#i didn’t really like how the dull pinkish purple looked | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

teaspoon-full-of-sugar · 5 years ago

Text

mystic meadow and the sweet spot

pairing: harry styles x reader (farmers market au)

warnings: anxiety, awkwardness, shy!baker!harry, fluff, smut, unprotected sex, cockwarming

word count: 6.8k

synopsis: harry hates working the farmers markets, but the girl in the kombucha booth is cute

author’s note: hope you enjoy! xx all the love

masterlist

—

Harry used to hate working the farmer’s markets; there was so many people, so many awkward encounters, and so many stupid questions. The heat of the midsummer didn’t help either. He hated having to set the booth up and take it down, with the help of nothing more than an inadequate coworker, who spends most of his time on his phone or flirting with the other vendors. He hated working the markets, which is why he honestly contemplated quitting when his boss told him that he was scheduled to work the new rounds of the summer circuit, but the pay was double what he was normally making, in addition to mileage compensation.

It’s been a couple weeks since the market season began; every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, he has to set up his booth, put on a fake smile, try to sell as much as he can, and take the booth down, only to start it all again the next day in a different location. It’s exhausting, draining.

Today isn’t as bad as others. Cas, his poor excuse of a coworker, hadn’t even bothered showing up, but other than that, Harry hasn’t had any rude customers, and Andy, the guy who owns the spirits booth, gave him a couple bottles for cheap. By the end of the day, he sold most of the product, with only a few pastries and macarons to save for tomorrow, which will be handed out as samples.

He’s nearly all packed up when a girl meanders over near his booth. A loose yellow tee hangs off her shoulder with pale pink lace peeking out from the top of her chest, and she offers Artemis, the elderly woman who works the soap booth next to him, a soft grin. They make eye contact, and she gives him a warm smile. Thinking she’s a straggler who doesn’t know the market is closed, he offers her a tight smile while not-so-subtly boxing up the remainder of baked goods.

“Hmm, macarons,” the girl mumbles, fingering at the blue and white plaid tablecloth. “Any good?”

“Uh, yeah,” he says softly. He has never been really good when it comes to small talk, which is one reason why he probably isn’t able to have any lasting relationships; he barely had any acquaintances, let alone meaningful friendships. He scratches the back of his head, beneath a wool beanie he apparently had to wear, even though it’s been burning hot all day. Sweat seeps into his hair, threatening to drip down his neck. She nibbles on the inside of her cheek. He slides the tray of eclairs onto the side table, wrapping it with a healthy amount of plastic wrap before placing it in the insulated tote.

“And you’re not just obligated to say that since I’m a potential customer,” she smirks.

“Would never lie to such a pretty girl,” he says, smiling. He honestly can’t believe that those words actually came out of his mouth. A blush makes its way from his neck, to his cheeks, to the tips of his ears, and he prays that she can’t see it. The sun is setting; dull oranges and pinks peek over the tops of trees and wrap around her like wings, bright and comforting. He wipes his forehead, trying to conceal his blush from her. Just by looking at her, he’s sure that she wouldn’t even bat an eye at the rosy flush to his skin, but his stomach still balls up.

“Smooth,” she says. “You come here often?” Regret passes over her features as soon as she asks that, brows furrowing and head shaking. “Sorry, that sounded stupid. I just haven’t seen you. It’s normally Ryan or Cas,” she explains. She starts folding the tablecloth when Harry packs the final trays of pastries away.

“Well, Cas didn’t even show up today.” Harry can’t help the bitterness that seeps into his voice. He doesn’t mean to dump all of his anger on this poor girl, but she’s looking at him with such understanding eyes, it’s hard not to completely break and rant about everything that’s been building up. She hands the cloth to him, which he takes with an appreciative nod. “But, yeah, ‘ve been workin’ this fo’ a couple of weeks,” he says. Feeling like he’s being a little too standoffish, he offers her a smile, nudging the tray that caught her eye toward her. “You like macarons?”

It takes a bit for her to answer, and she bites at her lip, fingers wringing together. The skin of her palms are stained a pinkish-purple.

“Yeah,” she says. “They’re my favorite.”

“Here,” he says, scrambling to get a box. He digs into the tote, easily ripping into the plastic wrap. “Take some. Better you than me. ’Ve had enough sweets to last me the rest of my life.”

“Thanks.” She takes the box of pistachio-honey, raspberry-basil, and orange cream. “Pretty,” she says, fiddling with the gold ribbon he tied around it and already picking at the label. She lingers for a little bit, like she’s waiting to find something else to talk about, fingers tapping nervously on the table top. “I, uh,” she stutters, gesturing toward the booth across the way from his and a little to the right, “work the kombucha stand over there.”

It’s a large booth with large, draping black curtains shifting. If the wind catches it just right, he can see streams of warm colors painted on them, layered and bold. Two men are taking down a large banner that says ‘Mystic Meadow Kombucha’ with the outline of a bull’s skull beneath it, wildflowers winding around it. It seems to be more extravagant than Harry’s setup, with 3 large kegs in the front, decorated with fake vines and flowers.

“D’ya paint?” He asks suddenly, gesturing toward her hands.

“I do, but these are from some beets. We were testing new flavors, and I, well—” She bares her hands, laughing lighty, “I wasn’t careful enough.”

“I see.”

“So, I’ll see you around,” she says after a minute, offering him a shy smile. Before she walks away, she raises the box of sweets with gratitude. “Thanks, again.”

“See ya,” he says, eyes lingering on her, watching her skip back toward her booth. One of the men looks at Harry and smirks, nodding knowingly. The rest of the night, he finds his gaze wandering back over to her booth. A couple of times, she catches his eye, and when they leave, in an old van with a flaking paint job that wobbles over every bump in the road, she waves at him.

It’s ten at night before he gets back to the bakery, the sun long gone, but the dry heat still hangs heavy in the air. Marty, the owner, is still in the office counting the money for the night that she probably wasn't able to get to earlier. It’s a fairly small operation, with only two baristas, two managers, Marty and Ryan, and two bakers, himself and Cas, who probably won’t have a job after today’s no-call-no-show. Harry leans against the doorframe, handing her the bank pouch.

“‘M headed out,” he says. “See ya tomorrow.”

“How was it?” She asks before he can leave. He turns around.

“Wha’?”

“The market,” Marty supplies. “Is it still as bad as you thought?”

“Today was better than others,” he says vaguely, his mind wandering to the girl at the kombucha stand. A smile plays on his lips. Marty cocks a brow, leaning back in her chair.

“So you wouldn’t mind working next week?”

“Nah,” he says, “Tha’s fine.”

That night, he dreams of a girl, with pretty eyes, a yellow t-shirt, and stained hands.

In the weeks following their first encounter, Harry takes the time to visit the kombucha girl before the market opens, and at the end of the night, she stops by to get a box of leftover baked goods. He’s learned a lot of things over the past few weeks: her name is Y/N, she’s the daughter of the owners of Mystic Meadow, her main jobs being selling at local markets and businesses and coming up with the different flavors, she’s working on her bachelor’s degree, she’s single (Harry found it difficult to contain his joy when she told him that), and she’s an all-around sweet girl, who’s wonderful with people.

Harry also found out that he hates kombucha.

But that doesn’t stop him from getting one every time he stops by. It’s normally before the market is actually open to the public. She just gets so excited whenever he tries a cup of the newest flavor, normally an odd mixture of spices or herbs with vinegar and a fermented fruit flavor—it’s not even good fermentation, like with alcohol— it tastes absolutely horrid, but Y/N looks at him with such hopeful eyes the first time he has a sip; he couldn’t bear seeing the disappointed look in her eyes, so he accepts the little plastic cup from her, nodding thankfully, and takes it back to his booth, where it will sit for the remainder of the night, untouched and dripping with sweat, leaving faint rings on the tablecloth.

“I brought you something,” she says to him one afternoon.

It’s early August, the sun at its peak, beating down on his black tee; he really needs to learn how to dress for such heat.

“Yeah?”

She lugs a black glass bottle from the cooler in the far corner of the booth, hidden behind the wooden chair for her. Her smile stretches from ear to ear; it’s hard to contain his own, but why would he want to? When you’re in the presence of beaming sunlight, you shouldn’t shy away, rather, embracing it because you never know how long it’s going to last. Her finger is hooked in the small hole near the top, and she slams it down on the table, the decorated glass jar filled with inspirational quotes and stickers with the Mystic Meadow logo on them nearly toppling over. He clumsily grapples for it before everything falls.

“Sorry,” she laughs, rubbing the sweat that has already formed on the bottle. She holds it out for him to take. “It’s a growler of the pear and pink peppercorn,” she says, smiling. He takes it gingerly from her hands, turning it over and feeling the weight.

“Wha’?”

“You said it was your favorite,” she says, her grin falling slightly. His heart stops for a second. Guilt floods him as he smiles widely, dimples settling deep in his cheeks.

“Ah, yes,” he says. “Thank you.”

It’s quiet after that. Neither of them, he’s noticed, are very good at making conversation. Y/N is normally the one to initiate the pleasantries, but it still takes a little bit before they can actually get into a deep conversation. Sure, when they finally find a subject that the both of them are passionate about, they can talk for hours, like her paintings or his music, but the starting off is always difficult. Granted, that’s not abnormal for Harry; he’s never been much of a talker. He can fake it if he has to, but he’s a bit of a blundering idiot sometimes, and he’s learned that the less he speaks, the less likely he is to embarrass himself—especially when he’s around Y/N.

He’s been trying to find the courage to ask her out on a date for the past few weeks, hell, ever since the day they met, but of course: he hasn’t. Granted, he’s never had much luck in the dating scene, probably because he can’t flirt for the life of him. There are some times where something charming comes out randomly, but it’s soon followed by an uncomfortable silence, and he gets embarrassed.

He just needs to go for it. He knows that. He tells himself that every time he misses his chance, when he waits too long, and the window of opportunity is slammed in his face. Y/N is a wonderful match for him, and she’s too sweet to completely laugh in his face or flat out reject him.

But it’s still scary. His heart is in his throat, and his palms are sweaty. He wipes them on his jeans, noticing the slight tremor. He tucks them in the pockets of his jeans (yet another terrible clothing choice for such a hot day).

He just needs to do it, rip it off like a band-aid.

“Was wondering,” he blurts out, shifting nervously on his feet. “Do you have plans on Saturday?”

“No, do you have something in mind?” She looks at him with hopeful eyes, and he melts. He wishes he could be as comfortable as Y/N, to not be constantly worried about the approval and validation of the people around him. He wonders what it’s like to wear his heart out on his sleeve.

He wishes he could live like that.

“Uh, I have work,” he says, “but after, maybe, we could get dinner?”

“Sounds like a date.”

—

The Sweet Spot Bakery and Cafe is a cute little shop on a corner in downtown, ironically next to a nutrition store. A blue neon sign shaped like a mug flashes in the corner of Y/N’s eye. Rain pounds onto the red and gold striped awning, dripping onto the flooded concrete. There’s cute flower boxes beneath the windows, but the flowers look sad and droopy, the dirt splattering out with every powerful raindrop. Antique metal tables are stacked in the far corner, out of the rain. Y/N shakes off her umbrella.

A sweet chime sounds when she pulls open the door. Inside, the scent of coffee and sugar fill her senses. There is just something so comfortable about being in a bakery or even a cafe that always reminds her of warmth, of intimacy, of home. The shop is fairly empty, with an older man reading in one of the corners, snug in a velvet chair, and a couple quietly chatting on the other side, hidden behind a hanging plant, their legs crossed over each others’ on a leather stool.

An older woman greets her from behind the counter, obscured by a gold espresso machine. She’s short with graying black hair, brown eyes peeking behind horned glasses. Her red painted lips stretch into a smile.

“How can I help you, sweetheart?”

“Hi, is Harry here?”

As if he could hear her, Harry stumbles out from the back, the door swinging idly behind him. Flour coats his arms to his elbows, with a few stripes on his nose and forehead. The green bandana struggles to hold back his hair, curls slipping onto his forehead.

“Y/N,” he breathes out. He wipes his hands on the apron, a cloud of white billowing out. He coughs. He shoos the woman away and leans against the counter, his features impassive. To the untrained eye, he looks normal, fine, calm, even, but Y/N has learned how to read him; from the faint blush on his cheeks to the look in his eyes, which are unable to meet hers. He looks anxious, more so than usual, and there’s a sinking feeling in her stomach.

“Sorry, I forgo’ to tell ya, but I’m scheduled to close tonight.”

“That’s fine.” She tries to hide the disappointment in her voice. “We can do this some other time, then.”

“I can take my break in a bit. Marty doesn’ really mind how long it takes. D'ya wanna sit? Be out in a minute,” he says quickly.

“Sure,” she says, nodding. She opts for the corner booth, away from the other customers. Harry comes out from behind the counter only a moment later, like he promised, clean with a large white mug clutched in one shaky hand and a white box, wrapped in a pretty gold bow, in the other.

“Here ya go,” he says, sliding a large mug toward her. Foam sloshes over the edges and onto the table, wetting the napkin under the cup as well as her hand. He curses under his breath, grappling for the napkin dispenser. A poorly shaped face made with cinnamon smiles up at her, and she wants to aw at the sight, her lips pouting.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, wiping her hand with a stale paper napkin.

“It’s fine, H,” she whispers, placing her hand on his.

He doesn’t really know why he’s so nervous (more nervous than usual). It’s not like this is his first time meeting her; they’re comfortable with each other, and they joke around, and he also knows that she’s interested because of how understanding she was when he told her that his shift changed, or maybe that is a sign that she’s not interested.

He really needs to stop overthinking these things.

He’s a grown man. He should be able to talk with her without his hands clamming up or his heart beating out of his chest. Maybe it’s the pressure of it being defined as a “date” that makes it even worse. He just hopes that he doesn’t psych himself out.

“Thank you.” She grins.

“No problem. Remembered that ya told me once that you liked honey and cinnamon.”

Her heart swells at his words. Even though Harry puts on an uneasy exterior, he’s very attentive and loving. None of her exes would have remembered how she took her coffee after she mentioned it once.

“Sorry,” he says again suddenly, looking at the sad excuse of a smiley face on her drink. “Don’ normally work the front unless it’s too busy.”

“You should. Such a pretty face, I can’t keep it all to myself.” She pinches his cheek, and he shys away, swatting at her hand playfully. He nudges the box toward her.

“Macarons. Your favorite,” he says, and she nudges it to the side, taking a large gulp of the coffee.

“How’s it been today?” She asks, rubbing some of the foam off with her thumb.

“Slow,” he admits, breathing out shakily. His feet tap nervously on the floor, tapping back and forth, from heel to toe.

“Hey, it’s just me,” she says, placing a gentle hand on his. “No need to be nervous.”

“Right,” he says, nodding. “I jus’ feel like I should apologize again. I should’ve said something to you about my shift change.”

“It’s no problem, Harry,” she reassures him.

“I just got promoted. Marty needs help with orders and stuff, so I’ll be the bakery manager, now. She wanted me to close as a part of my training.”

“That’s great,” she smiles, lacing their fingers. He stares at them, his thumb tracing over her knuckles gently. Her skin is calloused and warm. He tugs her hand up to his lips, and she gives him a shy smile.

“You’ll still be working the markets, right?”

“Ya can’t get rid o’ me tha’ easily, lovie,” he smirks.

“Good.”

They talk for a good ten minutes, but the conversation is no deeper than the short interactions they normally have at the markets.

Harry wishes that wasn’t the case.

“Harry,” Marty calls from behind the counter, interrupting them. “A timer’s going off. What’s it for?”

“Oh, um—” He stands up, looking at Y/N with apologetic eyes. “I promise I’ll make it up to ya. Tomorrow?”

“Sure,” she says, downing the last of her drink and gathering her things.

“Brunch? I’ll text ya?”

