cherub's cup

Fic: Nightmares and Daydreams

Title: Nightmares and Daydreams
Author: Me, a soul who wishes to remain anon
TW: Mentions of blood, death, drinking
Authors Note: Uma/Harry, duh. Inspiration struck and out came this little drabble. Enjoy!


“Our ‘almost’ will always haunt me.”


It’s a bungalow. Warm and brown. It’s surrounded in blue from above and below. You have to step into the cool abyss to get there. The water clinging to the tops of your boots threatens to spill into them, but that’s all part of it’s charm. It’s why you liked it, why you nicked it. You never felt more at home than in the sea.

It’s far off. In one of those places you have yet to explore but have talked about going to once freedom was an option, once the barrier broke.

It’s small and it’s perfect. You always stop there along the way to another destination, wherever the winds take your ship, and it breathes new life into you when you cross the threshold. Your bones are lighter these days - less compact, more hollow - and the remnants of them melt away once your head hits the pillow.

It’s yours. All of yours. Your crew is larger than most but they find ways to fit comfortably for the night. Nodding off in corners, curled into the bathtub, faces pressed against the arms of the couch or the smooth grain of the table. One or two fall on top of the bed by your feet, their bodies thick stripes across the blanket.

Everyone’s breathing falls into place, almost rhythmic, reminding you of the waves when they tease and taunt the shoreline. When you lie under the covers, there’s a head that slips into the crook of your neck like a puzzle piece and fingertips that dance along the hem of your shirt. The sensation is one of submersion. You’re floating; weightless under the sea of his calloused hands. Home.

But in others, there’s only darkness. There’s buildings and castles aflame. There’s a toppled statue and burnt browns where green once was. It’s hard to breathe from the smoke, you can hardly see, but your hearing is sharp. The footsteps, the unsheathing of a sword - you can sense it. When he makes a jab at your side, it’s unsettling. He’s timid. He’s unnerved by you, still.

You made it. You escaped that filthy ravenous box he put you in, the one he put you all in, by being born to the wrong people. You had to pay for the mistakes of your parents for eternity. It was his decree whether or not his intent held anything but malice. He is unaware of your strength, your determination, the true power you hold.

The Isle is aware of the light that fills the cracks of your flesh, but it wasn’t always. Your light was blinding and not all embraced that golden shine. It brought a knife to your back, after all. It erased your name. It threatened to seal you shut. But it also brought about a crew - souls that clung to your glow. They grew towards it, twining the vines of their swords with yours.

This King. Adam. He’s spent decades in his human form, but he is no man. He is the dirt, the scars, the bruises, the hunger; he is everything that mars all who are born on that forsaken Isle.

You are quicker than he. Stronger. Your anger has been boiling for years. And when you catch an opening, the blow is powerful. Red is all you see when you pull back your sword. There’s strangled groans coming from the space below you and you leave without a second glance. The plan was set in motion months ago and it has finally come to fruition. Auradon is no more.

You are covered in ash when you celebrate. There’s bodies everywhere - red, dripping smiles where there should be none - but they are simply side-stepped when you and the wharf rats find your way to the kitchen of the estate. The rum and whiskey are kept in bottles (a far cry from rusted barrels found in alleyways) locked away in a cabinet. There’s delicate grooves in the mahogany, carvings of tea cups and cherubs cascade across the top, and you take deep pleasure in breaking the lock open.

The liquid flows freely like your laughter. Some of your crew opt to pour it into crystal glasses, sipping with their pinkies up mockingly, boots propped up on the table. Others drink straight from the bottle. Gil can hold his liquor - Gaston’s blood runs through his veins - and as he gulps it down, the empty space of the bottle grows large. You snatch it from his hand and take a swig. It burns as it travels down your throat, but you can’t help but smirk.

The mixture of voices bounce against the high ceilings making it impossible to hear. Harry leans in beside you, a hand at your shoulder. “Uma, darling.” You can hear the smile teasing at his mouth. “Tell me again how you slain the beast.” The scent of whiskey lingers as he remains close, awaiting your response, and you find it’s no longer just your throat that burns. You don’t know if it’s the adrenaline in your veins or the way his lips cling to the opening of the bottle as he takes another sip, but you can’t look away from him.

Later, when the laughter and jeers of your crew are distant, you learn purple blossoms are far more appealing when they bloom on the empty canvas of his neck. You want to plant a field of them along his collarbone and he is more than eager to be your personal garden, tipping his head back like the sun, beaming at you when you connect with his skin.

You can see it if you close your eyes tight enough. If you block out everything else and listen to the waves.

The ship moans with the water’s pull, the sound sharp and shrill, and it’s mere force tugs at the old wooden planks. With each passing wave, the pressure mounts, and the sea’s demands are made clear. She wants to tear it all apart. She wants to fill up the space in the tiny holes of the boards, sneaking in under the cover of darkness, leaving all who is left gasping and hopeless.

You want to let her. You want her to swallow you whole.

(A captain always goes down with her ship.)

Because those secret hopes from weeks before, the daydreams you find yourself lost in… they are not meant to be. There are only pieces of him left: a hook, a pocket watch, a coat. Empty comforts you cling to because they put you at ease when those familiar doubts creep in. Those same ones he could hush with a single word.

You need to silence them yourself now and you know you will. It will get easier, you think, with time. But what you can’t seem to hush are the “what ifs” and “could haves”. They are cruel. They are deafening. They won’t leave you alone.

You miss him terribly.


“In Amma’s snideness, I caught a whiff of desperation and righteousness. Like she’d whined at breakfast: 

                     I wish I’d be murdered.

Amma didn’t want anyone to get more attention than her. Certainly not girls who couldn’t compete when they were alive.”


Part Three of Sharp Objects Fancast;

  • Elsa Fredriksson Holmgren as Amma Crellin
Look Don't Touch

Dean has to drive Sam and Jess to a local art museum for some school project they’re doing and he’s stuck wandering around the place while they go be nerds or whatever. He’s never really liked art but as he walks aimlessly through the exhibit halls he starts to understand at least some of the fascination- some of this shit is crazy, and he gives a low whistle of approval while admiring a piece by- Rembrandt he thinks?- that gets him some nasty looks from strangers. 

Maybe it’s the rebellious attitude he’s never quite grown out of or being completely possessed by an all-consuming sense of boredom, but Dean starts to touch all the art he sees. It starts off with him quickly looking over his shoulder and scoping out the room, making sure he’s in the clear, and he pokes the corner of one of the ornate frames. But then, after a couple of times of not getting caught, he gets bolder. Soon he finds himself in a room of statues, or as Dean thinks, a room of possibilities. With a sly grin and a devious chuckle, Dean reaches out to cup a cherub statue’s ass. He smirks triumphantly, hand still fondling marble, when he hears someone clear their throat loudly. He snatches his hand away quickly and looks around, expecting to see a disappointed security guard. 

Instead he’s met with a thoroughly unimpressed guy about his age who’s got his arms crossed and a judgmental look in his piercing blue eyes. His sweater is rolled up to his elbows and his hair is tousled expertly. Dean groans inwardly, great, another pretentious art enthusiast, and a hot one too, just his luck. Dean turns to leave and the guy clears his throat again.

“Can I help you?” Dean asks irritably, wishing Sam and Jess would hurry the fuck up so he can get out of this hell hole. 

“The signs explicitly say not to touch the art.” The guy hasn’t unfolded his arms yet and his voice is deep and rough and Dean is starting to seriously regret pissing him off. 

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