#maybe next time anyway that kite got stuck in a tree later

[hqmillioncorn]

Blow me away!

As Babycorn rounded a corner with a wallet full of gil her eyes caught of sight of something absolutely horrifying. The image of her good friend B'ig Nunh in miniature form. Which would have been pretty scary on its own but Babycorn was so caught off guard by it that she believed it not to be a toy- But instead that someone had taken B'ig Nunh and shrunken him to be S'mall Nunh. How was his name going to be B'ig Nunh if he was so small?!?!!? As Babycorn held him in her hands and wailed loudly the shopkeeper could only look at her, very confused and afraid.

Lalapril 4/12 Zephyr with @windupiceheart 's vertical height and b'ig nunh

babycorn and cherrypit try to fly a kite and run into some besties :)

It was a particularly windy day in the Lavender Beds today. The wind was so strong today that hanging up laundry to dry would probably be too dangerous.

That was how Babycorn had successfully gotten out of having to do that particular chore. Instead she and Cherrypit decided to spend that time doing something way more fun. 

Something like flying the new kite they bought yesterday!

Babycorn adjusted the ribbon holding her ponytail back. Her hair had been blowing itself in front of her face ever since they first stepped outside and it was getting really annoying at this point.  “Ready Cherry?” Babycorn called out. She bent down and picked up the end of the kite line. 

In front of her Cherrypit was holding onto the kite itself. He had been waiting for this moment ever since yesterday. Cherrypit was practically vibrating with excitement, “Go! Go? Time to go?!” 

Babycorn looked up at the wisteria tree hanging above them. The leaves (or whatever those things were) blew in the direction towards Cherrypit. “Okay! Go Cherrypit!” Babycorn shouted.

“Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!!!!!” Cherrypit shrieked. His pent up energy was finally released as he took off running out of the mansion’s front entrance and down the hill. His laughter echoed throughout the entire ward.

Babycorn, meanwhile, was just glad to be along for the ride. 

Seeing as she was currently just getting dragged by her feet across Cherrypit’s entire path she assumed that he must have been too excited about the kite to remember that he had to let go of the kite at some point. “He’s so cute…” Babycorn smiled as she was dragged across a small puddle of water. 

Her shoes were all wet now but the good news was that the wind would probably dry them out soon. 

Babycorn wondered just how far Cherrypit would run, not that she minded it but lunch was supposed to be in a few hours or so and she didn’t want to miss it. It was spaghetti for lunch today!

She looked in front of the path that awaited her and recognized two of the people near the marketboard.

“Oh!” 

It looked like Cherrypit had recognized them too, as he was running around them and Babycorn could hear him laughing from where she was. In other news it looked like waving at his friends had caused Cherrypit to let the kite go. It took no time for it to take to the air. 

“Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!! Verticaaaaaaaaaaaal!!” Babycorn yelled as she continued to be dragged by the remaining kite line. Any second now she was sure to stop. “Hiiiiiiiiiii!! B’iiiiiiiiiiiiig!!!!!”

Vertical looked behind her and watched as Babycorn was dragged by her feet across the path in front of her until she came to a complete stop. “hey babycorn.” She waved at Babycorn as B’ig Nunh popped in from behind her. “Hey Babycorn!” He greeted her the same.

“Hehe!” Babycorn laughed to herself and swayed in joy in the wind. “Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi!” She kept greeting her friends over and over, she was just really happy to see them. Almost as happy as Cherrypit was. He had run over to stand next to Babycorn to join her in swaying back and forth happily. 

“What are you two up to today?” B’ig asked. He remained totally still as Cherrypit jumped on top of his hat and started to swipe at his heart shaped pom. 

“I’m flying a kite today!” Babycorn looked particularly proud of it. 

“Kite! Flying a kite!!” Cherrypit added. 

Vertical looked up at where Babycorn was pointing. “cool kite.” 

B’ig instead started from the end of the kite line in Babycorn’s hands as his eyes traveled up the line all the way to the kite itself.

Then B’ig almost burst into flames when he realized that the kite that Babycorn was flying was distinctly shaped like his pair of couerl briefs. 