“Harry,” Y/N calls out after he slips behind the counter.

“Yeah?”

She presses a quick kiss to his cheek, not missing the red forming on his neck.

“See you tomorrow.”

She gives him a wink before leaving. Harry stands, stunned in silence, his fingers tracing the warmth lingering from her lips.

“Whipped,” Marty mutters, a soft smirk toying on her lips.

“Shut up,” he scoffs.

“I’m not judging. It’s cute, H.”

“I don’ need this, ‘kay?”

She throws a wet towel at him, catching his leg before the door to the back closes.

—

As promised, they had Sunday brunch, with bottomless mimosas and American biscuits, something he still isn’t used to, with jam and poached eggs. Y/N, who is a lot bolder when she has some alcohol in her, chattered on and on about her friends, her parents, and her classes. College never seemed like an option for him. He always held the belief that in his career choices, a baker or a musician, he doesn’t need a degree; you either have it or you don’t type situations.

But Y/N, the smart little cookie, loves school. She talked about how she may get an education degree, but one is plenty of work right now. She commended those brave enough to be in a double major. She asked him about his family and his job, mostly; he would rather listen to her than talk, so he kept his answers short and sweet.

Afterward, they went to the park, cliche as it seems, because even though he’s lived in the area for nearly five years, he never took the time to stop by any of the parks, and Y/N took full opportunity of this: she gawked at him, pulled him out of his chair at the bistro, and slammed some cash onto the table. He tried to argue with her, that he should at least leave the tip, since he was at fault for their date yesterday not going to plan, but she wasn’t listening.

“I can’t believe you haven’t been to any of the parks,” she said, tugging him along the sidewalk. “There’s a nice one around here, only a ten minute walk. It has a pond and that cute little playground equipment—you know, the tiny slides with tiny stairs for the little kids. Do you remember those?” She stops. “Should we get bread to feed the ducks?” She shakes her head, answering her own question. “No, we can do it some other time.”

They spend the rest of the day by the pond, people watching, another one of Y/N favorite past times. After dinner, Harry didn’t get home until after sunset and went to bed with a smile on his face.

The next day, Harry spends two hours contemplating whether or not it was too early to send a good morning text. He nervously rolled around in his bed before he accidentally sent the message. She responded quickly after, and they talked for the entire day (seriously, he didn’t get up unless he absolutely had to).

Tuesday, market day, comes around quickly, and Harry gets there earlier than usual, not so subtly waiting for the Mystic Meadow van to chug through the grass lot, and when it does, his heart speeds up, but he doesn’t recognize the girl that hops out of the passenger side.

His mind runs amuck, as usual. Even though they talked nonstop the day before, he thinks that maybe she’s not here because she doesn’t want to run into him, that she was annoyed by him already, his wariness and nerves. His heart skips a beat at the thought. He tries to reassure himself that there are so many other possible explanations, but his anxiety wasn’t having it.

It takes him a while to gather the courage to go over to the booth, and he tries to act as inconspicuous as possible, pacing slowly in front of the other booths, organic fruit, soap, paintings, and jewelry, until he’s at Mystic Meadow. The chalkboard sign that usually says Y/N’s name in fancy lettering says, ‘Florence will be helping you today’ instead. A girl with very long, very bright hair turns toward him. Thick blue eyeliner outlines her eyes, and smattering of freckles enlivens her pale skin.

“Can I help you?”

“Where’s Y/N?”

She looks taken aback by the question.

“Sick,” she answers slowly, brows furrowed.

“Oh,” he whispers. “‘M Harry,” he says. Her eyes widen suddenly, and she gives him a quick once over, leaning her hip against the table.

“You’re Harry?” She laughs. “We thought she was making you up.”

“Tha’s...” Harry doesn’t really know how to feel about that; it’s a cacophony of pride, excitement, and little anxiety. Pride for the fact that Y/N talked about him to her coworker (and potentially even more people, since Florence said “we”), excitement from the fact that Y/N seems very interested in him, and, of course, anxiety from this stranger's piercing gaze. He wonders what Y/N said about him; maybe she talked about how awkward he is or his gauky figure or his clumsiness—

“How sick is she?”

“Not too sick,” Florence says, winking.

“Oh, tha’s not—“

He hates the fact that he actually sounds disgusted, even though he honestly doesn’t mind the thought of it. Sure, Florence is right; he wouldn’t mind being with Y/N in that way, but that’s beside the point. They have only been out on two dates, and the first one was at his work, of all places, so he doesn’t really count that one. He wants to take their relationship slow.

“I’m messing with you,” Flo laughs, crossing her arms, “Although, it is nice to see a grown man blushing.”

“‘M not blushin’,” he says, wiping at his cheeks petulantly. “Uh, is Y/N alright? How sick—” He swallows thickly. His skin heats up even more, struggling to find his words. He’s trying to figure out how to ask where Y/N lives without sounding like a stalker. Maybe he should just ask Y/N himself.

“Where, um, does she—”

“Here,” she says, chuckling. She rips a piece of paper loose from under the register box and writes down an address with looping script.

“Thanks.” He leaves the booth with a quick nod, the paper clutched tightly in his sweating palm; hopefully, it doesn’t smudge the ink.

“Hey, Harry,” she calls out. He turns. “You’re a good guy. I’m glad she met you.”

If he wasn’t blushing before, he sure as hell is now.

—

Y/N looks worse for wear when she answers the door to her apartment, eyes tinted red with exhaustion, puffy and droopy, and she sniffles, a stuffy breath slipping through her lips. She’s wrapped up in a fluffy blanket. Her eyes widen, and she tries to hide slightly behind the door when she sees that it’s him.

“What are you doing here?” She squeaks.

His nerves spike again, worried he’s intruding or maybe it was too soon for him to start showing up at her house unannounced, when he’s never even been there before (he knew asking Florence for her address was a bad idea). They have only been on a couple of dates, and now, he probably ruined any chances he had with her by acting impulsively and like a total creep.

“I asked Florence,” he answers softly. “Said you were sick.” When tears fill her eyes, he’s sure she’s going to yell at him for disturbing her and tell him never to come again. He doesn’t think he’s ever regretted anything so much; his skin is hot, his racing heart sinking into his stomach. “‘M sorry. I jus’ thought, since you were sick, you may wan’ some company. I’ll leave, sorry, sorry—”

“No,” she says, grabbing onto his arm before he can leave. “I’m sorry for freaking you out, but…” Her throat closes, and she tries her hardest to not start ugly-crying, but with Harry standing on her front porch, visibly drained from work, arms full of grocery and pharmacy bags, makes it very hard not to break. It’s exhausting having to take care of yourself when you’re feeling ill, and with Harry simply there, and knowing that he was thinking about her, makes things so much easier.

“You’re so sweet, H,” she says, a tear slipping down her cheek.

“May I?”

“But—” She hesitates, nibbling at her lip. “I’m in my PJ's,” she says softly.

“And ‘m all sweaty from being in tha’ sun all day,” he smiles. He lets himself in, thick boots thundering on the hardwood. “I came straight from, but I did pick up some soup and Sprite and tea. Hope you have honey and lemon,” he rambles, tugging everything out from the bags.

“Wasn’t real sure what kind of sick ya were, so…” He scratches the back of his neck. “I got everythin’.” He gives her an awkward tight smile.

“Thank you,” she sighs, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her shirt. “Do you wanna shower? I’m sure I have some clothes that can fit you.” She guides him to the bathroom, laying some towels and clothes into his arms. “The shower head screams sometimes so don’t be worried. It normally stops if you wiggle it a bit.”

“Thanks,” he smiles. Her shower is filled with dozens of half-filled soap bottles decorated the shelves and the little basket hanging from the shower head. The hot water is nearly all gone by the time he decides to use the no-more-tears strawberry shampoo. Her towels are warm and soft, softer than he thinks he’s ever felt before, and they’re big enough to nearly swallow him whole.

He finds Y/N in the kitchen with a warped mug, seemingly handmade, filled with steaming tea. She stares at the cap of medicine on the counter, breathing heavily. He can see the confliction on her features, one moment she’s nearly convinced that she doesn’t need it, that her body can take care of it overnight, but she also knows that if she didn’t take it, she’ll be in for one hell of a terrible night; then she remembers how awful it tasted the last couple of times she’s had to take it.

Her nose scrunches when she finally decides to down it.

“Thanks for the tea,” she says, “I was just about to head to bed.”

“Oh, uh,” he says nervously. “I don’ want to impose. I’ll leave. I jus’ wanted to make sure ya had everything ya needed.”

A part of him wanted her to invite him to be with her; that part that is touch starved and eager to be near her again wants to toss any worries to the side.

“As long as you’re fine listening to my coughing all night, I’m fine with you staying the night.”

She listens to nature sounds to go to sleep.

How cute is that?

For the first couple minutes, they were ocean sounds, but she didn’t like the seagulls; she had him switch it to rain after a little bit. She looked a little embarrassed when she started playing them, but Harry listened to music in order to fall asleep, so it’s really no different. He never thought about listening to nature sounds, but it’s definitely something he could get used to.

It takes them a bit to finally get settled together. They start on their own sides of the bed. Not wanting to push his luck and make her feel uncomfortable, Harry stays on his side, trying not to hoard too much of the blankets, with a pillow hugged to his chest. She’s afraid that he won’t like her being so close to him, given her current state of health. They stare at the ceiling stubbornly, one occasionally glancing over to the other.

Soon, the night-time medicine kicks in, and Y/N throws caution to the wind.

“Fuck it,” she whispers, rolling onto her side, one arm nestling underneath him with the other prying between the pillow. “You okay with this?” She looks at him with pleading eyes, and he smiles.

How could he say no to her?

“Definitely.”

And so, she snuggles deeper into his chest, eyes growing heavy at the feeling of his fingers massaging her scalp, the scent of strawberry shampoo and Vix lulling the both of them to sleep.

—

Kissing her is something he doesn’t think he could ever get tired of. The feel of her soft lips over his, with tongue and teeth, aching and messy, is addicting. He never understood why people liked kissing so much; granted he’s only had five other ones to go off of, only two of them ever lead to a full-blown make out session on his bed, but still; how much fun could it be to practically suck another person’s face off?

But he severely underestimated the power of Y/N’s lips. The first time he felt them was a couple days after he spent the night with her when she was sick. It was a quick little peck he gave her when he dropped her off at her apartment, and ever since, he was hooked. It still completely baffles how much he aches for her lips when he can’t see her, and when he finally gets his fix, it feels perfect.

He finds himself craving the taste of her tongue.

How can someone’s mouth taste good?

It’s December, now, the market season long gone, and he and Y/N have been together for nearly five months. It’s more serious than any of his other relationships. Obviously, that’s not saying much since he hasn’t had many, but Harry slowly found himself opening up more toward her, which is more than any of his other ones.

He nips at the skin of her neck, tugging off her tee, and he finds the hickey he left a couple days ago, just below the collarbone, tongue pressing lightly on the tender skin. She whimpers.

“Fuck me, H,” she moans. She’s wearing a pink, lacy bra, the same one she was wearing the first day they met. He slips the straps over her shoulders, leaving a trail of kisses behind it. Her head lolls back against his, and his hand finds its way to her neck, caressing the warm skin. He can feel her heart rate pick up.

She slips her pajama pants and panties down, kicking them across the room. She slips further down the sheet, his hands firm on her hips. He tugs her frail bra up over her head. He fondles her breast for a bit before his lips trail down the valley, his warm mouth wrapping around her tender nipple, tongue soft against the pebbling skin. Y/N feels herself melt into him, skin sensitive to every teasing kiss he leaves down her body.

“Hey, babe?”

He rests his chin on her tummy, the thin hairs coating his jaw ticking her skin.

“Yeah?”

A sweet smile crosses her face at the chills that cover her skin when he speaks, lips so close to her skin, her pussy throbbing. Her thighs twitch. She runs her fingers through his hair, fingers smoothing the flyaways down. He kisses her bellybutton.

“I love you.”

He isn’t expecting that.

He chokes a little bit, his throat closing up on him.

“What?” He lifts himself up, crawling back up her body, and she cups his face. “Really?”

She nods, a tear slipping down her cheek.

She’s not afraid that he won’t say it back. Hell, there's a part of her that doesn’t even expect him to say it back. (There’s an even smaller part that thinks that he’s just going to leave, but she doesn’t want to think of that). She’s not afraid because she knows that she needs to be the one to reassure him, to love him, to coax him out of his shell, and she’s completely willing to do that, to put forth the time and effort, because she is wholeheartedly enamored with him.

She waits for him to process everything; she can see the confliction in his eyes. Ever the worrier, Harry is thinking of the negative outcomes that can come if he goes about this the wrong way, but he doesn’t dwell on them for too long. He thinks of the mornings that he woke up in her arms, the afternoons they spent in tje park, a new tradition for them, the evenings they spent in contemplative silence, where she would paint his profile and he would serenade her with another love song, and the nights they spent making love.

Loving her is probably the easiest decision he’s ever made.

“Love you too, babylove.”

Y/N lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, and she pulls his forehead onto hers.

He wants to thank her, for being patient, for being understanding, for loving him, for just being her, really. He doesn’t think she realizes how much of an impact she has on him.

She sits up and pushes him beneath her. He leans against the headboard. It’s cold against his hot skin, sweat slipping down the small of his back. They both struggle in pulling off his pants; he almost hits her in the head. She settles low on his thighs, straddling him, and her feet tuck beneath his calves. She spits on his cock, wetting the red tip, and strokes him slowly. He moans, pouting slightly.

“No teasin’.” He tugs her forward, until their chest to chest, his hands settling low on her hips, rocking her wet pussy back and forth over the length of his cock. Her clit rubs against the head, making her hips jolt within his grasp. He easily slips inside of her, his head knocking against the headboard. She teases him, still, just barely putting the head inside before pulling out slowly. It takes a couple more tries before she sinks fully onto him, a drawn out groan slipping past his lips. He pulls her back in for a kiss, fingers trailing along the curve of her spine.

“So deep,” she moans, her thighs twitching and quivering at his side. She caresses the skin of his belly, thumb teasing along the thin hairs.

“There ya go, baby,” he coos. “Takin’ me so well.” He sets his hand on her lower abdomen, feeling the little bump. “Can feel m’self,” he smiles. He waits for her to start moving. It takes a little longer than usual, probably from the lack of preparation, but she doesn’t let that stop her. She moves her hips back and forth, wiggling about to find that one special spot.

He thrusts himself into her, and she nearly collapses completely onto him, with a broken whine breaking from her chest. Hands gripping her fleshy ass, he moans against her neck. She tastes of sweat and cherries, addicting, and she grinds harder into him, hands gripping the headboard, which hits the wall with every move of her hips. The mattress creaks noisily beneath them, but they can barely hear it over the sound of each others’ moans of pleasure.

“Love you,” he says against her lips.

She breathes out her response, a pledge of her own love; it’s weak, but that’s no surprise, since she struggles for air when he bucks his hips, hitting the deepest part of her. The aching in her chest only adds to the pleasure, the burning fire in her stomach. Her arousal slips down to his thighs.

“‘M gonna come, babylove,” he whines, skimming his nose over hers. Her teeth nibbles his lips, riding him faster.

“Come in me, H, wanna feel you,” she says breathily. His arms quiver around her, squeezing her tight to him, his face digging into her neck. Her toes curl when he comes, his nails digging into her skin. She eases him through his high, cupping his cheeks and wiping the sweat from his forehead. She pulls his head to her chest, fingers carding through his curls; his heaving breaths leaves her skin wet. She moves up, whimpering softly, but he stops her, feeling some of his cum slip out onto his thighs.

“Hm, no, lovie,” he whines, wrapping an arm around her waist. He gently moves them onto their sides, while keeping his cock nestled deep inside her. “Wanna feel you.”

