yes i still remember every whispered word

Little Talks (Part I)

In which Hiccup finds his mother during the first movie, not the second, and things are a little different. 

(Inspired by a deviation developed by avannak, who super sweetly gave me permission to write this. This is part 1; I’m working on part 2 now. Which involves the battle with the Red Death and Hiccup losing his leg, but now Valka is there and so are my tears.)

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In all that happened, she blamed the Night Fury.

 

She wasn’t even supposed to have a Night Fury. They were rarely seen, and when she did spot them they traveled in small tight knit pods, sticking with their own kind. But in her third year in the dragons’ nest, she found a lost hatchling, about two years old (the same age as your own baby, a traitorous voice said in the back of her head), that had been separated from his pod. He was smaller than most Night Furies she’d seen- most likely he’d been the runt of the litter and left behind. He was a stubborn thing, though, and despite his small stature he grew up strong and thriving, and eventually reached a decent size. She tried to name him, but unlike the other dragons, he didn’t seem to respond. The other dragons learned their names, and Cloudjumper would alight at her side if she so much whispered, but the Night Fury never heeded her, no matter what she called him. Eventually she gave up, and let him be.

 

It was nearly her fifteenth year in the nest when the Night Fury went missing.

 

It wasn’t uncommon for him to wander off for days at a time. She suspected he was looking for his pack; he always came back with his tail drooping and he wouldn’t eat for a few days after.

 

This time, though, he didn’t return after a few days. Or weeks. And when a month passed, she took Cloudjumper and went in search of him.

 

She hadn’t gone this from the nest since she had been taken. It was both terrifying and liberating, to fly free over unfamiliar lands and seas. At night she slept in small caves and hollows, avoiding any of the villages that might be nearby.

 

She found the Night Fury on her second week, downed in a cove. “There you are!” she called in relief as she slid from Cloudjumper’s back onto solid ground. “Where have you been, you foolish boy?”

 

The Night Fury warbled in a happy reply and bounded over the grass to her. She flung her arms around his neck. “What’s kept you?” she asked. “It’s not like you to be gone this long.”

 

He huffed a warm breath on her cheek, twisting around her, and she spotted the ragged edge of his tail. “Oh, my poor love,” she murmured, her mind already racing. No wonder he hadn’t come back. And how was she supposed to get him back to the nest if he couldn’t fly?

 

“Toothless!”

 

She froze.

Keep reading

Merlot

A/N: I had a neat dream last night. Bellarke AU. Would do a part two it if there were those interested. 

“Seriously, Finn,” an annoyed voice to Bellamy’s left huffed, “not right now.”

Darting his eyes to the side, he took in the sight of a perturbed blonde steadfastly keeping her eyes on the amber liquid in her cup. She stood tall, her back a taught rod as she leaned against the bar, completely closed off from the long-haired man standing next to Bellamy, his back turned.

On principle, the hair alone had Bellamy scoffing internally, his head shaking slightly and a smirk forming on his lips- pathetic dudes were just, well, pathetic- as he downed the remainder of his whisky. 

“It’s never ‘not now’ with you, Clarke. I want to work on us.”

At that comment, the blonde glared at Hero Hair, and something about her icy gaze turned Bellamy on enough to bypass enjoying the show and get in on the action. Clearly, this Finn guy had done something shitty and wasn’t getting the hint. It looked like the girl could hold her own, but Bellamy wanted to get her alone.

Mi scusi.” Bellamy interjected, recalling the one semester of Intro to Italian her took and shoving past Finn like he was nothing. As one palm wrapped around Clarke’s cheek, Bellamy winked at her before kissing her soundly on the lips. “Sorry to keep you waiting, principessa. Stock doesn’t buy and trade itself as you know.”

Behind him, Bellamy could practically feel Finn blanching, but instead of pulling the innocent, and who’s you’re friend, honey?, routine, Bellamy focused solely on the dazed blonde.

She recovered quickly though, shaking her head as she took one last sip of her drink and blessed him with the most dazzling smile Bellamy had ever seen.

“No worries, babe. We can catch the movie some other time." 

"Perfetto,” Bellamy purred, nuzzling into her neck before whispering, “wanna get out of here?”

Her hand found his and she giggled in response, biting her lip with a nod. “We still have that bottle of wine at your place, if I remember correctly.”

Laughter bubbled past Bellamy’s lips as he kissed her again, making sure Finn could hear every word he said next. “Yes, mi amore, you know how much I love the taste of merlot on her skin." 

Pale cheeks flushed red, and Bellamy gave her a look that promised to make his last statement come true. 

"Why are we still here?” She breathed, tugging on his hand as she walked away from the bar.

Eager to follow, Bellamy paused long enough to pull a fifty from his wallet and slap it onto the countertop in front of a fuming Finn. “Ah, my American spitfire,” he singsonged, still keeping the accent up, “if only all men could be so lucky to make love to such a woman. Salute!" 

