay-m9

The cafe was a familiar and comfortable place, it was open twenty-four hours a day and was always filled with the wonderful aroma of pastries and warm beverages and at this time of night, it was the perfect amount of quiet. The place was nearly completely empty too, only two people were in the family-owned shop, the girl stuck working the graveyard shift and Y/N who was perched in her seat, her warm brew in her hands while her eyes stayed focused on the table, tracing the carvings in the stained wood as she brought her cup up to her lips and sipped, relaxing as the warmth washed over her tongue.

The woman relaxed into her seat, breathing out a sigh through her nose as her eyes drifted from her table and to the large window she was seated next to, looking out at the dark street that was just behind the glass. It was late so there was nobody out walking and very few cars had passed by in the past hour-and-a-bit she had been in the coffee shop, the street was dark, illuminated only by the golden light cast down by the sparsely spread streetlights, their light would shimmer on the wet pavement, looking very similar to spilt gold. Her lips curled upwards and she looked back down at her table, missing the large dark figure that peered out at her from the alleyway across the street from the quaint little shop.

Y/N finished her drink, tipped the barista and headed off, pulling up her hood when she felt a particularly cold child dance past her, it was going to start raining soon if she remembered and, judging from the dark clouds swirling in the sky ominously, it wouldn’t be light rain. The female kept her head down as she walked down the path, hands stuffed in her pockets as she walked quickly, wanting to just get home and crawl into bed, as she turned off of the street the cafe had been on and began to walk down another street she became very aware of how deathly silent it was.

Y/N paused.

No rummaging in the trash from a stray dog or cat, no nocturnal birds chirping, no bugs creating their loud songs. It was completely silent around her, minus one sound. Heavy ragged breathing, a sound she had been completely oblivious of until then. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up on end and the woman turned around very slowly, wide-eyes falling on the tall, gangly body of a four-legged creature that stood at the other end of the street. It was dark grey in colour, leather-like skin stretched over its body in a way that made its bones pop out, a thin body with a too-large head balanced precariously on four stilt-like limbs that ended in sharp points. Its eyes were large, large and a dull yellow that stood out from the rest of its body. As it met her eyes the creature’s mouth dropped open, revealing rows of needle-like teeth, and it released a horrid screeching noise and began sprinting towards her, its pointed legs scraping harshly against the pavement as it rushed over to her.

Y/N screamed in response and spun around, sprinting in the direction she had originally been walking in. She could hear the monster behind her, catching up to it as it continued to release its spine-chilling sounds. Without warning, her legs were swatted out from under her and Y/N was sent tumbling to the cold ground hard and rolling to the side with a surprised curse. The creature towered over her, drool dangling from its gaping maw as it hissed at her. This was the end, she was sure of it, she was going to be killed by this monster.

The creature leaned closer only to jerk back with another screech as a loud buzzing filled the air, “Oi! Get away from her!” A woman’s stern voice called from somewhere behind Y/N. The creature stumbled back as the strange buzzing grew louder, screeching in pain as it turned around and sprinted down the pavement, lurching down and jumping up onto the roof of one of the buildings before vanishing into the dark night. Y/N pushed herself up, gaping at where the monster had been as the buzzing stopped and another figure rushed into her view from behind her, seemingly checking to make sure it had actually gone before turning to the woman still on the wet pavement, “Are you alright?” Her saviour asked gently, kneeling down.

She had short blonde hair and the kindest eyes Y/N had ever seen, eyes that looked strangely out of place on her. While her body looked young those eyes seemed very old, ancient even, but still so very kind and warm. The blonde female was glad in an unusual mix of clothes too but they seemed to work on her, fitting her just right, “I’m fine,” Y/N managed to croak out, the woman offered a hand out to her and she took it, letting the blonde tug her to her feet, “What was that?”

“I don’t know and I hate not knowing,” The woman responded, once again looking back in the direction the creature had run off in, “I’m the Doctor by the way, what’s your name?” The Doctor chimed happily, turning back to face the (still shaken up) human.

“Erm, Y/N,” She responded lamely, “Doctor who?” Y/N asked, her eyebrows scrunching together in thought. The blonde’s lips curled into a grin at the familiar question and look at the other female almost coyly.

“Just the Doctor,” Her lips curled into an even brighter smile, the twinkle in her eyes catching Y/N by surprise, “Y/N, was it? You wouldn’t want to help me stop that monster from hurting anyone else, would you?” The blonde asked hopefully, holding her hand out to the human stood in front of her. Y/N blinked in surprise, taken aback by the blonde’s request. She was originally going to decline, but then she saw those old eyes, so kind and hopeful and warm. Her bottom lip was drawn between her teeth as she thought, eyes travelling down to the hand being offered to her. Y/N had a life, a boring and mundane one but a life nonetheless, one without strange creatures and brilliant blonde women. One she really couldn’t see herself going back to now.

“Okay…” She responded, lips curling into a grin as she finally took the Doctor’s hand.

And that was how Y/N met the Doctor, how the Time Lady stole her from Earth while she stole the Time Lady’s twin hearts.

#thirteenth doctor x reader #thirteenth doctor #13th doctor x reader #13th doctor #thirteenth doctor x female reader #x female reader #female reader #first meeting #lesbian #I love her #so much

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missnmikaelson-main · 5 years

Text

The Mummy - Cairo Museum

I do not own TVD or TO or The Mummy

There were few cities as old as this one. It had been alive and thriving so long that the stars had changed their positions since the cities birth. As everyone knows the longer something lives the more diverse it becomes until it swarms with every form of life.

The strange, mysterious, wonderful city was full of life; it ebbed and flowed like the waters of the Nile: ever flowing, but never changing.

Cairo

There were few places where one could realize their own insignificance; few places where one could lose themselves in the shadows of those that came before and be reminded of their own small place in the universe every time they stepped inside.

Standing on top of the ladder between the two of the towering bookshelves that made up the stacks, in the museum of antiquities, she was again reminded of how little she had done. She was often reminded of that fact while re-shelving the books.

The people recorded between the pages of the leather bound volumes had great adventures, made significant changes to their worlds, and gone down in history for their deeds. She had always been fascinated by these people and their stories.

As a child she had wished she could be one of them. She suspected that had more to do with the period in which they had lived though.

Growing up when she did had meant that she was often surrounded by the latest news from archeologists in Egypt; they had called themselves Egyptologists. The items and mummies that they found beneath the sand had inspired a lifelong love of history for her; she had devoted herself to the study of the discipline, as had her brother.

They were both exceptionally talented. They were both incredibly smart. They were both equally qualified.

There was no difference between them save one: it was a man’s world.

Looking at the heavy books under her arm she was struck with the knowledge that it had always been a man’s world.

Would she be doomed to live between these shelves forever while her brother was out in the field?

It wasn’t so bad, working in the stacks, but it did get a tad boring from time to time. She was so bored she had started talking to the books as she shelved them.

“Tuthmosis?” A line appeared between her brows. “Now how did you get up here?” She was currently shelving all of the books beginning with ‘O’.

She shook her head and sighed before looking to the shelf behind her. The tall ladder was leaning against the ‘o’s; she looked down once before shaking her head. She was nearly fifteen feet in the air, and it would have been silly to climb all the way down when the proper place for the book was right behind her.