Just like, three times larger than usual. 

“W-W-W-Where did you get those?!?!!?” B’ig was going to cry. His biggest fear was that Babycorn had somehow broken into the laundry room again.

“Huh? Get what?”

“THOSE!” B’ig Nunh yelled at the top of his lungs and pointed up at the kite high up in the air where anyone in the Lavender Beds right now could simply look up and see it. 

“Oooooh! That!” Babycorn laughed to herself and Cherrypit started laughing alongside her not too long after. “I bought it!” she explained, pulling on the string of the kite to keep it steady. 

“where did you buy something like that?” Vertical asked in place of B’ig, who at this point had decided that he was going to just lie down on the ground and cope. 

“There was some little pop-up store in Limsa Lominsa that was selling a bunch of B’iggy things! Like this kite! And this!” Babycorn held up a fan that had B’ig Nunh’s face on it alongside some text that said ‘Never give up!’ or something like that. Babycorn waved the fan at her face and giggled, “Me and Cherry bought out the whole stand with the allowance Lunya gave us yesterday!” 

As Babycorn continued to laugh almost manically, B’ig Nunh visibly grimaced. This whole B’ig Nunh merch thing was probably not going to go over well with Tataru if she ever found out. The danger of him having to pose for another calendar for next year was far too real for his liking. 

As B’ig Nunh was thinking about what other ways Tataru could profit off his existence, another strong breeze came right at them.

The wind was strong enough to pick up the kite and lift Babycorn up from the ground. “WAaaAAAAHHHHH!” Babycorn shrieked in terror. Being dragged along for the ride was one thing but she wasn’t a big fan of being too high up from the ground.

“watch out.” Vertical acted fast and grabbed Babycorn before she could fly up any higher. “don’t worry. i got you.” She wasn’t about to let her good friend Babycorn Corn fly up into the sun to never return. 

“We got chuchu!” Cherrypit climbed ontop of Vertical’s head and grabbed a part of Babycorn’s skirt, specifically part of the long ribbon that was attached to it. “Got Bebe!” Cherrypit lightly tugged on the ribbon. He didn’t want to tear it off the skirt. 

“Uwuabwaubwua…Thanks you guuuyyys…” Babycorn cried as Vertical gently set her back onto solid ground.

“there you go.” Vertical carefully let go of her, making sure to hover her hands around Babycorn just in case another strong gust of wind suddenly came barging in. When it looked like the coast was clear she took a step back and sighed. 

It looked like Babycorn was going to thank Vertical once again but as soon as she opened her mouth, her eyes widened in surprise. 

“Oh!” Babycorn reached into her back pocket and from out of it she pulled out a small object wrapped in paper. “I forgot I got you something Vertical! I think you’ll like iiiiit!” Babycorn stretched her arm up to reach Vertical but came up very short.

On account that Babycorn was very short. 

Vertical instead bent down herself to grab the gift from Babycorn. “thank you babycorn.” She inspected the wrapped gift closely before beginning to unwrap it. There was something very familiar about the shape of the gift.

“As soon as I saw it I just knew I had to get it for you!!” Babycorn excitedly tapped her feet on the ground. “It was the only one left too! Can you believe it?!” She must have really lucked out. Babycorn was well aware of how popular B’ig was so of course it being almost sold out made sense. It must have been fate! 

When all of the very ugly wrapping paper was finally off Vertical saw what it was that Babycorn had been so excited to gift to her. “oh!” It was a one-of-a-kind knock off B’ig Nunh bobblehead figure. Its head wobbled in the air as it gave whoever was holding it a thumbs-up.

B’ig felt a little flattered about it but he couldn’t help but think if his head was really that big. Probably not. “Wait, these were almost sold out?!” He had to admit they were cute but just how many were they selling to have them sold out so quickly?

“Yeah!” Babycorn danced happily in place. “I bought almost all of them except for this one so they were almost sold out!” 

“Ah.”

Vertical Height held the small B’ig Nunh in her hands as she looked back and forth between it and her real-life bestie B’ig. “its kind of cute isn’t it?” Vertical poked the oversized head of the B’ig b’obble head and watched it wiggle around.  

