Spiraling

10

Ekman Spirals

Zayn’s hand rises to cup the back of Harry’s head and he’s leaning in. His heart’s pounding and he knows this is a bad idea, knows how many reasons this is stupid, but he can’t stop himself. He presses his lips to Harry’s, gently, barely grazing against them. And Harry doesn’t move at first, just stands there, steadily holding Zayn while the tide surges around their chests.

Zayn waits, just for a beat, before pulling back. Shame flares through his belly. Shit. Why does he keep doing this? This is twice, he’s kissed Harry. Harry, who’s a guest, who’s with someone. Harry who’s just sweet and flirty with everyone. Harry who just stayed back to be nice, to do Zayn a favour. Harry who he’s now got to apologise to and hope won’t make a complaint.

“Harry, I’m sorr-”

He suddenly feels Harry’s wet arms slinking around his neck, pulling him in, drawing their chests together. Harry’s lips are back against his before he can figure this out, and they’re cold and taste of seawater and are urgent and press hard and when Zayn opens his mouth to gasp in surprise, Harry doesn’t let up, just pressing in deeper and licking his tongue into Zayn’s mouth hungrily.

or

“The luxury yacht AU where Zayn’s the steward who sees everything, Harry’s the guest with mysterious bruises and a sad secret, there’s much lustful pining, and Louis probably going to land everyone in jail.“

Deadeye

[[reaction to the Witch Hunter Act 1 Finale! @curiouslich @stormandozone for outright mentions.]]

The confirmation is poison down her spine. Caustic spikes that have the dreamer draw her bow sharp, tear tendons into flame and arrowheads. This one cannot but agree; this one cares not one way or the other so long as this one strikes true and hard.

Dawnward Stormsummer is held within.

The Witch Hunter deemed her unworthy, over and over again. Not worth killing. This one cannot care, should not care. Dawnward Stormsummer is held within.

This one cannot care for more. The words of the Phoenix Guard are nothing; the roaring lights are less than that. This one is numb to warmth that does not surge from veins and bone; this one has no mind for wind that does not whip around her, granting her speed to strike. The voices that rise and fall hold no meaning.

The Witch Hunter does not remember her. He cannot remember her. She is not worth killing. She is not worth killing so she will prove him wrong.

Felfire curdles the air, howls of warlocks’ vengeance. The haze of holy blood is burning hypocrisy- this one hears Synthiel speak, lilting snarls- Synthiel knows this one nocks the bow steady. Unerring. Synthiel wants blood to clot on her talons and plate to char in her breath; this one simply wants the hunter dead.

This one is unworthy of death. This one is unworthy of finding Dawnward Stormsummer, of the killing blow. This one simply wants the hunter dead, so dead it shall be. She is stronger than children, than the wilds, than the sum total of her husk.

Synthiel takes one step. One breath. The arrow’s fletching kisses her lips, pulled as far back as her runes allow, glistening in fresh blood. One breath.

Runes crawl up her face. Spidering around her eyes. The world sharpens at the tip of her arrow, the Witch Hunter sweating in the plate armor that sheathes him. Wild gold-green eyes, ablaze in zealotry; the veiny cracks of his metal mask.

He reeks of blood or she does, tastes like rust, like chapped lips and white-hot bone. Her face is splintered, eyes blazing red.

When the shot is done she sees little. Feels less. Is less. The Hunter stands undaunted. Blood magic, sacrosanct life essence. She is not worth killing.

She is not worth earning his death. Her face stings, near her eyes. The corners, blistering, aching. This one must have burned them firing, somehow.

It is no matter. This one can shoot blind- will shoot blind- if one has to. Dawn clings like mist to her, threatening to eat away at her skin. Her eyes, charred and pained.

The last shot comes from gunfire. The first arms around the Dawnward are from the sea.

This one sheathes oneself, flame curled into bone, and hides ones eyes as the portal is riven open. This one does not need to see for one’s last duty.

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