She carefully put the stack of books on the shelf in front of her before taking a tight grip on the spine of the heavy volume. She took a deep breath and exhaled in a rush of air. Carefully she took hold of the top rung of the ladder and turned around to reach out for the far shelf.

Too far, she pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes in concentration. She held tighter to the top of the ladder and stretched for the near shelf that was slowly getting closers.

She shifted her feet to maintain her balance and held to the ladder by her fingertips. She was nearly there. She was so close when it happened.

The ladder lifted from the shelf.

She yelped and dropped the book. As quick as an Egyptian asp her arms moved back to cling to the top of the ladder. The two-legged ladder stood straight in the air.

She held her breath and stilled every molecule in her body, fearful that the slightest movement would send her crashing to the floor.

How many bones would she break? Climbing down was clearly not an option.

Even staying completely still the ladder swayed precariously. She shut her eyes tight to combat the spinning room. That was when it happened; her balance was lost.

The ladder swung suddenly. She gripped the top and flexed the muscles in her legs to try and stay upright; it worked for several too short seconds before lurching forward.

She realized quickly that the only way she was going to stay upright was to use the ladder like stilts.

Honestly the next few seconds were a bit of a blur for her. All she knew was that one moment she was careening through the aisles and the next the ladder had come to a stop after crashing into the top of one of the main shelves.

She released the breath she hadn’t known she was holding in a heavy sigh. The relief was short lived.

The fall was almost gentle as the shelf pitched away from her and crashed into the next.

As children she and her brother would play dominoes, but never had their games been quite to this scale. She could do nothing but watch as the shelves fell one after another until the final one banged into the wall.

“Oops,” she ran her hands over her hair and busied her fingers by securing a few loose curls.

She pressed her lips into a line. Her cheeks heated with a heavy blush; it was all she could do to meet his eyes when he came into the room and stared in horror at the mess she had made.

“Look at this,” he waved wildly to the books and papers. “Give me flies, frogs, locusts, anything but this!” His face slowly turned red. “Compared to you the other plagues were a joy!”

“I’m sorry,” she jumped to her feet and started picking up books, “it was an accident.”

“When Ramses destroyed Syria, it was an accident,” Lucien raked his hands through his brown hair before pointing to her. “You are a catastrophe. Why do I put up with you?”

She knew it was a rhetorical question but she couldn’t resist answering.

“Well,” her body simmered with anger, “you put up with me, because I can read and write in ancient Egyptian, decipher hieroglyphs and hieratic, and I,” she pointed to herself as the rage boiled over, “am the only person within a thousand miles who knows how to properly code and catalogue this library.”

She could have sworn she heard him mutter ‘who needs smart women’ under his breath; a vein throbbed in her neck.

“I put up with you,” he paced forwards until he was a foot from her face, “because your mother and father were our finest patrons, God rest their souls.” He sighed deeply and waved to the floor. “Clean up this mess.”

Elena closed her eyes and forced herself to take a couple of deep breaths so she wouldn’t storm after him and lay punches in several very painful places.

Her eyes snapped open when she heard a noise. Spinning on her heel there was a beat of silence before it sounded again.

“Hello?” She called softly when she slid through the remaining stacks and into an adjoining room. Her voice grew quieter when she passed beneath a towering statue of an ancient god.

Torchlight flickered over the alabaster and onyx. Gold glittered in the fire light. It was dim save for the torches, and eerie. The sudden silence chilled her to the core.

There was a slow shuffle of feet over the stone floor. The muffled sound travelled over the plunder, statues and mummies from the Middle Kingdom.

She could barely breathe when her eyes darted from towering statue to towering statue. Which one was moving? Which one was coming for her?

She knew it was ridiculous, but the eyes of Horus and Anubis stared down at her with malevolence. Her heart thundered in her chest.

She snatched a torch from the wall and hurried down the aisle away from the approaching footsteps. She walked past a closed sarcophagus, cases full of ancient artifacts and another sarcophagus. Her breath caught in her throat; the sarcophagus was open.

She heard herself swallow around the lump in her throat and steeled her nerves. Logic told her someone must have opened it, but there was nobody else in the room; nobody but the giant statues, and she was pretty sure they couldn’t move.

A bead of sweat trickled down her spine as she slowly leaned forward and peered into the ancient coffin.

Elena screamed when the decayed mummy sat straight up. The torch clattered to the floor as she backed into a glass case and held her heart.

Her wits slowly came back to her as her mind caught up with the image of her brother jumping from the coffin and laughing his ass off.

“You…” she stumbled forwards and smacked his upper arms.

“Please, do come up with something original,” he shook with laughter and caught her hands.

“Have you no respect for the dead, Kol?” Elena glared up at him. She shivered when she felt the empty eyes of the mummy on her face.

“Of course I do,” he sobered quickly and helped her gently push the body back in place. “I just thought you could use a laugh.”

“Do I look like I’m laughing?” Elena’s brows drew together in a stern expression.

Kol tilted his head and lifted his finger to point to the edge of her mouth. “Right there,” he tapped her cheek, “you’re starting to smile.” His voice took on a lyric quality as his lips tipped upwards in a smirk. “Come on, Elena,” his mouth fell into an exaggerated pout, “don’t stay mad at me.”

Elena crossed her arms and cocked an eyebrow.

“I can make it up to you,” he smiled brightly as the idea came to him.

“How exactly are you going to do that?” Elena struggled not to smile. Kol had always had an infectious grin; he had always made her smile when they were kids and she had been sad.

“By taking my darling baby sister to lunch of course,” he smirked and offered her his arm. “Quickly now,” his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, “before the stick in the mud comes back.”

“I’m working,” she pointed out while taking his arm.

“Yes,” Kol nodded solemnly, “but if I know you, you’re overdue for a lunch break.”

Elena rolled her eyes and followed him out into the brilliant afternoon sunlight.

++++

“I thought you were on a dig,” Elena pointed to Kol with her desert spoon and tilted her head. It was hardly a ladylike gesture but she didn’t care much when it was her brother.

“I was,” he picked up his glass and smirked around the rim, “now I’m not.”

“What did you do?” She sighed.

“Nothing,” he cut his hand through the air.

Elena cocked an eyebrow; she knew he was lying.

“Alright, fine,” he sighed and lowered his glass, “I had a little disagreement with my supervisor on the correct handling of certain ‘artifacts’.”

“Ha,” she scoffed and rolled her eyes, “artifacts sure. You’re not fooling me with that innocent expression; you were fighting over a girl. Who was she?”

“The thing to remember is that: I was unaware at the time,” Kol cleared his throat and stared at his glass; he never could hide anything from his sister.

“That doesn’t sound good,” Elena leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “Who was she?”

“It was his niece,” he shrugged.

“I think I can guess how this turned out,” Elena shook her head, “spare me the details of how exactly you got yourself thrown off one of the biggest digs in history.”

Kol chuckled and leaned back in his own chair. His finger tapped the table top.

“All that I will say is that it might have been worth it,” his eyes twinkled mischievously. “You see, little sister…”

“You know I’m only nine minutes younger than you, right?” Elena rolled her eyes. Kol loved to rub in the fact that he was older than her.

“Nine minutes is nine minutes,” he pointed to her, “I’ve got nine whole minutes of wisdom and life experience on you, but we’re getting off topic.” He looked around the half-filled restaurant and leaned forward to brace his elbows on the table. “As I was saying, baby sister, later that night I was drowning my sorrows and made an acquisition,” he reached into his jacket pocket.