“I’m cuter.” B’ig grumbled to himself. 

Vertical poked the B’ig bobblehead more. “they got the color of your briefs wrong.” 

“They WHAT?!” 

Vertical held the B’ig B’obblehead lower so he could get a good look at it. It was just as Vertical said, the color of his couerl briefs had been colored in wrong.

Instead of a metallic blue they were a purple-ish pink color. “I haven’t worn that color in years!” The people that made this knock-off must have missed last year's Hot B’ig Nunh calendar where he was clearly wearing his signature metallic blue couerl briefs.

Babycorn raised her hand. Specifically the one still holding onto the kite. “I can go back and tell them they got the color wrong if that’ll help!” Anything to help her good friend B’ig Nunh!

“NO ITS OKAY!”

B'ig Nunh knew in his love-filled heart that Babycorn would have definitely gone and done that if he didn't stop her in time. And that was absolutely terrifying.

[flowers-of-io]

Shockwave

Read it on AO3 here.

It is thirty-six hours later when the shockwave hits.

The Stranger—Elisabeth—let them stay in her camp out in the frigid nowhere, just a tiny round cabin with a bed and a table. She has driven off into the blizzard for supplies, and Eris quietly notes the subtle sign of trust that was leaving her and the Drifter alone in her personal space. It is cosily warm inside, well-insulated Braytech door keeping the cold out. She can see the snowstorm raging on the other side of the glass, white and blue and violent like the power crackling in her fingertips.

They sit on the opposite sides of the table, an old radio between them fighting through the snow to catch any signal that might slip through. Between the cracks of static and scraps of broadcast, there is silence.

This is the first time Eris has really sat down, stretching her back and legs aching from the hike. Between her mad escape from Io and what happened in the City, and persuading Zavala and the flight to the Jovians, she did not have time for as much as think. Head spinning as she danced from one purpose to the next, time slipping past her, reality squirming and bending. She has not slept in a long time.

The radio hums and Zavala’s voice pierces through, cracking and out of context. “…confirmed that Io, Mars, Titan, and Mercury have disappeared. We don't know why. We have lost contact with Deputy Commander Sloane and Gensym Scribe Asher Mir. We are deploying…”

She cannot hear him anymore.

Realisation hits her like a train at full speed. The assailed planets are gone. Her beloved, sacred Cradle, the Tree of Silver Wings – they are gone.

Sloane is dead. Asher is…

She has known. Since he squeezed her hand goodbye, and his red shadow began to darken her door every night, she has known what choice he would make and struggled to respect it. But it was too calm of a sorrow, she realises now, like leaves falling upon a grave, and she did not wail or claw her fingernails against the sandstone. There was still a thread of stupid hope, one that she hung upon by the little finger and refused to admit it, refused to acknowledge she believed there was still a chance, an unfinality of loss possible to revert. That threat is strangling her now, sharp and merciless, and Eris struggles to suck in a breath.

Drifter moves, his heavy coat rustling as he slouches forward towards the radio. He stares at it intently, silent, until Zavala’s voice is drowned in static again.

“Guess our pals kicked the bucket,” he says with such tremor in his voice Eris is not even angry.

She turns the realisation around like a bitter pill in her mouth, sticking fingers into the wound to get used to the pain. It is best constant, she has learned long ago, rather than the sudden spikes when she would touch the hurting place inadvertently. She digs deep to find some visceral core of horror; she imagines Asher dead in a hundred atrocious ways, his body broken and dismembered, crushed into red pulp, blew apart from the inside in an eruption of sizzling radiolaria. The deeper she reaches now, the safer it will be to sleep – the images familiar and predictable, horrent with spikes she already knows the placement of.

Skittish thoughts propel her to run off into the storm, let the blizzard lash her skin with an icy whip and scream until her larynx bleeds, until she cannot hear the din in her mind anymore. But she will not lose her composure. The days of punching walls and hollering into the night are long past her, shed along with the skin of chitin and blood she had been wearing for too long. She has only just started to bloom again—she will not allow it to trample the gentle scaffolding she has so arduously put up to hold her. She will not break.