She loves being so close to him, warm and full. She’s never done this with anyone. It’s intimacy at its core, with Harry holding her so tightly against him. It nearly brings tears to her eyes. She’s so glad that she met Harry, so thankful that she took that leap of faith and talked to the cute guy at the baked goods booth, who had wise eyes and a nervous smile. She’s glad that she inched past that guarded exterior to find his soft, gooey middle. Harry kisses her forehead, shifting slightly, and her sensitive walls flutter around him.

“Feels good, baby,” she moans, rubbing along his waist.

“Y/N?”

“Yeah,” she says, still at a loss for breath, her fingers absently tracing over his inked skin. Goose pimples rise in their wake.

“I don’ like kombucha.”

“Good, ‘cause I don’t like macarons.”

—

#harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader #ellie writes #ellie writes fluff #ellie writes smut #gif not mine #credit to owner

615 notes · View notes

goldenfawnwriting · 4 years ago

Text

Birds of a Feather-Hawks pic pt 2

Summary: Finch was a lowly secretary with seniority when she was suddenly promoted to be the #2 hero’s personal assistant. As they get to know each other its apparent theres tension, so how will regular work go between them?

Finch lead the way down to the lobby and out of the building before Hawks caught up to her, his usual leisurely gate being interrupted.

“I know a great place down the block if you’d like.”

He offered. She nodded to him silently and her dainty hand reached up to grasp his upper arm as he lead the way. A shiver came over him, his wings trembling slightly for a moment as they made their way down the walkway. The afternoon traffic was dense but Hawks made sure that Finch’s hand was always on his arm as they cut through people and finally made it to the restaurant.

As they were lead to a private dining area Finch almost let go of his arm but instead his hand came up to hold her own to his arm, ensuring she was still beside him. She blushed hard and he finally let her go to pull out her chair for her. After she had slid onto the seat he made his way to his own, across the table.

“So explain what you were talking about before.”

“There’s a camera in the window of your office, its small but it points right in, like its watching you.”

He bristled again before giving it some thought, leaving the room silent. Then his eyes widened as he came to the realization that it was the commission’s doing. They were watching him since he had a new PA, or have they been watching him since before and he just never knew? It was unlikely, since he always left out of the window. How did he not notice it himself by now?

“I’m sure it’s nothing interesting, don’t waste your time worrying over it, I’ll talk to the building manager about it and see what it’s all about.”

He assured her, shrugging off the situation. Her brows furrowed from across the table, but she took his word for it and let it go, opting to change the conversation.

“So you come here a lot then?”

She questioned before there was a knock on the door and in came a waitress. Finch noticed her skirt was rolled up twice, maybe two and a half times, to make it shorter. She must’ve known who she was serving because her hair was left down, the dent in the back a sign of it being held up at one point. As she passed Finch and went straight to Hawks the strong scent of a flowery perfume invaded Finch’s senses, clouding her brain momentarily.

“Will you be getting the usual sir~?”

She purred. Finch wondered if she hadn’t noticed her yet, or if Hawks was just a pig and tipped them more if they flirted and hiked their skirts up. Either way, Finch couldn’t help the way her face contorted with distaste at the lack of manners in the room.

“U-uh, ya that’s fine, what did you want Finch?”

The waitress finally turned to Finch, eyeing her up and down before deeming her unimportant and turning back to Hawks.

“She probably doesn’t know what we have here.. She’s probably never been here, I’ll get her a menu.”

She mumbled to the man, turning and leaving the room afterwards. Finch’s face flamed with shock at the woman’s audacity. She didn’t even address Finch, only the man across the table. She had never felt so disrespected in her life.

“I- uh, I don’t know what that was about, it’s normally not like that at all!”

Finch rolled her eyes in reply and the waitress came back with a menu and a drink for Hawks. After looking the menu over briefly she addressed the waitress with disdain.

“The winter berry salad and a water.”

She flipped the menu to hand it to the waitress, looking straight at her, Finch’s wings bristling. The waitress looked off, taking the menu and leaving before Hawks addressed the unusual display.

“Woah birdie, someone’s on your bad side huh?”

He chuckled. Finch’s face reddened and she puffed her cheeks in annoyance. She didn’t want to come off as snotty but she was definitely feeling a little irked at the waitress’ intentions. What baffled her was that it made her so mad for little to no reason. Although the waitress was ignoring her, most of her irritation came from the display she was putting on for Hawks and the attention it was getting her.

“I just don’t appreciate what she was doing.”

Hawks snorted and Finch had to refrain from sending him daggers with her eyes. He obviously knew the girl well. After that it was silent from his end of the table, no more comments being made as they were brought their food and ate silently. When they had finished their meal Hawks paid, giving the waitress a wink, and they left.

On their way back Finch didn’t say anything to the man walking behind her, simply making her way down the walk, pulling a compact out of her purse and reapplying her favorite pinkish red lipstick. Hawks grabbed the door for her when they got back to the agency and she made her way inside and to the elevators.

“Aw come on pretty bird-”

The door to the elevator opened and she stepped in, pressing the close door button before Hawks got in. He stopped the door with his arm, hopping in with a surprised look.

“Did you just try to close the door on me?”

Finch blushed hard, she felt childish but she was still simmering from their experience at lunch. The doors closed on the both of them and Hawks contemplated for a moment. They had a good minute before they got to the office from the ground floor. This was why he always just flew up to the window.

Finch tried to keep her eyes off Hawks with everything in her but the elevator became increasingly cramped with both them and their wings inside. As he took up more and more space with his she folded hers into her body as much as she could before finally she snapped.

“Can you please stop being obnoxious and fold up your wings?”

She complained. He smirked at her and gave a little whistle.

“Aw poor thing, are they too big for you?”

He folded his wings up slightly and Finch muttered under her breath.

“You’re ridiculous.”

Apparently he had heard it because he laughed, folding his wings completely before bringing his body into her personal space instead. He stood in front of her, tucking a tiny lock of her bangs back behind her ear.

“And you’re gorgeous.”

He winked. Finch’s face erupted into a blush, her ears getting hot as she brought her hand up to cover her face, looking down towards the ground. When the doors finally opened she left the elevator first, making her way down the hall without the pro hero. As he made his way slowly behind her he noticed the brown hair pin holding her hair up into a french twist. It was dull, pretty lame if you asked him.

He found himself contemplating what color would look best on the woman, red was obviously a favorite of his, maybe blue like the flowers he got her? Or emerald green... or maybe even a royal purple. He thought about jewel tones and how they would bring out the color of her wings, the adorable little white specks in the plumage. He shook the thought from his head as they got back to the office.

Finch sat down at her desk, booting up her computer as she eyed the camera in the window. Hawks had told her it was nothing but a part of her still thought it was weird. What did Hawks do with his other personal assistant that there was a camera there? As she began typing out forms on her PC she caught Hawks eyeing her, leaned back in his chair, his feet up on his desk.

“Y’know if you’re not busy you could always help me with these forms.”

She suggested. He gave a snort as a reply and brought his feet down off his desk.

“Actually, I’m incredibly busy right now.”

She paused, looking around her computer to look him up and down.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yup.”

“Doing what?”

He chuckled as he replied.

“Watching a pretty lady type.”

Finch blushed again and huffed, standing up to walk over to his desk and snatch the ink pad and his stamp from it. They all had to be stamped by him personally but, she knew she would end up doing the job. He laughed at her display as she turned around, bristling her wings to show her annoyance as she made her way back to her desk. His playful demeanor was refreshing but a little annoying at times.

She still thought things would work between them, work wise. If all she really had to do was a bunch of paperwork she would be more than fine, that’s what she normally did in her previous position anyway.

As she blazed through the paperwork Hawks fiddled around with stuff on his desk until a walkie talkie on his desk came to life with a buzz.

“REQUESTING PROS IN THE AREA FOR BACKUP...”

It gave a location as Hawks jumped up, throwing on his glasses before glancing over to Finch.

“Be back soon sweetheart~”

He saluted her and grabbed the walkie talkie, taking off out the window. Finch jumped up and went to the window, watching him fall for a moment before his wings flew out, the red plumage distracting her for a moment as he flew off into the city. When he was out of sight Finch paused for just a moment longer at the window, wondering what he was going to be met with in the big city. When she finally snapped out of her stupor she made her way back to her desk.

the rest of the day she spent by herself, every know and then getting a call wondering about the hero’s whereabouts and when he would be available for a meeting. As she scheduled meetings, finished paperwork, and answered calls she found herself using up all her spare time thinking about the pro hero’s giant wings. The red hues took up her mind, distracting her from typing for a moment or making her forget for a moment what she was meant to be doing. It was like a dream and she wondered how it would feel to let herself fall, knowing that her wings would expand, and she would soar through the air.

A longing feeling set deep in her chest as she thought about it over and over. Would it be like standing in a wind tunnel? Or would it feel smooth and natural? She let her thoughts run wild as she imagined it.

At the end of the day Hawks still wasn’t back and she sighed as she set to cleaning up her desk a little and packing her bag. As she reached down for her purse there was a ding on her computer and she looked back up to see an email. She opened it, with curiosity, to find another form for her to fill out about the mission he apparently just completed. She bit her lip, reading over the summary of the situation.

It was a case of arson, by a villain trying to destroy a different villains base. They had caught both villains and doused the fire, no casualties. She felt a sense of pride for her boss’ accomplishment and smiled before she jumped in surprise, her heart banging at her ribcage as Hawks stepped in from the window sill. Her hand flew to her chest, a little squeak of surprise coming from her.

Hawks laughed as he stepped inside, shaking out his wings a little and brushing his hair out of his face. As he looked at the woman across the room he noted her rosy face and how he had shocked her.

“Sorry birdie, didn’t mean to scare ya.”

He apologized, smirking. She huffed and gave him a look.

“You look like you’ve seen better days, sir.”

His wings puffed slightly at the nickname and he felt himself blush a little. That was a new one.

“Ya, it got a little close there for a moment.”

He chuckled. She gave him a smile, a slight sense of maternal pride hitting her. She didn’t know why but she felt so proud of him for doing a good job. It was then that she noticed the sun setting and realized she was going to be late getting home.

“Well,”

She sighed,

“I’ve got to get going home, but I hope you’re alright.”

“Oh uh, ya I’m fine. Let me help you with your jacket.”

He offered, taking the fabric from the back of her chair. He held it out for her and she smiled slightly as she slipped into it, the slits in the back of the coat moving smoothly around her wings. He let go of the coat once she slipped into it and she turned to face him, thanking him before grabbing her bag.

“Well uh, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

She chuckled at his questioning tone.

“Uh, ya I work here Hawks.”

She sassed. He smirked and chuckled.

“Well no duh.”

She rolled her eyes with a smile and made her way to the door and then the elevator, waving bye to the man as the elevator door closed.

^^^

For the next week everything was relatively normal, Finch went to work, did paperwork, took calls, sometimes Hawks would get called out, and then she’d go home.

As she came into the office this specific morning she knew things would be different as soon as she spotted a box on her desk. It was small, a little long, and her curiosity peaked when she noticed Hawks’ handwriting on a note on top of it.

“Heya birdie, I won’t be by till later today but here’s a little gift for being such a good PA”

Her brows furrowed in curiosity and she picked up the small box, taking of the top and pulling back some tissue paper before she gasped.

A beautiful hair pin laid on a cushion, made of polished gold, and at the top, a mosaic of emeralds, jade, and moonstone. She picked it up carefully, feeling the weightiness and knew it had to have been expensive. She placed it back in the box, wrapping it and closing it carefully. There was no way she could accept such an extravagant gift, it was just inappropriate to do in a professional setting.

She set the box back on her desk carefully and made a note to herself to return it to him when he decided to show up. her regular hair pin worked fine anyway, there was nothing wrong with it, and besides, the new one was so fancy to just wear to the office, what if she messed it up somehow? Or even worse, lost it? She simply could not accept it.

As she worked she thought of more and more reasons as to why she wouldn’t be able to accept the hair pin and when Hawks finally swooped into the office she stood to address him.

“Hawks, what is this?”

The smirk on his face gave him away but he still questioned her.

“What is what?”

“You know what- the hair pin!”

He shrugged at her and pulls this glasses off, setting them on his desk.

“I can’t accept this.”

He didn’t reply at first, Finch wondered if he was thinking of what to say or if he was just going to take the pin back easily. The latter was proven wrong when he turned towards her and spoke.

“And why not? It’s just a gift from a friend.”

“Hawks, you’re my boss. If I take this and it gets out that you gave it to me the whole office would be suspicious. I could be fired.”

“Then tell them it’s from family or something, I just think you’d look amazing wearing it is all~”

He purred, coming closer. She blushed and awaited him, starting to say something when she was cut off by his thumb slipping over her bottom lip as he pulled her chin to look up at him.

“S-sir-”

With his other hand he reached around her, pulling the brown hair pin from her hair with ease, her hair falling down around her shoulder like silk.

“Now you have to wear it.”

He whispered, getting close to her ear as his hand on her chin moved into her hair, his lips dangerously close to her ear. Finch could feel her face and ears heat with embarrassment, her face going redder than the hero’s wings.

When Hawks pulled away a second later she covered her mouth with her hand, her hair curtaining her face and hiding it. She heard the man chuckle, walking back to the other side of the room, her hair pin his hostage, which he slipped into his pocket.

“S-sir, please give me-”

“Oh no gorgeous, your lame pin is mine now, you can either use the one I got you, or leave your hair down of course.”

He suggested. She puffed her cheeks in annoyance and told herself that she wouldn’t use the hair pin he gifted her, instead letting it lay in it’s box, untouched on her desk. She sat back down on her desk chair, beginning to type out more forms. Hawks watched her from the corner of his eye, a little upset he was getting the silent treatment.

As the rest of the day progressed Finch became more and more annoyed with her hair falling into her face but she refused to wrap her hair up with the pin. The last thing she wanted to do was give him the satisfaction of her using the damned thing.

As she struggled her way through paperwork, Hawks was watching from afar, making note of how stubborn she was. It had been a couple hours now since she told him she wouldn’t use the pin and he couldn’t help but be a little annoyed.

Why wouldn’t she just use the damned thing? He spent so much time finding the perfect hair pin, one that suited his likings, one that he knew she’d look stunning in. It was exactly what he was thinking of when he noticed the brown one the week before. He took great care picking out the gems, finding ones that were shiny and beautiful. Why didn’t she want his gift?

His wings puffed up as he thought and, without noticing, he got the attention of the girl on the other side of the room as she hung up to the phone.

“Why are you all puffed up?”

She questioned, getting up from her seat and making her way to him. She circled his form, eyeing him up and down.

“Are you hurt? What’s stressing you out?”

He grumbled inwardly at the fact that his coworker also had wings, and so she knew what caused them to bristle and puff up. He bit his lip and hesitated, wondering if he should be honest or give an innocent lie.

“Why won’t you use the hair pin? Do you not like it?”

Finch was taken aback. All this over this dumb hair pin?

“Of course I like it Hawks, it’s absolutely beautiful, but I can’t accept it for the simple fact that you’re my boss..”

She paused and looked off before continuing.

“It would make it look like I was... erm.. having inappropriate relations with you or something...”

It was silent for a moment before Hawks laughed loudly, leaning over and supporting himself against his desk as he did so. Finch gave a surprised look before the annoyance set in. He really didn’t get how it was being a woman at a big agency like this did he? Every woman in her position was accused of sleeping her way to the spot, without a doubt, and she was doing everything in her power to make sure no rumors would begin.

“I sincerely doubt that would happen, Dove-”

“The rumor has gone around with every PA you’ve had since the agency opened Sir.”

His laughing cut off abruptly. Did he really have no idea any of that was a thing? Finch was sure there were already rumors going around about her without her parading around with expensive gifts and such, she couldn’t imagine the amplification it would cause if she accepted his gift.

“Are you serious?”