“Let me guess,” she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, “you’ve got a trinket you want me to take to the curator to try and…” she trailed off when he slapped a small box in her hand. “Where did you get this?” She immediately began looking at the trinket from every angle; it was unlike anything she had ever seen before.

“Down in Thebes,” he waved in the general direction with a mischievous smile. “You’ve always been better with the hieroglyphs. Tell me: did I find something?” He raised his brows hopefully.

Elena mumbled under her breath as she translated the worn writing along the edges of the box. She bit her lip as she played with the various slats along the sides of the box; they shifted under her fingertips like a puzzle box. There was a soft click when she moved the last slat and the box unfolded itself in a nearly mechanical fashion.

The top of the box flew open into eight triangular pieces. Elena’s eyes widened when they lit on a folded piece of golden papyrus. She lifted the heavy paper and unfolded it.

“Kol?”

“Yes?”

“I think you found something,” she looked up from the ancient map.

tags @elejah-wonderland @rissyrapp20 @elejahforever @eternityunicorn @morsmornte

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littlesoufflecafe · 5 years

Text

One For The Road | Chapter 9 Cut Scene: “Karaoke, Billiards, and American Accents”

A/N: This is from an early draft of One For The Road, chapter nine! I knew I wanted The Doctor to hop up on stage and sing “Pretty Woman” to Clara at the end of this chapter, but building up to that scene and making everything flow nicely took a few tries, and this was the first of them. Please note that this cut scene (and many others of mine) end abruptly, as I usually don’t continue writing dialogue/descriptions if I don’t feel like they’re going anywhere. Enjoy!

-----

The last time Clara stepped foot in a place like this, the air was damp.

She had reluctantly dressed herself in an outfit she loved, smeared liner under her eyes for a smoky effect, and topped it off with a pair of Nina's three-inch pumps. It wasn't until she teetered across the threshold of the bar that she realized how little it mattered. If anything, she felt overdressed as she shouldered her way through the throng of university students, the hazy lights and overcasting scent of alcohol and sweat making anyone a fair target of attraction.

The anxiety in her bubbled and burst as she perched herself on the edge of a bar stool that had just been vacated, wisps of her fringe already stuck to her forehead by a thin layer of sweat. The twenty year-old had no interest in indulging herself in her legal privileges, but felt the need to conform to her own environment as she ordered a drink and focused on the bartender's hands as he prepared it.

The entire room felt saturated in everything—like a picture with a filter turned all the way up. Her friends had long since left her side to mingle as any other conventional student would, treading in lively waters when Clara couldn't even keep her head above the surface. She was drowning in a sea of gregarious extroverts and crystalline glasses and smoke, and wondered why on Earth anyone would want to spend time in this congested, miserable place.

This time around, it was nothing like that.

The Doctor kept his hand on the small of her back as he guided her into the bar, his gaze flicking to hers constantly, as if to confer that she was okay. The place was warm, kept alive by intimate pockets of conversation—held up by mainly business people with heavy eyes and loosened neck ties. It felt a lot more mature than the one she had been to in university, though Clara supposed that was a given. It was a Monday night, work hours were ending, and no one looked to be younger than they were.

"B-52?" a waitress with blonde bangs asked them upon entering, plucking a shot glass from the tray she was balancing on her shoulder. "It's on the house."

The Doctor shook his head politely, flashing the woman a quick smile. "No thanks, I'm the designated driver for tonight." He looked towards his companion. "You?"

Clara looked at the concoction—the way its layers separated in the shot glass like oil and water—and pursed her lips. "I'm good, thanks."

They found themselves a small table adjacent to the bar and ordered mozzarella sticks to share just as a band of college girls teetered up onto the stage, their faces flushed by the light of the karaoke projector as they balanced precariously on their skinny three-inch high heels. The leader of the group, a brunette wearing a silky pink slip dress, snatched the mic off of the stand as it blared slightly from the impact.

"This one goes out to our best girlfriend Brittney, who's turning twenty-two years young tonight!" she announced, the slur in her voice only partially noticeable as the crowd answered back with a series of claps and cheering. The beginning notes to Lady Gaga's 'Poker Face' filled the speaker system as the girls began to speak-sing the lyrics, their voices fading in and out as they tried to maneuver around the cramped stage in their stilts.

Clara picked a mozzarella stick from the platter that had just appeared before them and dipped it into the marinara sauce. "You were right," she said, taking a bite. "I can see why you find this fun."

The Doctor grimaced as one of the girls began molesting her hair. "You know, I've never actually watched one of these fully sober."

"Brittney sure is a lucky girl."

"Dear god," he murmured, face reddening as he turned to look at Clara. "That girl's breast is about to pop out of her top if she keeps doing that."

"Oh, no no no, you can't look away now," she urged, eyes glued to the stage in a sardonic sort of fascination. "They're just getting to the good part!"

She began bopping her head to the beat as the chorus went into full swing, the girls doing their best to enunciate their P's as The Doctor leaned over to whisper in her ear. "You don't need to lie and say that you're actually enjoying this."

"Oh no, I am loving this," she promised him, reaching across the table for another mozzarella stick. Her eyes were still affixed on the train wreck unfolding before them as she leaned over and took a sip of water. "Best decision I ever made, coming here. Thank you Doctor, I am feeling much better now."

He opened his mouth to object, but was stopped as the crowd—and Clara—erupted into revelry as the birthday girl herself hiked onto the stage without even bothering to use the stairs, her velvet dress shimmering under the light as she swung her linen napkin over her head like a lasso. And despite himself, The Doctor couldn't help but crack a smile, not because of the girls on stage, but because of the one sitting next to him. She did look relaxed, her features a mix of bewilderment and rapture. The young man couldn't help but adopt a similar expression. She was just that contagious when it came to him.

They bore witness to several more honorable performances, the two travelers singing along to the songs they knew, nodding their heads in support of the ones they didn't. It wasn't until an elderly couple began cooing 'Somethin' Stupid' by the Sinatras that the place began to subside from the hype, Clara's feet propped up on The Doctor's lap as she leaned back in her chair, mouthing the words silently.

He wanted to reach out for her in that moment, grab her hand and squeeze it before pulling her close to his chest so that they could dance, swaying in tune to the gentle, lapping waves of the music. What was stopping him? Fear, perhaps. Pure, unadulterated terror. Something he seldom faced when it came to taking chances. He didn't know what to make of it.

Gently lifting her sparkly feet and setting them back on the ground, he excused himself to go locate the toilet, resisting the urge to smack himself with each passing step. Idiot, idiot, he kept telling himself as he scrubbed his hands for the sake of having something to do, forcing himself to face his reflection in the foggy mirror. He saw a young man shriveling in his tweed coat, staring back at him.

"You are a coward," he murmured to himself, the words dying on his lips as a man with a red goatee pushed into the restroom with an unlit cigarette dangling between his lips. The Doctor mumbled out an apology before crossing the threshold again, not wanting to leave Clara by herself for too long as he desperately tried to derive another way to make her smile without making his intentions so overt.

He actually found it not a moment later, in the form of cue sticks and worsted green wool. Returning to the table with a wide smile on his face, The Doctor shared with the young writer his most recent discovery.