Somewhat absently, she can see Drifter staring at her from across the table but her brain is screaming too loud to process it. He must have noticed some change on her face, or maybe how her hands started to shake and fiddle with the beads hanging by her belt, because he keeps his eyes on her—cautious, searching. As if looking for a handhold to grab and drag her out of the pit of horror she is thrusting herself into over and over.

“You saw it coming?” His voice seems to echo from far away.

“I should have,” Eris murmurs, nausea swelling up in her throat. “I should have persuaded them… I should have been there.”

In a desperate attempt to chase off the fuzz of thoughts hurtling through her mind at lightspeed, she stands up and regrets it immediately; the horizontal axis of her vision rotates by thirty degrees and she leans on the table with her full weight for support. Drifter stirs, then reaches out but she waves him off.

She can manage. She has been worse. It’s just another arrow to the same knee—does it make any difference?

She thinks about how her bloodied fingers traced the letters she had never sent to the people she would never see again. Piles of ink-stained paper, trembling sentences seeking comfort and asking forgiveness of the shadows she projected in her mind instead of the real flesh and bone. Real was too frightening, real could judge and shun her, real required a vulnerability she was terrified to reveal. She dreamed of a day when she would be steadier, braver—her hands no longer flinching away from touch, her words bold and sure of themselves—when she would send the letters out, confident of the fearful affection they disclosed. The correspondence she had truly written to herself.

Scrap-sentences circle in her head, squirming into her ears and eyes and mouth slithering between her teeth bitter like poison. Everything she will never tell him, one more thing the paranoia took from her, all the honest words and quivering confessions she feared to account for and how he will never know how she loved loved loved—

Staggering, she slumps onto the cot. Guilt is burning acidic in her chest and she cannot keep from shuddering any longer, burying her face in hands and smearing the ichor all over her cheeks. These eyes cannot cry and oh how she wishes they could, remembering the warm release of tears streaming down and tasting salt on her lips. There is only the black ooze now, seeping into her mouth and ears as she sleeps, drying on her eyelids and sticking them shut with a black wax seal. She is shaking so wildly her back hurts and tries to stifle the wail that creeps upon her lips, threatening to escape instinctively like a held-back breath.

The letters she never sent; alas, the promise had been made. She should have been there.

She had sworn.

The mattress dips down beside her, a movement she hardly registers. Only when an arm wraps itself around her loosely, a tentative loop for her to lean into or move away from, do the floodgates truly break. She curls up against Drifter’s chest and starts sobbing, dry and ugly sobs like frantic gasps for air above water.

He caresses her back, slow and soothing movements of a warm hand against the fabric of her cloak. Eris can hear her own wailing resonating through his ribcage.

“I should’ve been there,” she mumbles, her jaw trembling so hard it is difficult to push the words out.

“I know you were close,” Drifter hums, “but what use would be for you to die there? It’s not like you could’ve done anything.”

“He would comfort me in my darkness… and dying… I could not.”

He shifts and Eris feels his other hand gently press against her head. It is soft and warm and comforting, enclosing her in this tight dark space like in a blanket fort. It helps her slowly calm down until she is not heaving anymore, shivering only from time to time with leftover sobs.

“There was a kid in Eaton. A place I used to live,” Drifter says when her breathing is almost steady, “Taught her to fly a kite. Once it got stuck in a tree, almost at the top, and she climbed all the way up to get it. I asked her if she wasn’t afraid of falling.” There’s gentleness in his voice, one she has never heard there before. “And she said she wasn’t, ‘cause she knew I’d catch her if she did. Knew I’d save her.”

His thumb rubs gentle circles against her temple, lulling her, and Eris struggles to stay focused. She is too exhausted to think, and a terrible headache has begun to settle in, hammering against her sinuses, and Drifter’s tone is deep and calming, as if he was telling a bedtime story.

“When Eaton burned… when she took a bullet and stumbled and fell… I caught her. But I couldn’t save her.”

“At least you were able to offer comfort… One last time.”