She nodded at her shocked boss. Honestly, she wondered how he didn’t know considering it effected all his PAs so far. He was silent for a moment before sighing and looking at her.

“Listen, the hairpin is for you and it’s yours to wear whenever you want. I’m not taking it back. If you do decide to wear it around, I’ll take care of any nasty words that may come about, how about that Dove?”

She looked at him and swallowed, wringing her wrists. She just didn’t know if it would really be ok. There was no way he could just be rid of any rumors that began that easily. She didn’t know wether to just trust him or to save herself the probably damage to her reputation, and deny his gift.

“I can see you’re thinking pretty bird. Just trust me ok?”

She sighed and he broke into a smile, grabbing her by the shoulders and leading her to the middle of the room before going to grab the hairpin. When he returned to her and came up behind her, twisting her hair up and pinning it in place. She turned back towards him and patted the back of her head, making sure it was secure before giving him a shy smile.

“Thank you, sir..”

His eyelids were hooded as he looked at her with a predatory gaze, as if she had just sold herself to him. She was a little suspicious.

“Don’t sweat it birdie, you look amazing.”

As he made his way back to his seat he took a silent, deep breath. Something in him was going a little wild over the fact that she had finally accepted it, she was wearing his gift. It was almost as if he had marked his territory in some primal, animalistic way. His pupils retracted into slits as he looked at her from across the room and he had to blink away a fog in his brain. It was so distracting to see her turn in her chair and the green gems reflect, so near the same amazing view of her wings. It was eye-catching to see such a pretty pairing, he did a great job.

At the end of the day he helped her with her coat again when she admitted that she had to meet with a friend after work.

“Who?”

“A childhood friend, she's a hero too, you may know her, Starlight?”

He searched his brain fro a memory of the name but came up empty handed.

“Doesn’t quite ring a bell.”

“Well, we’re going drinking and-”

“Who else is going with you?”

“Uh.. it’s just us two?”

She gave him a weird look as she fixed her purse on her shoulder.

“Well, just be careful. Two women out alone in the city... Here why don’t you just take my number in case something happens.”

He offered, grabbing her phone from the desk top and adding his contact. When he was finished he handed the phone to her.

“Just be safe, wouldn’t want anything to happen to my sweet little PA now would we?”

She blushed and chuckled as she made her way to the elevator.

“Thanks sir but, I think we’ll be alright.”

She assured him as the doors closed.

#mha hawks #hawks angst #bnha hawks #keigo takami #bnha keigo #fanfic #fanfiction

17 notes · View notes

lindendragonart · 4 years ago

Note

AHIT Headcannons?

Hmmm, kinda vague question but I'll see what I can do. Oh actually, looking at my drafts I do have some space kids personality headcanons so I'm just gonna copy paste it here and add to it.

Some Hat and Bow personality headcanons, particularly for my au (which I'm probably gonna stockpile until I'm done)

While both Hat and Bow are both playful, as kids usually are, Hat is more outgoing, while Bow is more on the shy side, though she loves adventuring and making friends just as much as Hat does.

While both are generally kind people, Hat can be smug and mischevous sometimes, Bow can too, but milder and way less often, and she knows when to stop.

Hat means well, but sometimes she cannot properly read the situation or people's emotions which, along with her slight lack of social skills, can sometimes make her say things that are not completely appropriate for the situation at hand. Sometimes, what she says may even come off as a little brash. Bow is more emotionally intelligent out of the two of them, so she is better at properly handling certain social or emotional situations.

Their backstory I've basically taken from Lemonadesoda's fic "Hide and seek" except Bow is there too. In short, their parents died when they were little so they were left in the care of the parents' colleagues but they see the kids as an incovinience and don't pay much attention to them, one day an evacuation takes place on the colony and the kids accidentally get left behind. They put a ship together out of scrap and go to fly back home but get stuck on earth when they lose their Time pieces.

Bow is slightly taller than Hat

Oh! Just remembered, alien species headcanons! Got them saved on my phone

Alien society

Time pieces are generally used as spaceship fuel, to produce energy, and as a regular citizen you may have the right to reverse a recent, minor incident. Anything more mayor done by an unexperienced or hasty mind could have grave consequences (like Mustache Girl's unstable time rift which would have eventually collapsed and killed the whole planet)

All citizens are under a moral code where they are sworn to protect the proper flow of time. Only authorities authorized by the CEO of time may use the Time pieces for bigger scale endeavors such as reversing major catastrophies, but it's a slow process and by the time they fix one, a hundred more happen in just one sector alone, so don't get your hopes up about having your tragedy reversed.

The aliens actually did visit Earth centuries before, but they have a policy not to interfere with outside communities too much if their society hasn't technologically advanced enough yet, so as to not sully their natural progress or ruin their culture due to colonization or similar. They are allowed to essentially "hang out" should the native community be willing to continue benevolent contact, so they do end up sharing information about each others culture and technology, which is why Earth has an affinity for hats with special abilities like the alien society does.

The aliens also found out about cats while on Earth and they liked them so much they took some home, so now they are a semi-popular pet there. (look I just really needed to explain why Bow's default outfit is cat-themed)

The alien society has developed a vaccine that can permanently grant your immune system the ability to succesfully fend off most foreign diseases. These are also given to any outsiders joining their society to prevent them from immediatelly dying from their diseases. On the topic of that. All space travellers must go through a decontamination process before setting off, so as not to infect foreign worlds.

Alien biology

Aliens don't really keep track of their age unless it's for legal reasons due to all the time shenanigans that happen while traveling screwing with their passage of time, but generally speaking, aliens grow up at a similar speed to humans until they mostly stop growing at around 10-11 in Earth years, then they stay mostly the same until hitting a growth spurt at 15-16 that will continue until they hit 18-19.

Their blood is a kind of reddish+magenta, would definitelly look off to a human.

They come in all the skin tones humans can come in, with the addition of more pinkish skin tones

Most of them have saturated, brightly colored eyes like blue, red, yellow and purple. Brownish/ dull colored eyes are kinda rare, which is how you may be able to tell apart a human from an alien at first glance.

Their species has through the centuries of space-traveling adapted to being able to eat many things which may be poisonous to the average non-space faring creature, to ensure survival on a new world.

As we see in canon, they are incredibly strong compared to humans too.

Random headcanon about the horizon

The Horizon is a plane where all "magic" comes from. The aliens learned to harvest it and weave it into hat yarn long ago, while on Earth, the horizon leaks through in more impure forms, once the magic finds itself in a creature or object, it can form different characteristics depending on the person, forming the types of magic people like Vanessa and Snatcher wield. Having magic on Earth is kinda like having a symbiotic spirit that has no consciousness of its own. Earthlings do not understand most of it, and simply call it magic.

Also here are some Subcon headcanons but they will be short cause they are either widely known about or I talked about it before

Vanessa's mother was abusive and would lock her in the cellar (without chains) when she misbehaved. Vanessa had no control over her life which later made her possesive and controling towards the prince.

The Prince knows about Vanessa's mother being horrible to Vanessa but not the full extent of it.

Vanessa frequently guilt tripped the Prince with her own insecurities and how her mother treated her, and the Prince always either gave in because he didn't want to upset her further or got backed into a corner with it when he actually tried to defend himself, dismissing his own concerns as trivial.

Snatcher steals souls because Vanessa's powers are still running rampant and might even freeze the whole world if Snatcher doesn't use soul power to melt the ice. Kind of a "forced to become a monster to protect himself from one" situation.

Okay I hope that answered everything! Thank you for the ask

#lindendragon #my stuff #ahit #ask #anon #ahit headcanons #hc #headcanons #aliens #hat aliens #asks #answer #save #ahit bow kid #ahit hat kid #ahit the prince #ahit snatcher #ahit queen vanessa #alien

18 notes · View notes

mossworth · 3 years ago

Note

❤️ 🗣 🏝 💔👤- I could just ask all of them honestly, but I should probably call it here~

I can always count on you to let me ramble about my stuff. ♩✧♪●♩

Ooh, these are good ones, too! But I'm going to apologize in advance because these are much longer than single "lines". But uh. Yeah I'm sure there aren't any rules against it. Tally-Ho.

Thanks again for the ask!

❤️ Share one of your favorite lines.

“…Where one should’ve seen another man’s eyes, seen the sockets and bone that normally made up expression he only saw bulging skin. A translucent, membranous layer coated above pools of oil; sacks of gelatinous fat held in place with grease. Ardolf was thankful he’d been born strong-willed, otherwise he was certain he might’ve fainted. He was already nearly there. In the sockets of its face, murky blacks and blues swam under the transparent skin. There were no pupils, no irises, no whites, but the eyes themselves – the things that overtook the creature’s face weren’t hollow. Instead, he found himself staring into two bulging pockets swollen with liquid – a viscous solution that filled a sack.

Not just as a medical man or doctor of science and research, but as a human being in a world where daily he saw the outcomes of magic in man and beast alike – Ardolf had never seen a creature like that…”

- Sightless Through the Underbrush - A Bit of Fantasy Horror

🗣 Share your favorite dialogue exchange.

“…“Uuwu – what’s this?” He said, bending down to look at the pile.

I punched him. It was on the arm and not hard enough to actually hurt, but we both had a silent understanding that he deserved so much more. “Never say that again.”

He paused for a second – as if he were suddenly faced with an intimately life altering decision. “…Uuwu, what’s wrong with you?”

I punched him again.”

🏝 Share your favorite description of a setting.

I’m so sorry I genuinely couldn’t choose between these two so you’re just going to have to take both –

“On coming to the woods that held the city, life bustled and hurried around them – it was sunset, just as Brutus said it would be, and all the people seemed keen to get back to their homes and their hostels. But even past the endlessly humming crowds, it was impossible to miss the archway that marked the entrance to Olfnor itself.

Fantastically massive trees were bowed and braided into each other, their leaves intertwined creating one single, welcoming archway. Set firmly in their trunks were deep groves, these naturally formed hollows that held stoic-faced archers watching the gates and the people coming through them. If it weren’t the trees that caught their eyes, it was the way the dim, setting sunlight danced and shined through their curved branches. Catching the light in such a-way that it illuminated the whole of the gate in a faint gold and orange glow.”

- "A Poorly Timed Meeting", a bit from a chapter of a "currently unnamed" WIP

“I’m certain there’s better graves on this plane to lay yourselves into.” The voice cracked into a low, muttering chuckle. “Come to me, will you? I want to know whose corpse I’ll be smelling for the next… oh, eleven years. Twelve if it doesn’t get too damp.” With that, those pinkish watercolor lights filtered into the room from every direction. They snaked through the faint cracks in the stone, filling them like a dam-broken into a drought-ridden river. With his hands planted shakily on the ground he could feel the light properly; it was freezing. The tendrils of color wound to the center in pulsating, pastel waves. The figure was illuminated with every strike of pink and white. It was humanoid but radiated this inhuman presence that stifled the room in a light, panicky fog. It sat slumped over its legs with long, spindly arms pulled behind it. Its face stayed turned to the ground as it spoke; long, unkempt strands of hair running in tangles over its bare shoulders and down its back. In the slim cascades of tinted light – purples, blues, and pinks now washing over the walls – it was impossible to tell the color of any one thing on its body. As Illistar peered through the light, trying to determine if the figure in front of him was real or some poisoned hallucination, he realized it was more than some kneeling man with an odd choice of seating – it was bound to the center of the room. Its form propped up, just a few inches, from the floor on a sharply carved pedestal that raised it into a series of chains. They were dull and old, black at the farthest points on the walls but turning white the closer to figure they got – as if holding each magical ray of color it created. The links of metal shot in every direction off the kneeling form. From the traps around its wrist; the collar around its neck; to the largest clamped firmly around its waist linked with dozens of short chains, driving it further in the ground; it sat there in a mess of tightly bound cable and rope. A prisoner in technicolor water.”

- Heteroclite's Chamber, Tales of Waterdeep: The Chained Madness - Heteroclite, Heterodox, Hklinein

This one can actually be read in full!

Either here on Tumblr,

or over here on AO3

💔 Share your most heartbreaking line.

…”As you break your way into the cell, you find him. After all this time, the work, the grief, you finally find him there huddled in one of the corners. Beaten and bullied with dark purple bruises contrasting his grey skin. But as you take a step forward, he shifts back. Not scared or shaken, but angry. He glares at you in a way you'd only ever seen when he had been fighting for you. Staring daggers as if he doesn't even recognize who you are. You try to say something, lifting you hands to sign but you realize he's not looking at you. He won't even let you try to say something.

But in his anger you can't help but to notice tears falling down his face. Bitter, angry and wet – trailing in glossy streaks.

He signs something fast and frantic, hardly legible behind the heavy chains holding his wrists but just well enough that the words strike you. “Monsters.” the first word repeats as he motions to the whole group. “You monster.” He signs, hands striking words now directed exactly at you. “You have taken everything… But not him. Not him.” He hesitates, like a stutter. “At least leave my memory whole.”…”

- Description I wrote for a D&D session from when one of the PCs finally found his love interest who’d been kidnapped by a criminal origination. Theyrn wasn’t entirely willing to believe that Calder really was who he said he was, and thought his captors were just trying to bait him. This was the moment Calder learned that they truly felt the same about each other in probably the most depressing way possible. It was so much fun. My player’s almost cried.

BONUS:

“Go. Live. Don’t waste your life on those who don’t know how to die.”

- The Ghost of an Assassinated Prince to his Still-living Partner

👤 Share a line that shows a character’s personality.

“…“Hey, the car’s not –“ Jo tried to put it in reverse but the shift-stick wouldn’t budge. “It’s not moving.”

“Did you try asking it nicely…?” Martin pitched in, leaning forward a little.

“No, I guess I didn’t think to – James, fix it.”

James put his hands in the air defensively. “Ye forces of magic are old and unpredictable! My hands are clean from whatever’s happening here.”…”

- Ghoul Parade (I’d give a chapter but this one hasn’t actually been published yet, sorry!)

#writing #writblr #writing ask game #ask game #original writing #ghoul parade #Ardolf Greymouth #horror #horror writing #WIP #wip excerpt

3 notes · View notes

whatever-came-to-mind · 4 years ago

Text

Dragons’ Egg

Today was the day. You had been caring for the egg for months and today was the day it would hatch and reveal itself to me. The egg you’d chosen was a small black one. Your family wasn't rich and couldn’t afford the heavy gold ones or shimmering diamond ones. Even if you could’ve had your pick of the store, there was no way you’d've chosen one of the pricier eggs. The egg in the discount bin just seemed perfect. The moment you walked into the store, you had felt the call. It was a dull black color, you almost missed it among it’s larger comrades. It seemed impossibly small.

The old man that had sold you the egg had smiled as he handed it over. Only the smartest and wisest citizens got to be dragon vendors. It didn’t really make much of a difference who sold the egg to you, everyone you’d ever talked to about it always said that they too could feel the pull of their egg. All of your friends had gotten theirs months before, eager to have a dragon of their own. When you turned 21, you could buy an egg of your choice and when it finally chose to hatch, it would be bonded to you. It had been so exciting to walk into the store on your birthday but it was not even remotely close to the rush of excitement as the first crack appeared in the black shell.

Watching the shell develop more and more cracks, it was all you could do not to help. Helping your dragon come out of its shell was supposed to be bad luck. Normally, you didn’t believe in luck of any kind, but this was something special. As more and more cracks appeared all over the egg, the anticipation grew. What would it be like? Would it be feathered like your older sister’s, or have extra wings like Mother’s? Would it breathe ice like Father’s or fire like grandma’s? You’d spent hours and hours thinking about what it would look like and how it would act, but when the egg finally burst open there was still surprise at what had been inside this entire time.

Two small dragons covered in goo, lifted their heads and looking around expectantly. They stumbled a few times, trying to untangle themselves. They were each the size of a quarter, small for even newborns. You’d never heard of someone having two dragons before. You didn’t even think it was possible to have two dragons. Was it illegal? And how had they spent all that time squished together in such a small egg?