"Clara," he prompted excitedly, not even bothering to sit down as he jabbed a finger towards the back room. "They've got billiards here!"

His companion craned her neck to meet his gaze, wringing her hands atop the table as she stared at him with a blank expression. "Do they not have billiards back in London?"

"No silly, of course they do," he replied, blinking back in confusion. "Now come on! You can play me in pool," he urged, the smile on his face faltering as he saw that she wasn't budging. His shoulders slumped slightly.

"I haven't played in years," she admitted. "Stars, I don't even think I remember how to play."

"Even better! I can re-teach you."

Her gaze drifted towards the stage longingly. He rolled his eyes.

"Clara, watching drunk people make fools of themselves isn't having fun, it's being cruel," he accused, frowning as he beheld a thirty year-old man weep the lyrics of 'Time After Time.' "At least...get drunk with them. Spare them the judgement of the sensible person in the room."

She pursed her lips into the corner of her mouth, watching silently as the performer on stage gripped the microphone in an ardent desperation.

"Okay, I'll play you in pool," she muttered begrudgingly, standing from the table and following him towards the back room. It was a cozy space tucked behind a velvet-lined curtain, two sets of pool tables lined-up side by side. The Doctor beamed at the vacant of the two and immediately began teaching Clara the basics, from the history of the game to choosing the right cue stick based on one's size, in which he selected for her the shortest one. She appreciated the bit, although she swiped the thing from him more forcefully than intended.

She caught onto the rules fairly quickly and watched as The Doctor took the first shot, accepting his help for her first few turns before insisting she could do it herself. Her gaze had zeroed-in on the exact pocket she wanted the ball to go in when a party of four drew themselves to the adjacent table. A young man with tawny brown hair and rolled-up sleeves gestured to the abandoned pool game with his drink.

"Is this table taken?" he asked the two. The Doctor straightened from inspecting his own game, an idea bursting into his head at the last second.

"Nah man, it's all yours," he said casually, his voice lowering as he adopted an American accent. Clara was thrown as she made her shot, cursing under her breath as the ball flew past its intended target and smacked into the railing. No one seemed to notice her spasm, or the deception behind The Doctor's self-satisfied smirk, for that matter.

"Mind me saying, but I recognize that accent. Are you from New York?" the young man asked, setting his glass on the lip of the table as his friends began preparing their table. Clara drove her cue stick into the floor and eyed her friend in suspicion, The Doctor's face breaking out into the biggest smile she'd ever seen.

"Where else?" he proclaimed, gesturing towards Clara affectionately. "Me and the missus are actually on a road trip to San Fran, trying to catch the Giants game on Wednesday."

She didn't know what shocked her more—The Doctor continuing to refer to themselves as a married couple, or the fact that he actually knew when American baseball season was. Nevertheless, she couldn't shake the discomfort of this character he had devised on-the-spot, with his lack of flailing and naturally fluid stance. It was so unlike his actual self that she began to question what she really knew about him.

"So you guys are Yankees fans, I take it," the stranger surmised.

"We prefer the Mets," The Doctor admitted, no doubt having learned his two cents from Amy. Clara was at his side in an instant, her arm sliding into the crook of his in a rigid grip.

"Uh...Doctor?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I talk to you for a second?" she asked, a plastered smile on her face. She pulled him away from the conversation before he could respond, her mind burning with questions as she drove them towards the nearest corner and began whispering to him. It came across as more of a hiss than anything.

"What's with the accent?" she blurted, infuriated by the cue stick still in her left hand. She leaned it against the wall and set her hands on her hips. The Doctor's hands had retreated into his pockets, a sheepish grin on his face as if she'd just asked if he'd done something wrong. He shrugged.

"Thought I'd try it out, you know, be one with the locals," he whispered back excitedly, his natural accent returning to him as if letting her in on some sort of covert secret. "What do you think?"

Clara blinked. If she were honest, she'd have said it was good. Really good, even. "I dunno, it sounds like your voice plunged off the face of the earth, and it frightens me."

"Oh. Sorry," he said, furrowing his brow. A second passed before he asked, "But didn't you think it was at least a tiny bit cool?"

Her smile was askew as she folded her arms across her chest. "What, pretending to be someone else?"

"Pretending to be a New Yorker! Pretending that I actually know how baseball works! I was really convincing back there Clara, didn't you see?"

-----

Read the full fic here!

FanFiction: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12799845/1/One-For-The-Road

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14986580/chapters/34731947

#onefortheroad #doctorwho #whouffle #clara oswald #eleventh doctor #dw #fanfiction #jenna coleman #matt smith #whouffle fanfiction #archive of our own

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lucvanfourthyear · 3 years

Text

In urban settings along coastlines around the world, rising seas threaten infrastructure necessary for local jobs and regional industries. Roads, bridges, subways, water supplies, oil and gas wells, power plants, sewage treatment plants, landfills— the list is practically endless — All we are as New Zealanders at risk from sea level rise. This is Wellington with an 80 meter water rise.

** Crazy opening pic of Wellington

Estimates of sea-level rise are extremely complex, but ongoing research and increased understanding is leading many researchers to believe that widely publicized estimates (such as those from IPCC reports*) are far too conservative.

** IPCC flooding pic IPCC - [Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change]

Historical evidence suggests that ice sheets may respond to climate changes very rapidly, and recent data show increased rates of melting and growing instability.

** CLIMATE CHANGE

Predicting climate change is phenomenally difficult; we are now well outside the sphere of collective of human experience and expertise. Sea-level rise is happening now, and its rate will likely take us by surprise.

** ST MARKS FLOODED

As the tide draws in, I start to wonder how long it will take until we have no choice but to build over or around the ocean to adapt to the steady rise. I have found that in my past works I have connected with the ‘More than human city’ arena of practice in some of my prior works.

** A Bengalese kiosk in Venice, Italy, with the waters sitting at 156 centimeters. Photo: Nicola Zolin

I plan to delve into potential sites that are suspected to be overwhelmed with the sea levels rising within the Wellington region over the next 100 years, rather than identifying the limitations of this, I wonder how we will adapt to survive the inevitable.

** MYANMAR

Many cities such as Venice, Italy, and Amsterdam, Holland, which are heavily reliant on the water systems and canals within their city, are already redefining new buildings to accommodate

the inevitability of water levels rising due to extreme circumstances. Whereas many Asiatic countries have been preparing for extremes for hundreds of years.

One of the findings in research, published in April last year in leading scientific journal ‘Natural Hazards and Earth Science Systems’, in the article “Spatial and temporal analysis of extreme storm-tide and skew-surge events around the coastline of New Zealand” in which NIWA researchers describe how small increases in sea level rise are likely to drive huge increases in the frequency of coastal flooding in the next 20–30 years.

Kraanspoor by OTH Architecten, Amsterdam, Netherlands

Dr Stephens says; “Small sea-level rise increments of 20cm predicted to happen around the New Zealand coast in the next 20 years will drive big increases in the number of times coastal areas are likely to flood. 100 Years from now, there is a one meter rise in sea water if we continue with the same carbon emissions. If we increase these emissions this process is accelerated.

** Climate change implications for New Zealand - April 2016 Te Aparangi

“Dr Stephens also says it points to the fact that sea-level rise will not necessarily manifest itself as large catastrophic events but will bring more “nuisance” flooding more often,”.