“And did it change anything? She’s dead anyway.” Drifter shakes his head, a rustle of cloth sounding so odd with her ear partially covered. “You did what you could, sister. Don’t beat yourself up for it.”

The guilt will not subside until many, many moons later, and it is still gnawing at Eris’ bones in this moment, but the sharp, blinding fear has somewhat subsided into a dull ache. Maybe it is the catharsis of crying, or the initial shock having tumbled past, but an odd haziness overcomes her and her strained muscles begin to ease. The terrible weight of the loss is still dark and grim – she dreads to acknowledge it, fears the moment she will have to look under the cover and face it in all its irrevocable finality, yet for now it sits tucked away somewhere in the corner of her vision, present but bearably distant. For now she is warm and safe and breathing.

They do not speak more, just sit in hazy silence as the storm rages outside.

[warpedtourniall]

17. u pick the ship

:/ what if :/ more grungy nyc au (17 is “things you said i wish you hadn’t” lol u love to encourage my angst)

-

Louis doesn’t even change into street clothes after work, just heads out the Met service entrance and directly into the Park, still in his waistcoat and everything. 

It’s the sort of verdant afternoon, after the lunch service, that makes Louis feel a thousand threads of possibility, silky in his fist. He makes a left down the path towards seventy-ninth. On a less beautiful afternoon he might take the train down to meet Liam, but it’s rush hour underground and the sunlight up here is gauzy and weightless, birds in the trees, kids shouting and laughing on the lawn. Louis undoes his tie as he legs it across the seventy-ninth street transverse, where horses are ambling along towing carriages. 

The five of them - and dozens of their classmates - moved down to the city from Purchase right after graduation, and since then they’ve scattered like sand. Apart from Liam, Louis hardly sees any of them. Zayn’s sharing a cavernous loft in Bushwick, parceled with crumbly drywall into barely private rooms. His living room’s got a quarter-pipe skate ramp built inexplicably into it and three spoiled cats running rampant. 

Niall has inherited a room in a rent-controlled apartment on the lower east side: the apartment’s been the home of broke Purchase alums for years - not even Niall seems to know who’s on the original lease. There’s a small back patio affectionately nicknamed “the swamp” which is accessible only via Niall’s bedroom window, and which despite Niall’s efforts towards cleanliness has maintained a consistent frill of cigarette butts and beer caps over its concrete surface. It’s sketchy as hell. 

Harry is shacked up in Washington Heights with a ballet dancer and an aspiring Broadway star - Louis can’t remember which ones, their graduating class had such a selection. Their apartment is a fifth floor walkup, and every time Louis is invited over for dinner he has to mentally weigh the benefit of a meal cooked by Harry, which is likely to contain a vegetable and a protein as well as some sort of seasoning, to the detriment of climbing so many stairs after a day spent waiting tables.

Liam and Louis, for lack of other close friends, had ended up in Long Island City, in the basement apartment of a little brownstone off twenty-first, just the two of them. Their last anxious weeks of school spent house-hunting had felt like they might never lead to anything. They were young, and poor, and nobody had wanted to offer them a lease without someone more reliable to cosign. Then Liam had gotten the job he has now, and his salary and adequate credit score had allowed him to sign a lease and, humiliatingly, guarantee Louis’ half as well.

He still has a half hour until Liam’s out of work, so Louis takes himself through the Ramble. There’s a spot - if he can find it - just past the big black tupelo tree, where - yes, that’s it. Louis stands perfectly still and looks up. He’s surrounded on all sides by green foliage, a dappled canopy of leaves. It’s the only spot in the whole of New York City where he can stand outdoors and turn in any direction he pleases without seeing buildings. 

Louis has one glorious moment of feeling completely alone before a couple barrels past him on the path, too loud, making each other laugh the way people only laugh when they’re newly in love and would rather be doing something else. 

What a shame, Louis thinks, to be at ground zero of gay sex in Manhattan and to be alone admiring the birds and the foliage. 

Louis takes a moment to shuck his waistcoat and crumple it up into his bag. He undoes his shirtsleeves and shoves them up to his elbows. It isn’t much, but it does help. He feels marginally less like what he is: a waiter with a forty-thousand dollar arts degree and nobody to kiss. 