Instinctively, you reached a hand out to the both of them. The silvery one sneezed and purple liquid shot out its mouth. The liquid sizzled and burned quickly through the desk. It looked up into your eyes with a pair of curious pinkish ones. The crimson one took a few steps toward you, curious about what to do with your hand. It’s spiked tail leaving a trail of flowers in its wake.

When they both mustered the courage to finally touch your outstretched hand it sent a shock through your hand and into your brain. Then all you could see was darkness, but there was a voice. It was a kind voice and when it talked your hearts throbbed with joy and comfort. The voice sang to you, told stories, asked questions. You couldn’t answer but still every time the voice spoke, you couldn’t help but feel comforted. All you had ever known was the silent darkness, but now there was the voice. As time went on, you began to recognize the voice. It was your own. You were remembering everything you’d ever said to the egg from the dragons’ perspective.

Suddenly it was all gone and you were back in the small room, now seeming impossibly large. The two dragons had started chasing each other around on the desk, tackling the other before hopping off and running away. It was a silly game and you smiled as the two ran around. They were stretching out their legs, flapping their wings a little when they tackled each other but they wouldn’t be able to fly for another few weeks. You smiled as the red one launched itself directly on the silver one who gave a little squawk before its sibling jumped off and bounded away. The desk was almost completely covered in flowers and where it wasn’t, there were holes where the silver dragon’s acid had burned through in it.

You had thought of a thousand names that you liked in the months leading up to this, but now that it was time to choose, you couldn’t think of a single one. Using both of your hands to lift the dragons up to eye level, they immediately calmed and sat down. Their expectant eyes waited for you to say something and looking first to the crimson dragon on the left I said the first thing that came to mind.

“Jira,” the tiny dragon smiled and looking to it’s twin you said, “Morana.”

They both seemed to be happy about their names and chuffed happily. The white one nipped at my finger a little and you were surprised when the purple acid didn’t burn your skin like it had the desk. After a few more hours of playing and seeing who could climb up your shirt to sit on your shoulder the fastest, the two dragons curled up with one another in the palm of my hand and fell asleep. Jira and Morana were better than any dragons you could’ve hoped for.

#writing prompt #i can't find the post but it really inspired me #personal dragons #jira #morana #original story #creative commons

1 note · View note

diningpageantry · 5 years ago

Text

Firsts

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18672919/chapters/47370115

Chapter 13/13 of Proximity (The Collision of Lonely Men)