If this continues at this rate however, flash-flooding will destroy the land, then eventually become reclaimed by the ocean.

Subsequently, by 2090 this will likely result in the following;

Higher temperatures may force people to stay indoors, with greater demands for air conditioning, ergo using more electricity during summer.

** TEMPERATURE CARBON EMMISIONS

Denser populations within confined spaces due to water reclaiming the land, further pressuring room for civilians. Despite the exponential growth in population, and decrease in space. Population map **Increase in temperatures, rising sea levels, more extreme weather events and an increase in winter rainfall.

More frequent intense winter rainfalls are expected to increase the likelihood of rivers/estuaries nuisance/flash flooding.

Sea levels rising to reclaim the land will put pressure on the space we are able to occupy, cultivate, and power. Resource depletion would eventually stand as a barrier to travel and live within coastal cities such as Wellington, unless we adapt and overcome the inevitably of environmental consequence.

Upon reading ‘Joel Sanders’ Human Nature Landscape/Architecture Divide. I found that there are references to the disregard in forward progression in adapting to the way that the ‘wilderness/nature’ interacts with space. Which is summarized later on in the text as a blatant disregard for the environmental changes occurring around us due to architectural hubris.

The global environmental crisis underscores the imperative for design professionals— architects and landscape architects—to join forces to create integrated designs that address ecological issues.

However, Architecture and landscape architecture have been professionally segregated since at least the late nineteenth century.

The historian William Cronon writes, “If we allow ourselves to believe that nature, to be true, must also be wild, then our very presence in nature represents its fall. The place where we are is the place where nature is not” (Cronon 1996: 80–1)

By positing that the human is entirely outside the natural, wilderness presents a fundamental paradox. As the consequences of our environmental disregard catch up to us, it is important for us to think about how nature will influence our architecture in the near future.

Through Frederick Law Olmsted’s work he betrays the paradoxes at the heart of wilderness thinking. Olmsted fully embraced making nature accessible to urban citizens. Only thirty years later, however, a new generation of landscape architects had lost its way, its efforts stymied by the supposed incompatibility of nature and design.

This intrigues me however, as these works were designed for harmonious purposes rather than necessity. It poses the hypothetical that had we as westerners harnessed the relationship between nature and interior earlier, rather than focusing on the segregation of the two, perhaps we would be in a different circumstance now. Sanders states

“sustainable design unwittingly reinforces one root of the problem: the dualistic paradigm of the building as a discrete object spatially, socially, and ecologically divorced from its site. As a consequence, this American ideal—itself derived from wilderness thinking—inhibits designers and manufacturers from treating buildings and landscapes holistically as reciprocal systems that together impact the environment.”

McHarg, writing 1969, said Olmsted’s worst predictions had been realized—rapacious capitalism aided by remarkable technological advances had tipped the precarious balance between nature and civilization, resulting in environmental casualties in America’s polluted, slum-ridden cities. McHarg compared city dwellers to “patients in mental hospitals” consigned to live in “God’s Junkyard” (McHarg 1969: 20, 23)

In summation, Sanders remarks: “Relinquishing wilderness values will allow designers to adopt the more complicated viewpoint advanced by progressive scholars and scientists: a recognition that nature and civilization, although not the same, have always been intertwined and are becoming more so. Climate change reveals that there is not a square inch of the planet that does not in some way bear the imprint of humans.”

Through this project I hope to visualize the preparations for environmental extremes in regards to long term environmental changes.

https://niwa.co.nz/news/small-sea-level-rises-to-drive-more-intense-flooding-say-scientists

Stilt Houses in Inle Lake, Myanmar / Photo: https://thevaiven.wordpress.com/2011/05/

“Curtain Wars: Architecture, Decorating and the Twentieth-Century Interior” (Sanders 2002),

Carolyn Merchant, The Death of Nature: Women, Ecology and the Scientific Revolution (1980),

Kraanspoor by OTH Architecten, Amsterdam, Netherlands

A Bengalese kiosk in Venice, Italy, with the waters sitting at 156 centimeters. Photo: Nicola Zolin

Climate change implications for New Zealand - April 2016 Te Apa*rangi

- New Zealand Sea-Level Rise Maps by Jonathan Musther are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

Pedersen Glacier Retreat Lake Expansion, Alaska Posted by Mauri Pelto

Marine Biologist Dr. Jonathan Mustler Sea-level rise projections 2019

- Stephens, D. S. (2020, April 17). Small sea-level rises to drive more intense flooding, say scientists. Retrieved March 15, 2021, from https://niwa.co.nz/news/small-sea-level-rises-to-drive-more-intense-flooding-say-scientists

https://teara.govt.nz/en/diagram/7556/new-zealand-temperature-projections-to-the-2090

- TAYLOR, A. (2019, November 13). Venice Underwater: The Highest Tide in 50 Years. Retrieved from https://www.theatlantic.com/photo/2019/11/photos-of-venice-underwater-highest-tide-in-50-years/601930/

#PRESENTATION

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bubblesthemonsterartist · 7 years

Text

Pas de Deux, Chapter 7

Chorus practice lets out early that morning.

The hallway is abuzz, the anxious voices of her fellow dancers reaching new heights, bodies thrumming with excitement as they push slowly through the narrow hallway. The air is hot and stifling, begging for someone to open a window if only to release some of this gathered anticipation that grates on her already frayed nerves.

It’s as if the entire company is here.

It probably is.

“Could you sleep last night?” Yuzuri asks close to her ear.

Shirayuki shakes her head. “No.”

“When do you think they’ll post it?” she presses, obviously more capable of handling a sleepless night than she.

“Kiki said that she heard it will be up sometime before lunch.”

Yuzuri huffs. “If they know, I wish they would hurry up and just—”

A shriek slices through the chatter and Shirayuki’s head snaps towards it. She doesn’t have a chance to guess at its cause because the crowd of dancers is moving, pulling her from Yuzuri and pushing her forward and-

And there it is. A clean white piece of paper tacked up on Izana’s office door as it swings shut. Only about half of the company stands between her and their decision.

Shirayuki stands on her tip toes, squinting, and someone shifts into her vision, blocking her. Her lips thin, annoyed (why do tall people always stand in front of her?), and she tries to maneuver herself into a better place. The crowd is getting louder, cheers and cries becoming more pronounced and her heart beats stomps a rhythm in her chest. She needs to see it, she needs to know—

A hand bands around her bicep and Kiki is at her side, elbowing a path through the crowd, dragging her forward until they’re there; until the small clean print of a precise hand comes into view and she can clearly see it.

And then she can’t.

She closes her eyes, tries to feel her body, and then opens them once more. Her vision swims and she tries to pull air into her lungs even though she’s not sure she needs to breathe anymore.

Her bones dissolve into nothing and she turns, looking around numbly, stopping and looking back up at the paper once more before turning against the press of the tide, the waves of dancers jockeying for their own view. Her eyes catch with Zens and he smiles, waving at her, but her eyes slide past him, looking more, trying to find a break in this sea of fair hair and fairer complexions.

When her eyes catch him, it’s just the top that is visible over the waves of spun gold, but her body reacts on its own, pulling itself towards him as if by a gossamer thread. The crowd doesn’t move for her but somehow she moves through it, shouldering her way through until she breaks out and there is more empty space between them than not.