And then he was off, pouring into a cab after a blonde he planned on learning Italian for, if only to keep her smiling and around. 

First thing’s first though, "my name is Bellamy, by the way,” he offered up, resuming his normal, American accent.

“Right now, you’re my hero,” she chuckled, taking a deep breath and settling into the seat of the car.

Doing the same, Bellamy gave the cabbie directions to his place before really taking in Clarke’s figure.

“What was that guy’s deal anyway?” At this point, Bellamy didn’t care, not when he could fully appreciate the swell of her chest and the way the fabric of her jeans clung to her legs…

“Ah, ah,” she chided, matching him with a stare that sent shivers down his spine, “that’s for the first date.”

“Oh?” Bellamy smirked, trailing a finger across the back of her hand. “And what is this then?”

Her face transformed into something devilish, and she leaned closer to him, her lips ghosting against the shell of his ear. “Let’s just call this a test drive.”

Then she pulled away, winking as she asked, as innocently as she was asking about the weather, “Merlot, you said?”

A Gallary of Fading Memories (Fairy Tail Fanfic)

This was my FIC for @wheelofwriters but I decided to repost it here now that the answers are posted ^.^

@xkissthesky and @hannah-nobody helped a lot on this so THANK YOU SO MUCH (as well as @kanekisbootytho because she always reads my FICS for me, thanks bæ)