Word Count: 1416

Summary: It's the final dance of the year, and Simon has an important proposition.

~~~~~~~~~~

The snack table seems to have gotten wider since the last time we did this.

Although, of course, any distance from Baz seems like it’s too far since the last time we did this.

If I can’t theoretically reach out and touch him, then we might as well be continents apart. But, instead, we’re just separated by a spread of refreshments (that I can’t seem to be able to stop attacking) at this bloody school dance.

Again, with his gaze forward, and mine, unabashedly, on him.

“So,” I say, just quiet enough that only he can hear me, but loud enough to travel over the thump of the music. “You’ve double checked with Fiona?”

He nods as his arms pull up, crossing over his chest nonchalantly. His head turns, facing me with his usual still gaze. “She leaves for Glasgow next Thursday. Said she’d leave a key under the doormat for us. So long as we don’t touch her vinyls.”

I feel myself smile, hand scrubbing over my face. I need a shave. “Damn. All of ‘em?”

Subtly, he smiles back. “Yes, all of them.”

We stare at one another before drifting back forward, my weight shifting.

Back in London then, even if it’s only for a few months. Bless his aunt for being the decent one in the family--she’s apparently going off to follow a band around Europe for the summer (wonder what it’s like to live with that kind of money). And, thankfully, she said we could stay in her flat, saving us the hassle of trying to find temporary living elsewise.

It’s odd to go back. Not that I have anyone to have an awkward encounter with, but to the city itself. I’d said I’d vowed that I didn’t need it when I’d left the first time, but now, with Baz dragging me along, it doesn’t feel like quite the torture. It feels nice, even. We’ve been making plans for Thursday night dinners, and matinees on Mondays, since I don’t have classes then.

Which is something else that’s new. Something else I never thought I’d do, but something I don’t think I should’ve ever turned away from.

Culinary school. Or, just some classes, really.

Baz was right. I do like it--sometimes more than what I’ve got going on here.

It isn’t really that I’m trying to step out of the job now. It’s fine for the time being, at least. But it doesn’t hurt to take classes here and there. Work around it--work myself up.

Who knows where I’ll be in five years. Who knows where we’ll be in five years.

I look across at him again, watching pink and purple changing lights fan over his face as he stares off.

I don’t know where we’ll be in five years, but I know I want to be with him.

The five years thing might take a few steps. More boundaries to wiggle past, more roadblocks to step around. Little thing here, little thing there. A big one, on occasion. Like the one we’ve got now.

The big one that needs to be broken past.

He’s said it’s in my time, but I know what that really means. It means he’ll be stone cold and borderline snippy at me anytime someone’s really looking, and longingly trying to grab an eyeful of one another at every other time.

It’s tedious.

It’s actually starting to hurt. A dull ache, right in the center of my chest, whenever he turns away.

Looking back at my hands, I sigh, studying over the twists of my knuckles and stretched pinkish tones of my palms. They look so much better splayed out against his skin.

I reach out for another handful of Smarties, trying to occupy myself (and my mouth) until the night finally ends.

When we can finally go back to our room. And finally start to pack up our shit.

And, finally, go to live a life outside of Watford together, even if only for a few months.

My eyes fall shut, listening to the thump of the music and the laughing chatter of the students. It all drones on until it dips to a slow song, making my heart pick up, if only a tiny bit.

Exhaling, I think of the crowd as the ache slowly creeps back onto me.

There’s a time and place for firsts, and he’s had so many of mine. I think I owe him one, especially if it comes with this change. This big leap.

I force myself to properly smile, clearing my throat. “You know,” I say aloud, keeping my eyes shut. “I never got to do a proper school dance…”

I feel his eyes on me, heavy and steady. It’s not new--it’s just newly loved. Something I’ll cling to now as his only means of truly showing vulnerability. “I didn’t either,” he says slowly, like he’s processing it through.

I think this is the first time I’ve ever properly stumped him.

My face melts further into a real grin, lashes fluttering open as I suck in a breath. “Never really felt comfortable enough,” I say softly, gaze towards the crowd.

“And I was never allowed,” he says back, shifting against the wall. I wonder if he’s a bit too proud to say something. Sounds like he is.

I just let myself chuckle, chest feeling the right type of warmth. The kind that sparks whenever he holds me..

The warmth spreads down to my fingertips, making them feel like they’re sparking as my head goes all dizzy and sweet. Shit. I’m really doing this.

I push myself off carefully, stepping around the snack table.

He stares at me, eyes open and unsure as I reach him and slowly extend an open palm.

“Well?”

“Well what?” he whispers. I can barely even hear him--I’m just reading it on his lips.

“Well,” I laugh. “Would you care to join me in our first dance?”

He drags his eyes over me, looking more wide open. Exposed.

He’s so vulnerable. Nearly naked in this light, despite the fact that he really isn’t anywhere near actually naked--he’s dressed much better than me, like he always is, but it feels more like a disguise than an outfit. All smoke and mirrors, none of the softness that I know is deep inside there, somewhere.

I give him a smile, the kind that I reserve for when we’re alone, and stay open-palmed. He stares at me like I’ve got three heads, chests growing with a sharp inhale.

Shamelessly, I just grin, keeping the hand steady. “C’mon,” I murmur. “It’ll be fine. I’ll try to not step on your toes too much.”

He shakes his head. “It… it isn’t that,” he says softly. “It’s… this is coming out, Simon.”

“I know.”

His eyes flicker over mine, mouth hanging open silently for a minute. “And you’re sure that you want to do this? You’re ready for this?”

“For you?” I whisper. I trust him with this--I trust him with all of this. I trust him to keep me safe, to keep us safe. I trust that, if we’re asked to not room together, then we’ll work it out so that we can get a flat nearby. I trust we’ll keep our jobs--I trust us to work through it, no matter what. “I’m more than ready.”

He watches me steadily, hand slowly reaching out and, in a soft suck of air, he settles his palm onto mine.

I burst into a chuckle, closing out palms together as I pull him in, stepping just onto the outskirts of the floor.

He eyes me up, letting me unsurely settle a hand onto his waist. “Do you even know how to dance?” he whispers, letting go and very hesitantly draping his arms onto my shoulders. I shrug, still grinning to let him know it’s okay.

“No,” I reply confidently. “But it’s fine. Nobody else in this room seems to be able to.”

He exhales, head dropping a bit as his cheeks pull into the first real smile of the night. I beam back surely, pulling him in to sway along.

I catch some gazes over his shoulder. Astonished students, gawks of other teachers. The shock, I’m sure, from a culmination of things probably starting with the sight of Baz smiling, and ending with this view of us, but I don’t care.

I don’t think I’ll ever care again.

So long as I have Baz in my arms, nothing about coming out seems quite as scary.

#proximity (the collision of lonely men)#p(tcolm)#carry on #snowbaz #fanfiction #fanfic #fic #mine #simon snow #tyrannus basilton grimm-pitch #tyrannus basilton grimm pitch #baz pitch #simon #baz #y'all it's finished!!!!

42 notes · View notes

magic-and-moonlit-wings · 6 years ago

Text

Chapter 25: Vendel Is Not Amused

Becoming The Mask

Content warnings for this chapter: some swearing, a fight scene, and one death.

Text in bold italics is trollish.

~Text between tildes~ is goblin.

Mornings were often a relatively calm time in Trollmarket. Trolls who frequented the surface were back home and settling in to sleep; their families and neighbours often found themselves doing the same, pulled along by social instincts and the forces of inertia; and trolls who didn't bother following the cycle of day and night kept their volume down to a dull roar as a courtesy.

It should have been the perfect time for Trollmarket's Elder to unwind with a quiet drink.

"Vendel, there's a new human in Trollmarket!"

"Vendel? Vendel! The Trollhunter brought another human down here!"

"Vendel, did you hear yet? The Trollhunter says he fought Bular this morning!"

"Vendel, the Trollhunter's here with a human he says he saved from Bular!"

"Vendel! The Trollhunter has a human with him he says fought Bular!"

"Vendel, is it true? Did the Trollhunter face Bular last night?"

At least Jim had waited until Vendel got most of the way through his mug before setting off the latest uproar. There had been little enough left that Vendel was able to toss it back – rushing what should be savoured, but at least getting to finish his drink this time – before setting off for the library.

"Vendel –"

"I have heard the rumours and am on my way to verify them."

"About the Trollhunter threatening a civilian with his sword?"

"He did what?!"

"That's not what happened; he just used it to block a gnome somebody threw at him."

Vendel sighed and stopped walking. He gathered a disjointed account of the Trollhunter either threating a resident of the market for daring to be upset at an additional human intruder, or protecting himself and a companion from unwarranted assault. He promised the now-bickering pair that he would question the Trollhunter on the matter, and walked on. They were too deep in their argument to notice.

He paused again at the library doorway.

"But you promised!" Jim was pleading inside.

"I'm sorry, Master Jim, but this situation has officially gotten out of hand. We have to tell Vendel."

An excellent cue for his entrance.

"Tell me what?"

There were actually two new humans in the library. One of them seemed to have fainted, and was lying on a table. The other, Jim made a spirited but fruitless attempt to hide behind his back.

"Jim, please." The human put a hand on the boy's shoulder. Jim made a small, disappointed noise and settled.

"Well, Blinkous?"

Blinkous wrung all four of his hands together. "How much have you already heard?"

"The Trollhunter fought Bular, escaped, and brought a new human to Trollmarket. Which does not explain the other one."

"Draal brought Mom. So Bular couldn't track my scent to my house and use her as a hostage against me."

Vendel doubted Bular would have thought to do that. Hostage taking was more of a Changeling tactic than a Gumm-Gumm one. Killing her and leaving the body for her son to find might be more Bular's style, if he could hold himself back from eating the fleshbag once he killed her.

Either way, what was done was done, and having his mother safe in Trollmarket would probably grant the Trollhunter some peace of mind.

"There's only one new human in Trollmarket right now," said Draal. "The other one's an Imp– a Changeling."

Jim tried once again to block Vendel's line of sight to the conscious human. "He really did save me from Bular, though."

Vendel used his staff to ease the Trollhunter aside. AAARRRGGHH helpfully pushed the Changeling forward.

"Don't hurt him!" Jim cried.

The Changeling's human form was unremarkable. Grey hair, in a puffy style like a rooster's comb. Pinkish hide, the colour of a plucked chicken, similar to Jim and his friend Tobias. Green eyes like Tobias, as well. Taller than the Trollhunter or his friends; perhaps an adult.

"Who are you?"

"He's my history teacher, Mr Strick–"

"Waltolomew Stricklander." With what had to be sarcasm, the Changeling added, "My friends call me Walt."

"I knew him," said AAARRRGGHH. "Before. Clever. Could help us."

It was rare for AAARRRGGHH to speak about his time as a Gumm-Gumm.

Jim's judgement was obviously compromised. If the Changeling had been passing as the boy's teacher, he was probably interpreting any actions performed to maintain a human cover as evidence that Changelings weren't really so bad.

But, Vendel supposed, AAARRRGGHH's assessment would have to be taken into account in deciding what to do about this.

"You believe a Changeling could be trustworthy?"

"Master Jim has been. For the most part."

The Trollhunter gasped as though struck. Vendel almost hit the Changeling in the face with his horn turning to look at Blinkous.

"What are you talking about?"

Blinkous was still wringing his hands. He looked everywhere except at Vendel or Jim.

"It has – very recently, I ought to emphasize – come to light, that the Amulet did not, in fact, choose a human to be Trollhunter."

There was a moment of silence while Trollmarket's Elder processed these implications. If Blinkous had come to him alone with these words, Vendel could've dismissed it as the latest in a long list of conspiracy theories, but –

"Blinky, you promised!"

"And you promised us full disclosure! Would you have even mentioned the Bridge again if not for what happened this morning?"

"I had it handled! It can't open with a piece missing, so there was no reason to upset anybody!"

"You almost died!"

"A life of almost is a life of never!"

An angular woman in a purple dress was snickering beside Draal. As the smallest troll in the library, she hadn't drawn Vendel's notice earlier. "I might end up collateral damage, but I am so glad I got to see this train wreck."

"Surely Merlin would have included a safeguard to keep the Amulet from selecting a Changeling." Vendel frantically ran through every memory he had of Jim. Had there been any sign at all of an imposter, an infiltrator –?

"Unless it's true that Merlin can see the future." Stricklander was outwardly resigned to whatever fate awaited him. He hadn't turned his back on AAARRRGGHH or Vendel but he had begun to browse the library shelves. "If he foresaw the rebuilding of Killahead Bridge, he might have foreseen the advantage of a Champion with inside access to the project."

Why had Blinkous and AAARRRGGHH and Draal let a Changeling Trollhunter live? Draal especially. They could have blamed Jim's death on Bular if Blinkous worried that revealing Jim as a Changeling would cast aspersions against past bearers of the Amulet.

"Or, the Amulet's partially self-aware, right?" Jim pulled his upper lip behind his teeth. "Maybe it looks at whatever killed the last Trollhunter and picks the new one based on who's least likely to die that way? From where Kanjigar's body was and how he was posed when you guys … rebuilt him, I think Bular threw him into sunlight and he tried to tuck and roll back to the shadows but wasn't fast enough."

"Or possibly," Vendel mused aloud, "the Amulet truly did intend to select a human." Jim could clearly use it – he was wearing the armour right now – but maybe it only worked while he wore his human shape? "Did it call your name, or the fleshbag name you stole?"

Stricklander and the pink woman – who she was and how she was involved were still a mystery – both flinched. Jim's eyes went red.

"No. No, you don't get to do that. You never gave a damn about a human in your life before you thought one had been chosen as the Trollhunter." Jim stabbed a finger at Vendel. "You do not get to stand there and act like you care more about Jay-Jay than I do."

"Jay-Jay?" said AAARRRGGHH.

"Besides, if it had meant to choose him, you should be grateful it ended up with me instead. Pulling an actual human child with no combat experience or awareness of trolls into this job would've been unfathomably irresponsible."

Jim took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His eyes settled back into their usual blue colour.

"You nicknamed your Familiar?"

"What, you didn't?"

At least that exchange almost explained the troll woman's presence, Vendel thought sourly. A third Changeling. Ugh. He'd already been getting too old for this when the last war ended.

"To return to the more salient points," said Blinkous, "Killahead Bridge is nearly rebuilt, and Bular is out for blood."

AAARRRGGHH cringed. Blinkous rubbed one of his arms comfortingly. AAARRRGGHH wrapped that arm around Blinkous and pulled him close. Blinkous nuzzled AAARRRGGHH's cheek and reclined against his chest. AAARRRGGHH relaxed, slightly.

"Bular is a simple problem to resolve." Stricklander drew something from his jacket – a knife? No, a pen – and toyed with it as he spoke. "We just have to kill him. The Bridge is of greater concern, despite the missing piece." He looked at Jim. "The missing piece is largely unknown. The necessity of the Amulet is not."

"Steal rest of it?" AAARRRGGHH suggested. "Trollmarket has vault now. Keep pieces there?"

It wasn't a terrible idea. Except for the detail of Changelings now having access to Trollmarket.

"How do you propose to kill Bular?" Draal growled. "Every Trollhunter to face him –"

"Fought him alone," said Stricklander. "There's something to be said for outnumbering your opponent … Draal, is it? I presume you'd be willing to help Jim, in the interests of avenging your father. Between the three of us, we ought to stand a chance."

"Four." The Changeling woman drew a hooked sword from behind her back. It turned from blue to orange in her hand. Jim and Stricklander exchanged a look too quick for Vendel to read.

"Wouldn't you rather stay here and claim a place on the winning side no matter who wins?" said Jim.

"But in the fight, I can be the deciding factor." She sheathed her blade. "… Besides, I still owe you for those Helheetis."

"Aw, Nomura …"

"Don't get sappy."

"It's just nice you remembered. In case you ever needed an excuse to help me."

"What did I just say?"

"Any other volunteers?" Stricklander was looking at AAARRRGGHH. The Krubera's head and ears drooped.

"AAARRRGGHH's a pacifist; Vendel is … necessary, for the day-to-day running of Trollmarket, and so probably shouldn't get dragged into fights willy-nilly," which was probably the most polite way Vendel had ever been dismissed as 'old'; "and Blinky, um, should stay here, because … he'd be the best one to explain things to my mom if she wakes up while we're gone."

Everyone looked at Jim. Blinkous was the one to say it.

"You don't intend to wait for her to wake up and tell her yourself, before going into battle?"

"Of course not. Ideally, she sleeps through this, Draal and I take her home after it's all resolved, we set her up on the couch with the TV on, Mom assumes she dozed off, and we don't have to tell her anything."

"Such lengthy somnolence wouldn't concern you?"

"She's never had a bad reaction to spindle gloss before."

"How often do you dose her with it?" Vendel wasn't an expert on human emotional expression, and he wouldn't trust a Changeling's expressions anyway, but Stricklander almost appeared concerned.

"Every couple of weeks, no more than twice a week. Her nights off don't always overlap with my nights out. It's been over four days since last time unless she's been brewing it for herself."

Stricklander nodded.

Jim started rummaging through Blinkous' overstocked shelves.

"Have you got a map of Arcadia's tunnels and sewers down here? Oh, you'll want to read this." He handed Stricklander a hefty tome. "It's one of Blinky's; an account of the first hundred years of the development of Trollmarket, both in physical construction and politically amongst troll communities. I haven't gotten around to it yet but it sounds like your kind of thing."

Sticklander's eyes shot wide. He clutched the book close to his chest. He glanced at Vendel, who stood closest, then at AAARRRGGHH and Blinkous, then at Draal.

Evidently deciding they weren't going to attack him the instant he looked away, Stricklander opened the book, holding it so he could easily peek at them over the top of it, and started to read greedily.

The Changeling woman, Nomura, rolled her eyes but smiled slightly.

"Okay, here we go." Jim partially unrolled a scroll. "Draal, could you move a table, not the one Mom's resting on, to the middle of the room?"

Several books fell off it with loud thumps and thunks. Blinkous left AAARRRGGHH's embrace to pick them up, but settled comfortably against his side again when AAARRRGGHH came up to the table as well. Jim opened the map and used books to weigh down the corners.

Stricklander closed the book he held and pointed to it. "I'm borrowing this later."

The two Changelings moved to roughly flank the Trollhunter. Blinkous and AAARRRGGHH were on the other side of the table. Vendel and Draal were at either end, Draal beside Nomura. Vendel kept his staff between himself and Sticklander. He didn't like blocking the Changeling from his line of sight, but on the other hand he wanted to be able to block or trip up any sudden attacks.

"The museum is here," Nomura pointed with her long, clawed finger, "and Bular might still be there. If you want to steal the whole Bridge, we'll have to lure him away from it."

"If he expects the fight to stay underground, he won't bring Otto with him," said Stricklander, "but then Otto and the goblins will most likely be standing guard over the Bridge. Unless Otto is still out hunting for us."

"Do we all want to come from the same direction or should we try flanking him?" said Jim. "The goblins will probably let him know where I am, but I could see them opening manhole covers to cut Draal off from joining the fight."

Jim left a note at the library for Barbara, just in case she woke up before he got back.

Mom, we're both safe, was the opening lie. She was; Jim wasn't. Trolls are real. Magic is real. I found a magical artifact which is now tied to me. I have to sort some stuff out with the trolls because of it. Please stay in the library! The librarian, Blinky (the blue one with six eyes), can tell you more. AAARRRGGHH (the big one with green hair) doesn't talk as much, but he's very nice. I'll come back as soon as I can. Love, Jim

"Don't tell her about Changelings, try to downplay the 'until death' part about Trollhunting, and for the love of everything do not tell her there are other human kids involved, because she will insist on telling their families and then we'll have, like, triple the number of humans knowing about trolls," he said to Blinky.

"You would truly prefer to fight Bular, rather than tell Barbara Lake that you're a Changeling?"

"There are a lot of things I would rather do than hurt my mother."

He slipped the folded note between the lenses and arms of Barbara's glasses, so she'd see it right away when she reached for them. Jim brushed aside a lock of his mother's red hair. He kissed her forehead, and went to join Stricklander, Nomura, and Draal by the library entrance.

Jim couldn't blame Nomura for being afraid to be left alone in Trollmarket. If it got out that she was a Changeling … well. Jim had considered inciting a mob to kill Bular. He was pretty sure fifty or more trolls could take down Nomura.

He still half-expected her to turn on them once the fight started, though.

Draal led them through Trollmarket, to one of the side entrances. Nobody threw any gnomes at them this time.

Once they were outside the market and the portal had closed, Stricklander switched to his troll form. Jim hesitated, looking sideways at Draal, and then did the same.

Draal growled softly. Jim's ears drooped and his tail curled down. Nomura swatted one of Draal's shoulder spikes.