A little flock of children are circling his knees – his Level 1 class must have just let out – and he is smiling, speaking to one of their mothers, and something in her chest breaks out, breaks free, moves forward to chase him down.

“Obi.” It comes out choked, barely there. Even she can’t hear it. She moves closer. “Obi.” Hardly no better than the first. “Obi!”

He hears her, she sees it in the way his patient smile falters, in the way his lashes flutter against his cheeks, and then he turns, stilted, the question in his eyes far more than anything he could ever say.

Her lips tremble. Her face feels wet.

But this time, she reaches out to him.

~ ~ ~

The bar is loud, the roar of voices out of place in the mid-morning light seeping through the narrow windows. Some sort of happy tune blares out of the jukebox and displace the aging gentlemen who appear as permanent to the space as the fixtures on the wall, driving them towards the darkened corners of the pub, their forms bent over their newspapers and brandy.

A cheer goes up, a call for another round.

Shirayuki laughs, watching Obi and Suzu down their pints in one go, money sitting on the bar between them. Obi slams his glass down just a second before Suzu and Suzu yells something indistinguishable, grabbing Obi in the crook of his arm and ruffling his hair with his knuckles.

Obi pries the other man off, his grin spread wide and he laughs, a loud sound that comes straight from his chest. Shirayuki’s grin falters, watching him like that, and turns her gaze down to her own drink, cheeks on fire and brain still dumb with the knowledge.

They did it.

Even now it doesn’t seem real.

Nikiya. Her hands wrap tight around her drink, pulling it close to her chest as if she could hold the moment she saw that name scrawled next to hers close to her heart forever.

Grandma, grandpa... are you watching?

Something lands heavily in the stool next to her and she jumps, startled, as the fairest head of hair in the company buries itself on folded arms with a groan.

Oh. Oh my. She didn’t even think to look. If he didn’t make Solar, what could he have possibly been cast—

“The Brahman!” Zen cries, his voice a muffled wail. “Izana made me the Brahman!”

Shirayuki grimaces, catching the bartenders gaze and making a quick motion with her hand, pointing at the lump next to her. He replies with a wink.

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” she soothes, trying to school her face towards consolatory. “It’s good to have some diversity in your portfolio.”

Zen slowly lifts his head and gives her a flat look. “You sound like him.”

Her grin feels more awkward.

“That guy is such a creep!” Zen moans, planting his face back in his arms.

Shirayuki stifles a laugh. That much is true.

A pint of beer lands on the bar and Zen looks up, blinking. He’s face adorably confused, pulled down in a perfect pout, before morphing into sheepish grin and holding his glass up towards her in apology. “I hope the creepiness doesn’t color your opinion of me.”

“Zen,” she grins, clinking her cup to his. “Nothing could color my opinion of you.”

He smiles and they both drink. Shirayuki does her best not to wince at the flavor.

When she looks back at Zen, his expression has melted into a lopsided smile. “I’m glad you met your goal. I’m just,” he sighs, running a frustrated hand through his messy hair, “disappointed with myself.”

She smiles. Across the room, there’s a crash, followed by a roar of laughter.

Zen and Shirayuki stand, peering through the crowd as Kai and Shiira are peeled off the floor, wobbling unsteadily on their feet.

“What happened?” Zen demands.

Down the bar, Kiki turns towards him, her grin as wide as Shirayuki has ever seen. “They were trying to show off,” she calls. “Apparently, it is hard to do that Russian dance scene after a few drinks.”

Obi guffaws, leaning back. “You two obviously haven’t gone deep enough in your role,” he teases. “You can’t understand the Trepak until you can do it only when you’re drunk.”

The laughter is righteous. Kai catches himself against the table, his grin broad. “Then why don’t you show us how it is done, oh great one?” he challenges.

Obi hides his mouth behind his drink as cheers go up, goading him on, and shakes his head. “I haven’t had enough to drink yet!” he protests.

Shirayuki makes a disappointed sound. “That’s a shame,” she says, loud enough to carry. Obi turns towards her, his grin faltering at the edges. “I would really like to see.”

The bar goes quiet as Obi stares at her, blinking once, then twice. He’s so still that she’s not sure he’s even breathing, frozen as he is in time, and she shifts a little in her seat, heat creeping back into her cheeks. Then, stillness becomes motion, and he tilts the rest of his drink back, emptying his glass in one go. He gestures to Kai and Shiira. “Move that table back.”

~ ~ ~

There’s an art to dances like these that she never quiet conquered. The energy is electric, but it comes from the audience just as much as the performer; they feed off of one another, the clap of dozens of hands setting the pace and the performer both acting as the puppet and the marionette. Without them, he is but lifeless wood; but without him, they wouldn’t exist.

Obi is a master of striking that balance.

Eyes draw towards him, expectant and excited and he teases, his weight balanced on his heels, his arms spread in wide, and then he pulls them deeper, turning in tight fast circles, spinning backwards, ignorant to gravity and balanced precariously on just the edge of his boots.

When he leaps high, hands slapping his feet, the company cheers, the noise only becoming louder when he lands in a deep squat, legs shooting out lightning quick and Shirayuki knows at some level that Yuzuri has found her and is at her side, jostling her with a sly grin, but her eyes are fastened to the control of his core, the bulge of his thighs as he balances on nothing, the glean of sweat speckling his hairline and sheening the line of his throat.

Her mouth feels dry.

She takes another drink.

~ ~ ~

It’s over far too soon and Shirayuki is pulled out of her daze by a gentle tap on her shoulder. She turns from the cheering, the playful manhandling of the company’s new primo as the crowd descends on him, and looks up and up and up until she meets Mitsuhide’s patient gaze.

“Izana would like you and Obi to stop by when the studio closes for the day,” he says.

Her heart jumps in her throat and she feels giddy all over again. “Mm,” she nods. “I’ll tell Obi.”

Mitsuhide laughs. “Tell him to slow down the drinking, too,” he winks. “I don’t think Izana wants to just talk tonight.”

Shirayuki smiles bashfully. “I’ll do my best,” she replies.

He nods, glancing over her shoulder towards the crowd. His face flickers towards seriousness briefly before looking back down at her, tension creasing the corner of his eyes. “Well,” he says. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

She nods, confused as he leaves and slides off her stool to find Obi in the crowd. Maybe- her heart thumps- maybe they could have lunch together.. and talk. About this. About everything leading up to this. About everything that could come from this.

The mass of people is easy to navigate through here. She finds small holes large enough for her to fit through and comes out on the other side where she saw Obi last.

When she finds him, something makes her step skitter to a halt.

A woman, with hair down past her hips is smiling up at him with a cocked grin, and Obi’s face.. it is-

She doesn’t know what it is.

“Obi.”

He perks at the sound of her voice, turning towards her and she tucks her arms behind her back when the woman’s eyes settle on her as well.

“I, um-” she swallows. “Izana wants us at the studio tonight.”

His eyes are soft. “I wouldn’t miss it, Mademoiselle.”

Her shoulders raise to touching her jawline, and she smiles shyly. She takes a step closer, the invitation to lunch just on the tip of her tongue, but then the woman at his side moves a touch closer to him and she doesn’t understand it, but- but her heart drops like lead into her stomach.

Her feet turn to lead, too.

“I will see you then,” she replies with a professional bob of the head.