Maybe Liam will be up for drinks after work, or something. Louis has been stuck on dinner service for weeks, and they keep missing one another. 

He makes his way out of the ramble, past the lake and the benevolent figure of Bethesda fountain, and then hurries himself up some. He’s always getting sidetracked when he cuts through the park - none of the paths seem to want to take him where he’s going with any sort of efficiency. It is beautiful, though: families carrying kites and bubble wands and picnic blankets; young lovers holding hands; under their feet the soft palm of the earth. Louis takes a winding dirt path and ends up exiting the park just north of Columbus Circle, only a few minutes late. He can see Liam down the block, handsome in a discount suit Louis had pitched in to get tailored when Liam had been offered his job.

Liam, the only one of the lot of them who’d landed a job at least slightly in his field, doing glorified party planning for the city’s foremost jazz organization. Louis doesn’t know if he’s more proud or jealous. Maybe he ought to just be grateful.

Liam sweeps him up into a big, crushing hug when he sees him. They’re both overdressed, and even as the buildings around them empty and the sidewalk floods with men and women in suits, in breathable silk blouses, in oversized sunglasses and comfortable sneakers incongruous with the rest of their outfits. 

“Home?” Liam asks, and Louis nods. 

The train is so crowded that they end up squished together against just inside the train car, nearly toppling out at every stop when the doors whoosh open behind them. Liam puts a hand on Louis’ waist to steady him, and the train empties out substantially just before it crosses over into Queens and Louis gets smooshed into an empty seat, Liam standing over him. When the two of them emerge, blinking, into the late afternoon sun, it gilds the buildings in burnt oranges and venetian pinks. Everything - the buildings, the leaves on the trees, one another’s hair - is limned in golden light. 

“Let’s go to the bar,” Louis says, turning and smiling at Liam. He’s exhausted, they both are, but he doesn’t want to go home and sacrifice the rest of the evening to inertia. It’s beautiful out, and they’re young, and he has tips in his pocket waiting to be spent on somebody else. “I’ll buy you a drink, anything you want.” 

Fifteen minutes later they’re ensconced at a corner table on the back patio of their favorite neighborhood bar. It’s an overlong golden hour; the Manhattan skyline just visible from their table is a romantic and familiar shape. Liam is crushing a maraschino cherry into the bottom of his glass with a cocktail straw, smiling to himself. 

“What’s with you?” Louis says, tilting his head to catch Liam’s eye and smiling at him. “Been all distracted all evening.” 

In all honesty it’s just nice having him there. The farther flung his friends have become, the more Louis clings to Liam, finds comfort in his reliable presence. 

“It’s nothing,” Liam says, still smiling in that way that means he’s trying to keep a straight face. “It’s just - you know that girl at work who does the saxophone seminar at jazz academy?”

Louis does; he keeps a mental catalogue of all Liam’s coworkers, so when they catch up at the end of the day he’s not stuck asking who the principal characters are over and over. This saxophonist is also a recent graduate, a performance major at Carnegie Mellon and new to the city. “Esperanza?” he asks Liam. 

“Yeah.”

As the sun sets beyond the skyline, a barback comes around to light the citronella candles at the center of each outdoor table, and Liam is prevented from going on for a moment, so caught up is he in saying thank you. 

“Anyway,” Liam says. He clears his throat, then drains the rest of his drink. “She asked me down to Fat Cat this weekend, like a date, so.” 

“Oh,” Louis says. He finishes his own beer and points at Liam’s empty glass. “Another?”

It’s a moment later, leaning against the bar and watching a bartender muddle sugar cubes in the bottom of a rocks glass that he registers quite what he’s feeling: it’s disappointment, as cold and solid as an ice cube. 

He accepts their drinks and, making his way back outside, puts his mouth to the edge of Liam’s glass; takes a sip. It’s sweet and whiskey-warm. He sets it down in front of Liam and takes his seat across from him, already sorting out the face he’ll need to wear to get through the next question: 

“So start at the beginning. What exactly did she say?”