"Let's go," said Stricklander, ignoring this little byplay.

Per the plan, Jim went with Draal, so it would be harder to create a sunlight barrier and keep Draal out of the fight. Open manhole covers could still let in the light and pen him in, but that would trap Bular as well.

Stricklander and Nomura snuck along parallel pathways, to circle around and attack Bular from behind or both sides.

If Nomura betrayed them early, Stricklander would kill her, and if she managed to kill him first, Jim would still have Draal backing him up.

They hadn't actually discussed that part during the planning session, of course, but Jim took it as a given.

They weren't far from Trollmarket when Jim's long ears caught the sound of goblin chatter. It was too soft, and the tunnel too echo-y, to make out exactly what they were saying, but he caught Bular's name, and "~angry~".

"~Hello?~" he called softly.

A pair of them peeked around the corner, screeched in alarm, and bolted.

"Don't chase them," he told Draal. "Goblins use tunnels too narrow for a troll to fit. They'll lead Bular to us."

Jim turned and started walking down the pipe where the goblins had been.

Arcadia Oaks had amazingly spacious sewer maintenance tunnels. Trollmarket's residents had expanded the tunnel system for their own purposes, but the human-accessible part was enlarged to troll-accommodating dimensions thanks to the Changelings. They'd been in town since it first sprang up, and influenced its development for their convenience.

Jim hadn't gone far before he heard a distinctive metal-on-cement scraping sound. Bular must have been scouring the tunnels for Jim and Sticklander, for the goblins to find him so quickly.

Bular loomed into the tunnel. He dragged one of his swords along the wall beside him. Some distant part of Jim's brain worried about sparks and methane and explosions.

Bular savoured his approach for maximum intimidation. He moved slowly, letting his intended victim see and hear and smell death coming.

At least, that was probably his plan before Draal roared, tucked and rolled, and ploughed into him.

Bular crossed his swords between them, holding Draal at bay but being pushed backwards by the force of Draal's charge. There were definitely sparks now.

Jim climbed the tunnel wall and magically adjusted his gauntlets and sabatons to substitute for his claws. The Armour of Daylight was wonderfully responsive. He scurried along the ceiling while Bular was focused on keeping Draal back.

Jim conjured his sword. His intent was to drive it into the back of Bular's neck from above, using gravity and all his weight to force the blade in.

But Bular saw the flash of light and dodged, sending Draal ricocheting down the tunnel like a giant spiky pinball and causing Jim to crash to the ground. The sword disappeared.

"Did you think it would be that easy? Trollhunter?"

Jim threw a knife at him – one of the Amulet's knives, not one of his own. Bular knocked it away in midair with one of his swords. Jim resummoned the knife and did it again. This one missed because Draal rolled over Bular from behind, before careening out of sight once again.

Bular spat out something that had gotten into his mouth. Or maybe the spitting was an insult. He used one sword to guard himself and the other as a prop to stand.

One of Stricklander's knives hit Bular's shoulder. That was the arm the troll had been using to get up, and so he staggered. More blades, a quick flurry of them, stabbed into the troll's arm and side. Bular shook them off, leaving him with tiny pockmark injuries.

He swung at Jim. There was a blaze of orange. Nomura deflected Bular's swords with hers.

"All of you will die today," said Bular. "You will be reduced to gravel and washed from this sewer by the next rainstorm."

"You first," Nomura sneered. At the same time, Stricklander threw his Creeper's Sun knife, and sliced Bular's arm.

The Gumm-Gumm roared. Nomura was flung into the wall. One of Bular's swords clattered to the tunnel floor.

Jim was grabbed by the throat and lifted into the air. He pulled out his Creeper's Sun knife and sliced the back of Bular's hand. It only made a small cut, but the injury went grey and purple. Bular dropped Jim with another roar.

Draal roared back. He wasn't in a ball anymore, but running on all fours. He nearly hit Jim while charging Bular a third time.

The tunnel shook from the forceful collision. Stricklander's next knife-throw went wild. He must not have had enough time to stop entirely before Draal threw himself in the way.

The two trolls began grappling. Draal forced Bular to drop his second sword. Bular forced Draal to the ground. Draal's long horns nearly let him head-butt Bular even from that position.

"The Son of Kanjigar would follow an Impure?" said Bular to Draal. "You must be desperate for the Amulet's approval … now that you can never have your father's."

Draal punched Bular in the mouth.

Bular punched Draal in the mouth.

Draal kicked Bular in the gronk-nuks.

Bular reached for his fallen swords – which Jim had already stolen and pulled out of reach, bringing them to where Nomura was extracting herself from a new crater in the wall.

With the option of stabbing taken from him, Bular instead grabbed Draal's horns, pulled his head up, and slammed it back down. Jim and Draal both cried out.

Jim picked up one of Stricklander's knives, now littering the tunnel, and threw it into Bular's side. Stricklander had the skill to throw three at once. Bular was starting to weaken under the barrage and slow down as Creeper's Sun toxin worked through his body … but not fast enough.

Bular struck Draal again, and left him groaning on the floor as he got up to retrieve his swords and finish the job. Jim stood between Bular and the weapons.

"Give up, Impure."

Was that a smile on Bular's face? Was this fight entertaining, amusing to him?

"Every Impure who thought they were strong enough to challenge me has been crushed beneath my feet."

Stricklander's cape frill was starting to run out of knives. He was holding very still, watching Bular for an opening without drawing attention, ready to make his last few blades count.

"Every Trollhunter before you has died at my hands."

Behind Bular, Draal was starting to turn over. If he could get onto his stomach he might be able to push himself up.

"Yield, and I will forgive your treason enough to grant you a quick death."

Jim couldn't see Nomura, behind him, but he could hear her breath. Steady and deep, with no audible sign of an internal injury. She was always good at covering those, though, until after they got out of the Crucible and no Gumm-Gumms could hear.

"You've never endured the Darklands," said Jim. "I've fought Nyarlagroths. They're bigger than you."

Bular grabbed Jim by the back of the neck and held him in the air. Jim's scruff was protected by the armour but the dismissive message still came through clearly. Jim snarled.

Bular laughed when the scrawny Changeling threw a punch at him.

Jim didn't have the strength to damage a large troll by punching, even in his own trollish form. But he did have the power to conjure a magical sword. With Jim's fist nearly to Bular's chest, Daylight manifested, forming inside the Gumm-Gumm and making the impaled troll howl with agony as he began petrifying from inside out.

"DRAAL!" Jim screamed.

And Draal was there, delivering the punch that Jim could not, breaking Bular to pieces.

It was suddenly very, very quiet.

"My father's death … has been avenged." Draal was panting. He dropped to stand on all fours. When he met Jim's eyes, he seemed at peace. "Thank you, Trollhunter."

"We – we just killed Bular," said Jim, stunned. He used his sword to push himself to his feet, shaking off Bular's claws and letting them crumble. He dissipated the sword and whooped. "We killed Bular!" He went pale and summoned a knife. "We killed Bular. Gunmar is going to – oh god, we killed Bular!"

"Perhaps you'd feel less unnerved if you stopped shouting confessions," said Stricklander.

Jim took hold of one of Bular's horns. The Changeling began to chisel at the Gumm-Gumm's neck.

"We should take his head back to Trollmarket as proof he's dead. The rest of him … What do you think? Grave Sand?"

"Grave Sand," Nomura agreed.

"It will be laced with Creeper's Sun," Stricklander pointed out without actually objecting. "Probably best not to mix that in with the general supply." He started gathering up his knives and preening, arranging them around the neck of his cape.

"Draal, do you want the swords?" Jim offered. "I mean, I get if you don't want to use them, but, like a trophy?"

"I'll take them if you don't," said Nomura. She sheathed her swords on her back and, with a grunt, hefted one of Bular's. She needed both hands on the hilt to keep it steady.

Draal didn't look directly at any of the Changelings. "We should take care of Killahead Bridge."

Previous Chapter (Jim and Strickler interrupt Blinky and AAARRRGGHH)

Table of Contents

Next Chapter (Barbara wakes up)

Contrary to what Blinky says in the first part of the chapter, Jim did not, in fact, promise full disclosure. "I can promise not to lie to you, but I can't promise not to keep secrets from you." Blinky, like many people, is prone to errors when upset, and also interpreted this as an implied promise that Jim would disclose anything really important, such as, oh, let's say as a random non-specific example, the reconstruction of Killahead Bridge being near completion.

Jim does not know Kanjigar pulled a 'heroic sacrifice', and instead assumes Bular won the fight unambiguously. Blinky was watching the fight, but from an angle where he also couldn't tell if Kanjigar fell, jumped, or was pushed.

The incident with the Helheetis, fire cats, happened decades or centuries ago in the Darklands, before Jim or Nomura had Familiars. Gunmar ordered some Changelings to fight a pack of Helheetis in the Crucible for his entertainment. Jim saved Nomura's life.

Jim's letter starting with an "opening lie" is not a typo of "opening line". It is deliberate wordplay on the fact he is lying in that first sentence. Likewise, "Blinky, you promised!" and "Don't get sappy" are not typographical errors meant to be said in trollish; both are said in English, just fully italicized for emphasis.

Bular apparently doesn't know about Angor Rot. He canonically claims in the first episode to have killed "every single one" of the Trollhunters, which we later learn cannot be true. Possibly Bular thinks Angor Rot is a myth, or maybe he just exaggerates when boasting.

On a side note, if you prefer your Changeling Jim fics to have a side of Bular Redemption rather than Bular Death, you might want to go over to AO3 and read hodgepodge (no, the title is not capitalized) by Eurydyka_Kaput.

Walt has infinite knives in the show so that the animators didn't have to create multiple models for his cape collar. Possibly the cape was a magical artifact which, like the Amulet, can regenerate lost weaponry? But I decided it would create more tension if he could run out of knives.

18 notes · View notes

cerillosvillage · 6 years ago

Photo

<<Previous | List | Next>>

Two: Dirty Harry

Out in the desert/ With my street sweeper/ The war is over/ So said the speaker

"Is this really it?"

Ib stood with his feet firmly planted shoulder's width apart, his fists on his hips, the cool morning breeze ruffling the few strands of long auburn hair that had escaped from a low ponytail. The sun was just beginning to peak over the horizon, turning the sky from purple to a golden pink. Soon enough the desert plain above the cliff village would become sweltering, but by his estimation, he had a good couple of hours before things really heated up.

Standing in front of him were only two people. Cinna, the supposed patrolman, who stood tall and muscular, his skin bronze and hair sun-bleached, shirtless as he perpetually seemed to be. The other was Amred, the bard, who stood a full foot taller than Cinna, and whose appearance had always perplexed Ib. The bard's body was covered with short brown fur, and his face was like that of a mountain lion's mixed with a man's. Triangular ears stood atop his head, though one was always bent over. Ib had heard of beastmen before, even seen skeletons on display of what purported to be centaurs, but he'd never heard of something like Amred.

That said, he had seen far stranger things than Amred, and none of the villagers seemed at all concerned by the man - creature? - so Ib let it without comment.

"I heard Magdalena asking Glyph to join us, but it didn't sound like she really wanted to," Cinna said.

Ib sighed, casting one more glance back towards the village. When he promised Magdalena he would create a patrol force for her, he knew he had his work cut out for him, but he hadn't expected recruitment to be like pulling teeth. The villagers treated him like a hero since he saved them from Nelan, but that didn't change many attitudes when to came to setting aside their pacifism in order to protect themselves.

Still, two was better than zero. That was what he had to tell himself to keep from just abandoning the whole effort. It was certainly a blow to his ego. He'd lead hundreds of mercenaries in the past, a whole troupe that considered him their leader, and he'd given it all up to chase a story of a leader he thought he could follow, who turned out to not even want any followers.

"Alright," he sighed again, tossing a sword to Amred. Cinna at least already had one of his own, a simple but functional scimitar. That seemed to be the only sword in the village that didn't belong to Ib. He'd brought a whole collection up from his quarters with himself, but it looked like he wouldn't need most of them.

"I would've liked to pair students up, but since it looks like it'll be three of us, I'll work with each of you individually. Cinna, you first. Stand there--"

"Well, I'll be," Amred interrupted. Ib could already feel that he wouldn't have much patience today, so he looked over at the bard to tell him to shut up, but he stopped when he saw the look on Amred's face. Amred looked surprised, if not impressed, by something.

Ib turned to look in the same direction, back towards the village. A massive figure had just topped the stone staircase leading up from the cliff overhang, and was headed towards the trio.

Ib knew that form anywhere. He ought to, as he'd spent a number of nights next to her.

Ajra. The cult leader he'd crossed the world to find, who had rejected him both a follower and as a lover, but who had taken him as a consort. Whatever that meant. He still wasn't sure.

She stalked towards them, her great bulky silhouette backed by the rising sun. She looked pissed, but then again, when didn't she? She walked all the way up to them, stopping just in front of Ib, towering half a foot over him.

"My lady," he said, dipping his head slightly. She didn't like when he called her that, but he couldn't help it. She had a commanding presence that inspired respect in him.

"Ib," she curtly replied.

A moment of silence passed.

"...Well?" She asked, "Are you going to give me a sword or not?"

Ib blinked. "Are you saying you've come to join in the patrol?" He asked. It didn't seem like her.

"You think I'd leave the safety of this village in the hands of these idiots?" She nodded with her chin in the direction of Cinna and Amred. Cinna scowled, but said nothing.

Ib blinked again, but stepped towards the swords he had brought up in a great earthen vase that had been made by one of the villagers for him. "Well," he said, pulling one out, sheath and all, "the more the merrier, I suppose."

Ajra took the sword but looked awkward with it, like she wasn't entirely sure how to handle one. It was odd to see her look confused, as her intimidating presence brought with it a certain air of control and expertise, but thinking back on it, Ib wasn't sure if he'd ever heard of her fighting with bladed weapons. He'd seen her fight Nelan, but that was with a war hammer, and all the stories he'd heard of her before he came to the village talked about her great brute strength, not necessarily her prowess in the martial arts. Come to think of it, he'd never seen a sword or knife in her chambers in the mines, either.

With that in mind, the wheels quickly turned in Ib's head. He now at least had enough for paired sparing, even if that meant he would have to be in one of the pairs. But he didn't dare put Cinna up against Ajra. He'd heard enough about how she had treated the patrolman during the cult days to be afraid that the two might actually try to kill one another if they fought, even in practice. And Cinna seemed to be the only one of the three that actually had any knowledge in how to handle a sword already, so…

"Alright. We've got three, then. Cinna, over here, with me," he said, gesturing for the patrolman - though he might have to stop thinking of the young man like that, since all four of them were technically patrolmen - to stand in front of him.

"Cinna, I want you to come at me with your sword. Ajra, Amred - I'm going to demonstrate some basic blocking techniques. Then I'll have you two try."

He raised his sword, gesturing for Cinna to attack, but before he could, a great loud crack broke the air around them. A bolt of pinkish lightning tore through the sky, striking the sand between Ib and Cinna. Both of them were thrown back by the shockwave it created.

Ib propped himself up on his elbows, blinking stars out of his sight.

They stood in the spot where the lightning had touched down, three figures looking at the quartet in dull surprise.

The tallest of the three - and he (it?) was very tall, easily over eight feet - stepped forward, making towards the stone staircase. The other two, tiny compared to the giant, followed in his footsteps.

The patrol-in-training watched in stunned silence for a moment, all four unsure what to do. It was Ajra that made the first move, lip curling into a snarl and going after the three with huge strides. She cut in front of the smaller two, reaching two feet above her head and grabbing the largest one by the shoulder, turning him around to face her. His face looked like a great grey lion's fitted onto a man's body.

He looked down at her, his feline face passive. Her sword forgotten, Ajra raised a fist to strike the huge stranger, but she never got the chance. He raised a massive hand and a bolt of pink lightning jumped from his palm, striking Ajra square in the chest and throwing her several feet backwards.

The giant lowered his hand, turned, and continued towards the village.

#rockbreaker lore #long post

3 notes · View notes

peridotlion45 · 6 years ago

Text

Long Way From Home 5

The drive was long and dusty, the vehicle kicking up sand as it went. Krolia sat in the co-pilot seat, her arm resting on the window as she looked at the landscape around them. It was a bit cramped for her, even though she's pushed the seat back as far as it could go. She didn’t mind; she was finally making progress on maybe getting back into space.

Earth isn’t that bad, Krolia mussed to herself then grimaced; it is annoying that I can’t go anywhere though. She remembered what Steven had said about how his people would react.

She glanced sideways at Steven as he steered the vehicle. At first she’d found it amusing that they had a circular steering device; none of the ships she’d been in had one. It was always a kind of stick control. Krolia’s lips twitched at the thought again. She didn’t know why she found it so but she did. It really fit the other odd things that Steven had told her about his world.

As they went something occurred to her and Krolia looked over at Steven. “What were you doing there?”

He jumped slightly in his seat and looked over at her, one hand gently steering. “What?”

Readjusting the dark glasses he'd given her to dim the light from the sun she elaborated. “If I crashed so far away from everything, what were you doing out there?”

Steven chuckled. “I was wondering when you would ask me that,” he admitted then sobered. “When I was a kid I loved ancient people and their buildings. Also their culture. Well, what's left of it. After finishing my military tours I got an Archaeology degree, since tuition is free. I traveled around to a lot of the normal ancient places; Greek, Egypt, Mayan, etcetera. But these had already been looked at for centuries, so I went somewhere that no one was looking - here.”

He paused and looked out at the dry, pink rocks. “Normal people think that’s there’s nothing out here but I read a long time ago about unusual carvings. Old ones. It was a small paper, no one else could find it for some reason; and the original discoverer was kind of ridiculed because how he was spouting about giant robotic lions or something.”

Krolia froze and snapped her head around to stare at the human. Steven didn’t noticed her reaction and continued, “Not that I think they were out of their mind. I read another completely different book on it, and that one was written a couple hundred years ago. It has to be out there if an ancient text spoke of it.”

Clearing his throat he shrugged, “So basically I was out there chasing old legends. Hey, you ok?”

Krolia’s eyes snapped to where his would be behind the tinted glasses and realized that she’d been staring at him with her mouth open. Closing it with a snap she managed, “Yeah. I’m fine. How many ancient people are there on your planet?”

Steven didn’t seem to noticed the abrupt subject change and brightened before starting to tell her about the millennia old people that one lived on his planet. Krolia only listened to about half of it. The majority of her attention was replaying what he’d said in her head. Giant Robotic Lion. That could only mean one thing; Voltron. If one of the Lions was truly hidden on this planet she had to…

She had no idea what she had to do.

Just one of the lions meant nothing if the rest of them couldn’t be found. Also it was said that the Black one was lost with the ancient Altea Castle and without that one there was nothing to be done with the others. Besides, they would have to find worthy pilots if they were ever going to use them and that’s only if they were going to use them. The Blades might want to keep Voltron forever lost, so that the Galra would never get their hands on them.

She was still musing about what she should do when at about about mid morning he parked the ‘car’ and climbed out. She followed suit and noticed that he’d pulled up beside a scar in the earth. Because she’d been so preoccupied she hadn’t noticed it but now she followed the destruction to a pile of tarps stretched over a sharp looking black structure. Walking over to the back of it she noticed that the sharp bottom had dug deep into the ground, its wing like protrusions laying on the top of the pinkish rock.

He came up beside her and explained, “After you collapsed I tried to enter the ship to see if there was any medicine but the door didn’t open for me; and I couldn’t find any way to convince it to. I had to get everything from my jeep.”

Krolia nodded and began the descent into the scar and slid to the bottom. “That makes sense. All Galra teck is DNA based, only someone with Galra blood or tech can use our machines.”

He hummed thoughtfully and followed her to the fighter’s doors. He was quiet as she placed her purple palm on a panel where the Galra Imperial symbol started to glow the closer she got to it. There was a small hiss of air as the locks disengaged and it swung downwards to allow her entrance.