Obi blinks, eyebrows touching, but then he glances at the woman at his side out of the corner of his eye and his expression is... complex.

“Ah,” he sighs. “Okay then.”

#bubbleswrites #obiyuki #pas de deux #ballet au

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omegasquire · 7 years

Text

Rose Gold: Ch 10

Vincent was balanced precariously on a ledge, watching the three men make their way through the forest. Death trailed after them, the corpses of monsters littering the ground like discarded toys. The men reminded him of undisciplined children rather than adults. They were a lost lot, devoid of any guidance on what was right or wrong. Still, he had no idea what their intention was beyond this mayhem.

Was there a need to have an intention that exceeded pure destruction for those who didn’t know any better?

His eyes narrowed slightly as the largest of the three carelessly tossed a monster aside. These three had no care for their surroundings. Taking in the ruined landscape, it was clear they didn’t bother to exercise restraint. They had yet to draw near the villages, but Vincent knew they would slaughter the people there.

That heartless way of fighting reminded him of the fight three years ago. Strife didn’t express any care for the lives of others. He eliminated all who stood in his path.

Pausing in thought, Vincent studied the men’s appearances. He had noted their pale blond hair and green eyes, but hadn’t made the immediate connection. Though they looked different from each other, these two common features were reminiscent of Jenova’s son.

Vincent was set on edge. He couldn’t allow the three men to make it to any of the villages.

He couldn’t jump straight into battle, however. He would be fighting against three simultaneously, without proper evaluation on what they were truly capable of.

Mentally cursing, he kept himself hidden. Sephiroth and the others would need to know of this.

Rufus lifted his head at the knock on his office’s doors. He’d invited Sephiroth and his merry band to his office to properly greet them. Likewise, he was rather curious to see Cloud in person. A simple feed from Reeve’s pet didn’t match up to the real thing.

Rufus set down his pen as the doors were opened. His gaze passed over his guests, passively noting he had a small audience of two: Sephiroth and Cloud. Apparently the others didn’t want to meet him.

Fine by him.

Looking at Cloud was like seeing a haunting ghost, reminding of old evils. The image of a younger man sporting the blood of his victims superimposed itself on the man standing across on the other side of his desk.

“His name is Cloud Strife. I’m nominating him for First Class.”

Those were the words Sephiroth said years ago. They had come as a surprise when he first heard it. Sephiroth’s opinion always garnered attention, especially since he rarely gave it. As their most prized fighter in the global ring, to nominate a fellow SOLDIER was worth some consideration. Who could say no to the possibility of gaining another valuable asset?

However, it had slipped Rufus’ mind with the incident of Nibelheim, as well as AVALANCHE’s increased activity. The rebel group had been under a different leader then, some girl who was easy to manipulate with the assistance of her overly trusted subordinates. Truly, it was a game, and Rufus couldn’t be bothered with remembering every little thing as he worked to secure the loyalty of the other cabinet members of his father's company, as well as its faithful watchdogs, the Turks.

The turnabout was fruitful, and even now, he held in his palm a considerable amount of power that his father couldn’t have hoped to retain even if he had survived.

What a pathetic way to go. Like a pig on a stick.

Rufus had been ambivalent when he learned of the previous President’s death. He supposed he should’ve grieved more, but his father was an obstacle to his succession, and the path had finally been freed on account of the would-be First Class SOLDIER cutting him down.

The satisfaction and glee must have been high when Strife committed the deed. Rufus didn’t know, and he hadn’t cared enough to ask, but the question teased the far corner of his mind now that he was facing this copy.

No, not a copy.

He saw the difference in age, the worn garb of an old warrior, the lingering flame of conviction -- all signs of a veteran that Strife never showed. Strife still had the air of a boy. If he had to say, Rufus would liken Cloud to Sephiroth.

It was intriguing to see the two of them standing by each other, each armed. He didn't think Sephiroth would let Cloud be in possession of a weapon, but he didn't know every little thought the General had running through his head. So long as Cloud didn’t raise hell on his company or try to kill him, he wasn’t going to dwell on it.

Entertaining a smile, he shifted his attention on Sephiroth. “I read the report on Junon. It’s fortunate the harbor survived the attack. Reeve has warned me there might be a reoccurrence here, so I’ve dispersed a defense as a precaution.”

“Good. A set of fighters should remain here as well.”

“Because of internal or external threats?” He glanced at Cloud.

“External,” Cloud was quick to respond, his voice clipped.

The verbal bite earned a slight lift of Rufus’ brow. The lack of reverence was unexpected. Apparently his counterpart wasn’t a fond acquaintance of Cloud. It was a pity, but Rufus supposed he couldn’t have everything handed to him.

“Jenova the Calamity. Over two thousand years of being a thorn in our side, and still she won’t go away.”

“You and your company brought her out when you should’ve left her sealed.”

Rufus shrugged and turned his chair, looking at the scenery beyond them. His office overlooked a great portion of Midgar. Pieces of the city had been demolished while the rest stood on fragile stilts. The reconstruction was a long, arduous project. They had to cordon off sections that radiated unfiltered mako. Those unable to withstand the high concentration easily grew ill, some even mutating as their cells rejected the substance. It was difficult to get anything done when the workers kept being hospitalized.

“Perhaps. We were unknowledgeable that the salvation we sought wasn’t in her blood. However, our research helped the people live fruitful lives. It just happened to be at a regrettably high price.”

“You almost destroyed the world.”

He turned back around. “Wouldn't that be you? The other you.”

Cloud’s eyes narrowed.

Rufus pushed out of his chair, fingers curling over the crown of his cane as he came around the other side of his desk. The sound of the cane clicking against tiled floor accented his approach until he stood before Cloud. It amused him how different this man was from the young Second Class SOLDIER he was familiar with.

He preferred Cloud instead of Strife.

He smiled. “You’ll be fighting for us just as, I’ve heard, you did in your reality. I hope you’ll indulge me with a story of your victories.”

“It's late,” Sephiroth interjected.

Rufus’s eyes slid to him. “Ah, yes, you’re right. Maybe another time, then.” He returned his attention back to Cloud. “Rooms have been made available if you’d like to use them. You’ll have to excuse me if I limit your access; there are parts of the building that are still unsafe.”

He watched as they left, finally acknowledging Tseng who had been lingering in the background. The Turks leader approached, stopping before him. Rufus nodded at the doors of his office. “As I said, interesting.”

Tseng followed his line of sight. “Should I set guards?”

“No. We’ll leave Sephiroth to take care of that.” He gave Tseng an expectant look. “Well?”

“There hasn’t been any further attack on Junon since the General left, and nothing has happened here since their arrival, but it's too early to say we're safe.”

“And the rest?” The Turks’ network was spread across the continent.

Tseng shook his head. “Nothing. The other cities haven’t been attacked either.”

Rufus made a soft, thoughtful sound. “Let’s hope nothing happens through the night. Rest, Tseng. I’ll need you later.”

“Yes, sir.”

Being with Rufus never settled well with Cloud. The last time he spoke with him was in his own world, and even though they fought on the same side, Rufus still demonstrated he had his own objectives that deviated from saving the planet. They both had wanted to defeat Kadaj, but Cloud wouldn’t go so far as to call him an ally.

He was too selfish.