They’d only gone a couple of steps in when Steven commented, “it's cooler in here. It's the middle of the desert, our vehicles turn into ovens.”

“That’s good,” Krolia told him as she made her way over to the pilot chair, “It means that the life support system is still working.”

“Right.” His tone was curt and she turned around to look at him. As he made his way to her he was spinning as he tried to take everything in. He looked a little starstruck, his face slack with awe.

She snorted at his amazement at something so normal to her and turned back around, about to sit down when something caught her eye. Pooled at the left side of the chair was a dark stain, near black. Her jaw clenched and she looked at her blood staining the seat. Normally seeing her own blood wouldn’t affect her - it was not the first time she’d been gravely injured - but something about seeing it made her uneasy, giving her a feeling of dread.

Shaking it of Krolia flopped down into the chair and started to test how responsive the controls were. Since the screen didn’t immediately activate once she’d approached she pressed her palm onto the panel where the computer should be. She’d done it before and occasionally worked but since nothing happened after a moment she knew that this would not be one of those times.

Growling in frustration she stood up, pushing the chair back as she went. She flopped onto her back she hissed in pain at the garring of her torso but ignored it and focused on the panel above her. Grimacing she ran her nails over the edges, looking for the way to open it. Finally she her claws found the small latched and she popped it off to reveal dull crystals lined up perpendicularly in the center. Looking them over she quickly realized that the crystals themselves where fine but the wires connecting them to the ship were frayed and burnt.

Krolia stared at the damage for a moment then closed her eyes. “Quiznaking klanmüirl quiznaker Duflax!” she snarled and banged her fist against the side of the panel.

“Not going well?” Glaring Krolia snapped her eyes to the humans as he leaned on the seat, looking at her with the calmest dame look she’d seen out of him.

Curing her lip and showing her fangs at him she growled, “NO. I know shit about how to fix this. It was not taught to us soldiers.”

His lips twitched into a smile and she really hated him just then. She snarled again and hauled herself into a sitting position. “From what I can tell,” she growled and ran her fingers through her hair, unwittingly fluffing it up, “The wires that connect the Power Crystals to the engine are damaged; other then that I’m clueless to what’s wrong.”

Steven lifted his scarred brow at her and repeated, “Power Crystals?”

“Energy crystals, which ever. They connect the…” Krolia paused then scowled and snarled at the panel, “Things that allows the quiznaking thing to fly.”

Steven hummed then asked, “Can I give it a look?”

“Sure,” she huffed and heaved herself to her feat, “Why not? Maybe the person that’s never seen this kind of thing before might know how to fix it.” She was still huffing in anger as she got out of his way. She knew that he’d heard her grumbling but she was thankful that he didn’t seem to take offense.

Getting up and standing with her back to him Krolia closed her eyes and tried to center herself. She really shouldn’t be getting this worked up but actually seeing the damage she started to really consider that she might be stuck on this backwater planet. In the past weeks she’d be clutching the possibility that she could fix the ship but after seeing it that hope started to dwindled into nothing.

Opening her eyes a sliver she looked out at the bright pink desert past the ship’s door. If I really am stuck here… how can I lived on a planet where I can’t even show my face? She paused and wondered if she could even live there knowing that the rest of the galaxy were dying under the tyranny of a power hungry monster.

She sighed despairingly then looked back when Steven address her, “Well, I’m with you - I have no idea how to fix this either.” She resisted the urge to give him a smug smirk then blinked when he continued. “But then again I’m not an engineer either. However I know someone who is.”

Now with Krolia flat out staring at him Steven grimaced, “I didn’t mention it before because I wasn’t sure it was the best idea for you to meet her. But we don’t have a lot of choice now.” He hesitated then sighed, “Would you be willing to meet my sister?”

it’s also here on Archive of our Own :)

#long way from home #My writing #erica45

2 notes · View notes

fmdxkit-blog · 7 years ago

Text

setting: august 2006 to present day. warnings: death. word count: 3321 (// icb).

white with hints of grey and purple was all kit saw in his reflection. not too long ago—124 days, to be exact (but who was really counting?), he saw peaches, browns, flecks of pink, amber, blue, yellow. so many colors; he took them for granted, believing they were eternal. now, flooded in the lifeless hue of white (which wasn’t even a bonafide color, as his friend told him), kit felt dead. there was no life around him. the plants sat on the window sill were fake, devoid of mother nature’s gift (or curse).

he pulled a maroon beanie over his head, adding a splash of color to the canvas shade of his skin. the striking contrast brought the magentas out on his cheeks, but kit still looked as sickly as ever. bracing a knit cardigan around his slim, fragile body—his teacher gifted him (out of pity, no less), kit waddled towards the open door of his private hospital room. he asked a nurse to keep it open because he was so tired of hearing nothing but the voices tick away in his head, gnawing, scratching. kit would go mad if the silence persisted.

he stalked the corridor, rolling the IV pole next to him. it was the wilson to his—whatever tom hanks’ name was in that movie he was stranded on an island and his only friend for seven years was a bloodied volleyball. the IV pole was his only friend at the hospital.

kit strolled to where the other children with cancer usually gathered as the nurses tried to serenade them by singing kumbaya, as if that made the cancer nonexistent. he scoffed upon entering the room, immediately regretting the idea of having some sort of human interaction that day. before he could vanish back into the white surroundings, he caught a nurse’s periphery, and she waved him to join. he scanned the room. it was less dead than the rest of the ward. colourful, connected mats shielded the floor as toys laid scattered about: blocks, rag dolls, toy trucks, action figures. the whole shebang. the children were in a circle, surrounding a nurse with a ukulele.

begrudgingly, kit entered the playroom but lingered behind everyone else. he didn’t like drawing too much attention, nor was he in the mood to be singing songs, pretending he wasn’t confined out of his will because of an ailment 21st doctors still couldn’t solve. at eleven, he was already so much of a cynic. most eleven year olds were waiting for hogwarts letters (as if). he was losing his childhood day by day at an alarming rate.

“hey, i’ve never seen you around here.” soft but distinct. the voice crawled into kit’s personal bubble but he turned his head but saw no one. he then glanced down, blinking at a girl in a wheelchair.

“me too,” kit contested, eyeing the stranger. she wore the drab hospital gown and cliched beanie over her head too. it wouldn’t take a brain genius to realize she was a cancer patient just like him. “leukemia?”

“leukemia.” the girl nodded, lips twisted to a subtle pucker. “i’m elena, by the way. nice seeing someone else my age here.”

“kit.”

“kit? like kit-kat but without the kat? is your sister named kat?” elena giggled, tossing jokes as if they were funny. well, they were but kit wasn’t easily humored when his mood was at an all-time low.

“i don’t have a sister. i have a brother and his name is henry,” he answered diplomatically.

“you do know your parents named you after chocolate bars, right?”

kit scowled, annoyed by the wisecracks. “who asked you? why are you even talking to me? we’re not friends.”

elena fiddled with the hem of her blue hospital the gown. “how else do we make friends if we don’t talk, kit-kat?”

“first of all, i don’t want any friends.” kit resented anything or anyone who even vaguely reminded him he had cancer and was practically perched on death’s doormat. befriending a fellow patient was a definite no. “second of all, don’t call me that.” irritated, kit clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and vacated the room. he was done with the crappy music and interrogation—none of which he signed up for, nor appreciated.

“hey, wait!” elena called behind him.

kit tossed her a glare over his shoulders, grimacing as her frail arms spun the large wheels of the wheelchair. “why are you following me? don’t follow me.” when he reached his room, he planned to slam the door in her face but a tire prevented him from doing so.

“i’m sorry i called you kit-kat. i won’t call you that again. i’ve been here for months and i haven’t spoken to anyone my age. i’m tired of listening to toddlers rave about dora the explorer. and frankly, i can’t look at them because i feel so bad. babies shouldn’t have to go through this,” elena emphasized gravelly, voice on the verge of breaking after an emotional and sincere speech.

kit was taken back by the burst of honesty and also by how much he related to her words. they struck a chord, so he opened the door.

“no one deserves to go through this,” he corrected passionately yet grimly, his jaw clenched so tight as his adam’s apple bobbed.

elena mustered a small, relieved smile. “let’s start again.” courteously, she extended a hand. “i’m elena. nice meeting you!”

kit stared at the pink palm, contemplating on accepting the offer of friendship. he had plenty of friends outside of the hospital but no one on the inside. he was so exhausted of pitied looks, maybe having someone on the same boat wouldn’t be a constant remainder of his situation but a person to relate to. to talk to. to understand him and his fears.

he shook elena’s hand, watching her smile overwhelm her freckled face. kit was stunned by the radiance; he was almost persuaded to mirror the expression but slickly caught himself and dropped the handshake a fraction later.

“and i’m kit. nice meeting you too.”

—

propped up by a number of heavy duty pillows, kit stared lifelessly at the television screen. old reruns of sitcoms from before he was born played: a group of elderly women spewing comedic jokes, a nanny with a nasally accent provided laughter, and a prince from bel-air but kit doesn’t bat an eyelash. his expression is forlorn, eyes an empty abyss of dull, mousy brown.

there was a knock on his door but he forewent a reply, wanting to have some alone time. then there was another until the knocking was constant, ringing in his ears. he snapped his head at the door as soon as it opened without a verbal permission of sorts.

“get out,” he hissed, voice eerily too deep for a boy of eleven.

elena stepped in, no longer bound to a clunky wheelchair. she padded to his bed, ignoring his wishes. “i heard you screaming earlier-“

the pink, swollen skin around kit’s eyes tightened, his jaw clenching as venom laced his words. “i was not screaming.”

“crying, then.” elena sat herself on the edge of the bed, hands folded on her thighs as she studied his appearance. there was no pity. just curiosity. “you’re not going home anytime soon, huh?”

kit glanced away, hard expression set on the cracks through the blinds. he saw nothing but pretend to be invested in anything else but the truth. the silence answered her questions and elena nodded knowingly.

“i’m glad you’re here.”

“excuse me?” kit grimaced, half disgusted by her confession and half confused. he returned his glare onto her and she refused to meet it, sight set on the floor.

“i’m glad you’re here. we can keep each other company. if you stay at home, who will be there for you? your parents have work and henry has sch-“<\small>

“your logic makes no sense,” he scowled. how could anyone wish for him to stay in some place he detested with every cell of his existence.

“you’ll get better, kit,” elena said wisely, as if she was certain his fate was guaranteed or written in the morning paper she fancied reading. “i know it. i can feel it. just hold on a little longer. the hospital isn’t so bad. the food, though.” in synchronization, they glanced at the tray of food settled on a bedside table. “that can be better.”

it didn’t know whether to groan or laugh but the most natural of chuckles spilled from his lips when he allowed himself the pleasure of loosening up. he was never so high-strung but the ambience of the hospital changed him. chemotherapy and radiation left him wilted, draining his last bits of energy until he was a blackhole, destructive to only himself. a rose, who was once brilliant red, now decaying with no color to its merit.

“finally,” elena grinned, her freckled cheeks pushing her eyes into merry crescents. “a smile. you look better when you smile.”

“you’ve been reading too many romance novels. you need to lay off.” flushed cheeks and heat prickling the tips of his ears, kit cleared his throat to act unaffected. aloof, even.

“what can i say, they take me away.” shutting her eyes, the sunlight peering through the gaps in the blinds settled on her face. the brown, orange, tan specks on her complexion luminescent, matching the radiance of her fiery, orange hair.

kit felt a strange, foreign beat in his chest. he clasped a hand over his heart, worried of yet another side affect of his treatment: he was exhausted of the migraines, the nausea, the vomiting. all he wanted was peace. but the sensation was different. it didn’t feel bad. in fact, it felt oddly calming while encouraging all at once.

he gulped, flickering his gaze anywhere but not on the trigger of the new anomaly.

—

“woah!” elena gaped in awe at the music video kit showed her on the computer once it came to an inevitable and bitter finish. her eyes were glazed, starry and astonished.

“what did i tell you?” kit stood proudly, hands perched on his hips. “cool, right?”

“very cool,” chuckled elena, scenes of the video zipping through her head in rewind. “i can see you doing that.”

bashfully, kit ran his hands over his beanie, adjusting the elastic hem around his pinkish ears. “you think? i don’t know. i can’t really sing, dance or rap.”

“but you can learn!” elena positively quipped, nothing short of belief etched on her façade. “some people are born great and some are taught greatness.”

“did you get that from a book…” kit laughed, resting his weight on the foot of elena’s bed as he pulled the laptop closer, typing in something else into the search engine.

“nope! i thought of it all on my own.”

“três cheesy,” kit pursed his lips, tossing her a teasing glance, eyebrow arched and disappearing under his favorite maroon beanie.

“oh, you like my cheesy butt!” elena giggled, unknowingly hitting the nail squarely on the head.

if kit wasn’t used to the cheeky lingo, the smile on his face would have faltered and the truth would have been revealed. he couldn’t have that. he watched many shows and learned feelings between good friends ultimately ruined the friendship. no, he would do no such thing.

—

“elena!” kit shouted as soon as he raced into elena’s hospital room. she laid in her bed, head in the clouds per usual. knowing her like the back of his hand (better, even), kit could tell she was restlessly daydreaming by the foggy disposition in her hazel eyes.

“hey, kit,” she greeted less enthusiastically, tired from treatment. warmth still graced her features, pursing her lips to a sincere smile. “you came just in time.”

no longer bound to the four walls of the hospital, kit would drop by weekly to pay elena a visit. he never missed a date; he was always on time. never tardy.

“i have great news to tell you!” the grin on kit’s face was so broad, so spectacular that it threatened the sun’s intensity and power. happiness was alive and well, setting fireworks in every nook and cranny of his body. “i’m cancer free!”

elena couldn’t hide the joy on her face. the tears welled up in her eyes, clouding her vision. her sobs were incoherent but kit understood every word.

“i’m so happy for you! i knew you could do it! didn’t i tell you you’ll get better?”

kit found a box of tissues stowed away in elena’s hospital bag. he ripped open the seal and plucked a few sheets for her to dry her damp face. the sincerity of her reaction touched kit immensely. he felt like bursting into tears too but refrained from doing so.

“yeah, you did.” he grabbed her hand, squeezing her fingers. “and you’ll get better too. and when you do, we’ll go to korea and you can cheer me on at my audition!”

elena grinned flawlessly, flooding kit with an emotion he didn’t know existed prior. “i’ll be your first and biggest fan!”

—

“are you sure we won’t get in trouble for this?” the squeaky wheel of the wheelchair and the pads of kit’s steps are the only sounds they hear in the midst of their privy conversation.

“certain,” kit fibbed. a little while lie never hurt anyone. partially, it was honest. she wouldn’t get in trouble; but he would.

he pushed the rooftop door open with his back, wheeling elena out delicately. the wind blew through them. that winter night was courteous. not too cold. kit’s winter coat around elena kept her cozy.

“wow,” elena marvelled, eyes everywhere on the starry sky. the white, silver specks glistened. “the view is better up here.”

“beats that crappy room you’re in,” kit retorted, rolling her close enough to the edge to see the roads and the few cars driving down them, speeding wistfully into the darkness.

“it’s not crappy,” defended elena. she loved that room of hers. practically, it was home. she spent more time there than anywhere else. kit hated that.

“nothing beats the outside.” he extended his arms, gesturing at what the world outside a pokey hospital had to offer. “the fresh air. the stars.” kit inhaled deeply, soaking in the chilly breeze before coughing, throat and mouth torrid.

elena shifted her gaze from the twinkling canvas to him, lips forming the fondest of smiles. “you never liked the hospital.”

“why would i?” kit let his arms fall, swinging them by his side. “it’s shit.”

“saved your life, though.”

“and took away many others.”

shaking her head in defeat, elena knew there was no reasoning with kit. he was too stubborn. an argument wasn’t worth it.

“thank you bringing me here. it’s beautiful.” elena craned her neck, admiring the natural wonders of the universe before being enclosed away again.

kit nodded, admiration clear in his crystal eyes. “anything for you.”

—

kit tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder, mindlessly waiting for the rings to cease and a familiar voice to pick up. the only voice kit wanted to hear after a gruelling day of exam reviews. he spun a basketball in his hand, pacing the empty space in front of his bed to pass the time. he was growing progressively restless, hating to stand idle with nothing to do but breathe and exist. he was tired of that mundane lifestyle.

“hey, kit-kat,” echoed elena’s groggy voice.

“hey, were you sleeping? i’m sorry i woke you.” looking at the time on his digital alarm clock, kit mentally shot himself for calling right after her chemotherapy treatment. he should have been more aware of how fatigued elena would be. “i can call back if-“

elena’s heartwarming giggles stopped him, as well as paused his pulse for the most fleeting of moments. time stood still and kit could almost see her, despite the roads between them. he envisioned her lying in her bed, facing the sun that poured through her window (she never liked having her curtains shut). the golden yellow rays dancing across her peaceful face; freckles intricate and hazel eyes shining.

“no, i’m good,” she said but yawned at the end. “so, how was your official last day of school before exams?”

“hated it,” kit sang, tossing the basketball up into the air, then caught it for a repeat. “but once i finish my exam tomorrow, i’ll come visit!”

the first year of high school took a toll on kit’s routine vsitations. club activities prevented him from seeing elena on the usual day—friday, so he went whenever available. the dates were scattered and dwindled into monthly subscriptions. kit hated it. he was going to korea soon and despite planning for elena to come along, the universe had other things in mind for her. ill-fated things.

“i’ll ask for extra jello for you,” elena added, knowing how much kit loved the snack since their lunch-dates in the past.

kit snorted, dropping his weight and bouncing on his mattress, discarding the basketball to properly hold his phone with a secure grip. “i have something in mind for my audition. i want you to hear it before anyone else.”

“ooo!” elena squealed, energy returning to her voice. she’s grown to sound so calm but it was obvious it wasn’t intentional. she was tired. “i can’t wait for this VIP showing of your audition. i feel so lucky!”

“you are lucky,” kit confirmed, foolishly smiling from ear to ear as he thought, i’m luckier. he never told elena how he felt but he had an inkling she knew and returned them. for now, that was enough for him. he could wait for her. she had more important matters to prioritize: getting better, beating cancer. not a walk in the park but kit was there and would always be there for her, supporting her, cheering her on. the day she would be cancer free would be the happiest day of his life, greatly surpassing the day he found out he was miraculously healed.

the time caught his peripheral and kit knew his mum would be calling him down to dinner soon—too soon. “hey, elena, i gotta go-“

“tell your mum, dad and henry i said hi, okay?”

there was never dread in elena’s voice. only kindness and understanding. she matured wonderfully. well beyond her years.

“i will. i’ll see you tomorrow. goodnight,” kit said quietly, hope wedged between each word, glueing the sentence together.

when all were fast asleep, dreaming lucidly of endless possibilities, kit received a text. the notification fell on deaf ears for kit was lost in the slumber. he saw elena and approached her but she only receded, waving sorrowfully.

kit woke up. tears stained his face. then he checked his phone.

thank you, kit.

he learned later that morning elena passed away. she went in her sleep. peacefully. without turbulence. no pain. no struggle. she went easily. almost willingly too.

years later, kit continued to ache. some days were agonizing; he heard her laughter in the backstage dressing rooms of music programs, in the audience at a variety appearance, during daytime strolls, in conversations he heard when passed, in his mind when he laid awake in the middle of the night; everywhere except… the club, the bar, anywhere extreme: the top of a building, the edge of a bridge, in conversations with strangers. in those instances, those mere lapses in time, kit forgot, burying the pain under disguises of temporary adrenaline and joy.

but when he did reminisce, the pain and loss was fresh, as if elena left him yesterday and not seven years ago. whoever said time heals all wounds was a liar. a fraud. time had done nothing to his wounds. they festered. they still bled.

kit bled.

every day.

for the love who left him.

#&&. self-para.#&&. development.#// this is honestly so long idk what happened #// i was going separate it into two parts but that’d ruin the flow :\#// if you can make it till the end i love ya a lotto #// < 3

3 notes · View notes