Turning away from Rufus’ office, Cloud found himself caught by Sephiroth's stare. It was arresting how Sephiroth always looked at him, even if he was regarded with contempt and suspicion. Sephiroth had always commanded attention back in Cloud’s world. All those of lower rank than him raised him on a pedestal, even strangers who knew him only by name.

Cloud called to mind his own emotions when he’d first heard of the man. He was just a child, brash and inspired by someone who was powerful and respected. Sephiroth was every boy’s idol, his every dream. Cloud wanted to be like him. He wanted to be that hero. The end of the war took that chance away, but he still aspired to become someone worth recognition.

In a way, Sephiroth was part of his ‘everything,’ and when he burned down his home, Cloud’s respect and adoration for the man died.

Cloud questioned why his counterpart had taken Sephiroth’s role in this world. Who exactly was he? Why did he defect? And what of Sephiroth and his involvement? Did he join AVALANCHE as Cloud had? Was he their leader?

There was too much to think about and not enough sleep to go on. Zack had said it was over a day that he’d been in this world, and now it was creeping up on two.

When was the last time he rested?

He was too exhausted to count the number of days that had passed since the day he knew what a proper night’s sleep and respite was like. Pulling his gaze away, Cloud headed for Zack who was waiting for him. Before he and Sephiroth had gone into Rufus’ office, Zack had jumped at the chance to room together for the night.

No one got a word in otherwise, and Sephiroth didn’t voice any objection. With the decision made, the rest of the group scattered.

Cloud was grateful for Zack’s offer. This building held many memories for him: his teenage years as an infantryman, meeting Zack and Sephiroth, infiltrating with AVALANCHE to save Aerith, meeting Red, seeing Jenova’s disfigured body in the Science Research Department’s main laboratory, and being haunted by Sephiroth’s ghost...

There was a mix of good and bad memories, but the bad ones heavily outweighed the good.

It calmed Cloud’s nerves a little to be near Zack. He didn’t want to be alone in this place. He didn’t want to spend time isolated in a tiny room by himself anymore.

Zack raised a hand and gestured for Cloud to join him. “We don’t really use them anymore, but Sephiroth and I still have living quarters here. Ever since we started traveling, we grew accustomed to sleeping at inns or in the Highwind. Coming back to Shinra was always a bit awkward, especially for the others. They always refuse Rufus’ invitation.”

Cloud knew the feeling. “I would, too.”

“Yeah, I don’t blame them. Shinra’s done a lot to warrant their hate, so they go to the Sectors or Edge instead.”

Cloud’s mouth twitched into a small frown. The mention of Edge brought Tifa, Marlene, and Denzel to mind. Thinking of them, of leaving them behind, jabbed at his heart.

Could he go back to them? Were they safe?

“Tifa...” he started out uncertainly, “is she part of your group?”

Zack nodded. “Yeah. She mostly stays at Edge these days, but she was with us when we fought Strife.”

“What is she doing now?”

Zack tilted his head to look at him out of the corner of his eye. “She runs 7th Heaven and takes care of Marlene.”

Just Marlene?

The image of Denzel’s pale face was still crystal clear in Cloud’s mind. The boy had been introverted. It had taken a while for him to open up, still shaken by losing his family. Cloud saw a bit of himself in the boy, and the curse of the Geostigma wrecking his body drove Cloud to search for a cure.

He still didn’t know what had become of his world, of his comrades and family. They weren’t related by blood or marriage, but he, Tifa, and Denzel had a strong bond. Marlene had a strong impact on their family as well, her presence greatly influencing Denzel’s decision to open his heart to them.

“Is there a boy named Denzel with them?”

Zack shook his head.

Denzel wasn’t with Tifa. That could mean anything. Maybe Denzel’s family had survived and he was with them; maybe they had died and Denzel was still wandering the ruins of Midgar on his own; maybe he didn’t exist in the first place; or maybe he was dead...

Cloud’s heart sank.

“Is he important? Denzel, I mean.” Zack looked at him curiously.

Cloud responded by shifting his gaze away. “He was a boy we took in. He lost his family when Midgar was destroyed. I found him by Aerith’s church.”

“We?”

“...Tifa and me. She insisted we look after him, and gave him a room with Marlene above the bar.” Across from their room was his room, and next to it was Tifa’s. That was their home.

Until he left.

“Tifa takes care of Marlene when Barret’s away. They live above 7th Heaven.” Zack raked a hand through his hair and groaned. “About Tifa... You probably saw this coming, but she won’t like you.”

“I did...” The likelihood Tifa would accept him from the get-go was nil. She would be one more person who would turn their back on him. Barret and Vincent, wherever they were, would likely be the same.

Zack placed a hand on his shoulder and gave a light squeeze. “We’ll work on it. Everyone will come around, you’ll see.” He smiled warmly. “But that’s for later. I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted. How about we call it a night?”

Cloud nodded. He let Zack wave him into his quarters. It was a rare privilege to enter a First’s living space. Seconds and Thirds didn’t have the same luxuries as Firsts, and those who weren’t in SOLDIER were stuck in barracks. Cloud had slept in a bunker bed along with other boys and young men who had traveled to Midgar to become part of Shinra’s army.

Thinking back on it, Cloud had felt a little awkward when he was given his own room and bed. Camping out and the occasional inn had become the norm over the years; the idea of having a place to call his own had boggled his mind.

He didn’t even stay there that long.

He ended up at the church with a sleeping bag and basic camping supplies. It was lonely sometimes without the sounds of Marlene and Denzel wandering up and down the steps, or the chatter drifting up from the bar below.

But he didn’t return.

Maybe he couldn’t return at all...

Cloud wordlessly took in Zack’s home. Even though Zack said he didn’t use it much, there were still homey touches that made it more than just a place to sleep at night. Picture frames stood on a shelf; oil and rag for sword cleaning was on the table; even a bundle of flowers was hanging upside down on the far wall. Cloud recognized them as the kind Aerith grew.

Following Zack to the spare bedroom, Cloud stood just outside it. That awkwardness came back as he stared at the bed. This was someone’s home. Not an inn, not camping out in the church or wilderness, a home .

“Cloud, is that you?”

“Cloud’s back? Cloud!”

A hand clapped his shoulder. “All yours! Just call if you need anything. Goodnight, Cloud!”

Cloud hid a flinch. “Goodnight...”

He waited until Zack left before finally entering the room and closing the door behind him. He unstrapped his sword and leaned it against the wall by the bed. Unbuckling the straps of his gear came next, his hands going through the motions automatically.

For the most part he remained clothed, too uncomfortable with stripping down completely despite being in Zack’s company. Sitting on the bed’s edge, it hardly felt like anyone had slept on it, the mattress not yet softened by constant use. Still, compared to the hard floorboards of the church, the bed was too luxurious.

Inwardly sighing at himself, Cloud slipped out of his boots and set them aside. He tugged at his gloves, suddenly reminded of the gash across the left palm. Carefully removing the glove, he stared at his hand, turning it over. He still didn’t understand the ring’s significance, but he had to admit its simple elegance was appealing.

Placing his gloves on the nightstand, Cloud stretched out on the sheets. The heaviness of fatigue was already dragging him to sleep, and his eyes slowly closed. The light pressure on his fourth finger lingered in the corner of his mind.

Didn’t the fourth finger signify marriage...?

#{ rose gold }

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