I hope you enjoy this angsty nalu fic (the usual :))

~~~

My eyes traced the window-pane, speckled white with dust. My finger, trembling and timid, reached forward and touched the long-aged wood. Immediately, memories flooded my mind, causing my gaze to shift over to the long avoided frames decorating the single window; solemn in its loneliness.

The first one that caught my eye evoked a sweet memory; warm affection filled my chest as I looked at every detail, every contour of each face immortalized on the small slip of paper.

In the frame, the photo painted a beautiful image. We were standing together; a wide smile split my face, with tears of laughter in my eyes. My arm was slung around the blonde’s shoulders, her dark lashes dappled with silver as she joined me in the chorus of laughter. My partner’s cheeks were pink like newborn roses and on her lips shone a smile brighter than the sun.

In Lucy’s tender grip sat a small kitten, its fur matted and thick with leaves, but giving off an air of playful happiness, nonetheless. Finding him had been a tremendous venture; together we had scoured the valley for the single cat, getting lost various times along the way. No matter how many times Lucy must have told herself the pay wasn’t worth the effort, her heart would beg to differ.

We searched late into the night, till the starlit sky began to lighten, and threaten us with the oncoming heat of daylight. Our hearts were heavy with discouragement, but we never gave up. Our eyelids were near the point of failing and our bodies almost overcome with exhaustion when we heard a small mewing sound deep in the bushes. Lucy all but dived into the thickets, scooping into her scratched hands the quivering body of the kitten and holding it close to her body, cooing softly to calm him.

I saw the warmth in her eyes…it was almost maternal.

We had brought the kitten home, a new flame of energy quickening our step and we reached the house without faltering at all. There, -after much merry celebration and a few drinks- the gracious owner asked to take a photo of us - so of course we willingly obliged. Afterwards, while Lucy was in another room, I asked if they could send me a copy of the photo - for Lucy’s birthday.

That photograph…it reminded me of her kindness.

I reached out with quivering fingers, dusting over the contour of the frame.. A sweet moment, it brought me so much warmth, how unfortunate it was that it had been so fleeting…

My eyes rested on it a second longer, soaking in the fading memory before my eyes found a second picture.

In the next frame I found no kindness, only a feeling that left a bittersweet taste in my mouth.

It was a strange photo - Lucy had told me to throw it away many times - but something about it always made me love her more.

It was her, ripping up a document of paper in her hands with heated anger in her eyes. She had fallen in love with a fake; her tender heart had been fooled. I knew she loved the man; I saw it in the way her eyes melted like chocolate and the little bounce in her step when she saw him.

But then -when he passed her a paper- a slip that looked so much like a contract to my eyes, containing demands that she move away from the “reckless guild of hers” and come back to her ”real” family. Lucy realized then that he was nothing more than some hired pawn of her father’s; at that moment she was angry beyond belief.

Watching her tear the offending paper to pieces with such fervor, I thought it was for breaking her heart, for thinking she’d submit to her father’s will -but no.

She yelled at the man, loud and clear, “My family? My true family?! Do you think that’s who that tyrant is?! No, that’s not my family at all!”

It was then that she snatched me up from the table where I’d been sitting; silently watching, wrapped in a long dark coat and hat that hid my features. It hadn’t fooled her; she pulled me out of my seat, making me stumble as she stomped and pointed at me.

“This is my family! My family who still sneaks behind me where they think I can’t see them! Even after I’ve been on dozens of dates with you! My family would sacrifice their lives for me! That ‘true’ family you speak of wouldn’t even come to speak to my face!”

The entire restaurant watched in shock and fear as the man shrunk further and further into his chair. Lucy yelled until her voice was hoarse, the hot tears streaming down her cheeks in torrents.

“Most of all, tell that witless father of mine that I will never leave my family for that heartless greed of his!”

The man had scurried away, both in fear and wrath, leaving Lucy seething beside me. Slowly, however, her clenched fists loosened, her lips softened from stone-hard rage to quivers. With bright, tear-filled eyes, her gaze finally came to rest on me.

“Natsu…” She whispered.

I knew at once how much pain she was in. I reached out and pulled her to my chest, resting my chin on the top of her head.

“It’s okay…” Lucy’s words were muffled against my chest. I knew better than to believe her; she was anything but okay.
I gripped her tighter and answered her,

“Thank you…” I knew she understood what I meant.

That strange photograph reminded me of her loyalty..

Her loyalty to the guild, her friends, me -we were her family. Regardless of blood, regardless of expectations, without Fairy Tail she would have felt homeless.
That moment had sewn a hole inside of me, the longing for the closeness of bloodline.. I knew at that moment Lucy felt like that was the relationship we had..

Why though, when I looked at that photograph, did it fill me with such grief? I knew she loved me; but why did I feel so empty?

My hand clutched the black fabric over my heart, daring my eyes to move on from that particular frame. At least half a dozen precious photographs littered the windowsill…each one reminded me of her honesty, generosity and more. I couldn’t bring myself to look at the rest, my eyes were misted over with unshed tears, my lips quivering with every breath I took. Agony clawed at me the longer I stood there, the heat of my loss burning away the remains of my humanity.

To the normal eye, this picture would be a kind, warm, and welcoming sight. But to me, I could feel the monstrous memories cackling with dark laughter as my focus began to rest on the ebony picture frame; cold and frightening in just its aura.

I remember resting there, trying to find some divine strength inside of me to continue on the journey to the next torture.

Unlike the other frames, this one contained a painting. The hues that were used to create the soul of the piece were a darker, more brooding, sort. I could feel my very soul shaking with intense, agonizing emotions, my eyes wide with shock from the cold sweat that broke out across my skin in an icy wave.

Unwanted memories poured through me relentlessly like blood through my veins.

I was the one to have this done, I had gone to a small shop on the outskirts of town where I’d been told an old man would sit and paint until the light faded from his porch.

There had been a downpour that day though, the drops of rain mixed with my tears and ran down my cheeks in ugly, blotchy streams. I was nothing more than a broken mess, my hair long and covering my face. Black circles clung beneath my bloodshot eyes and my clothes hadn’t been washed in days. My gaze didn’t move from my bare feet, covered in a sticky mixture of mud and blood.

I had approached the man on his deck and heard him sigh; the creak of his old chair ceased as he stood and walked towards me.

“Boy, boy, you’ve gone through some kind of hell, haven’t you?” His voice was old and hoarse, causing my gaze to drift up towards his face.

He was slouched over an ebony cane; white whiskers covered his head and chin, his deep amber gaze was penetrating - I felt drawn towards him.

I said nothing to the man at first, just walked up the two steps onto his deck, leaving a puddle of water as my weary eyes looked down at him.

“Can you paint something for me?” I begged, the words slipping past my lips, nearly a sob, “please…”

I remember, more than anything, how hopeless I felt in that moment. It was like I had lost a chunk of my soul to the void where even heaven couldn’t even stitch me right.

His voice had filled me with something reminiscent of relief, “Of course, child,” he said beckoning me forward.

“Here, stay for a moment,” he told me, as if I could move if I wanted to.

He came back, half a minute later, with a stool and a palette of colors.

He sat me down and asked me what I wanted, first broadly, and then detail by detail, each smaller than the last. I worked so hard to remember her face at that specific moment, the exact way her hair fell and each tear of her clothes. Every word I had to pull from my memories felt like another moment I had to spend in that hellfire.

By the time he was done my sobbing had exhausted me beyond belief. I had my head in my hands, my fingers entwined in my hair.

“Do you want to see it?” He asked, the smell of the paint still fresh in the dewy air.

“Yes…” I whispered through the palms of my hands, quivering as I pulled at the remaining strength in my body and willed myself to stand.

As I found my balance, I raised my eyes to meet his. His brow was furrowed as he looked at me; his brush hovered just above the surface of his work.

As I walked forward, I could feel my excitement building; I was so close to the relief I sorely craved. I turned the corner so I could see it, but I was confronted by entirely different emotions.

I thought I would be filled with joy, or contentment, or anything warm! Just something…something to fill the darkness that had burrowed so deep into my soul. But instead, as the canvas was laid out before me, it ripped even farther at the seams, tearing me into smaller pieces.

She was there, in my arms, even shrouded in death she looked so much at peace. The painting was viewed from above, her bloodied head framed perfectly in my lap. Scarlet flames curled maliciously around her, consuming her along with my own will to live.

Earlier, I had thought the painter might miss some small spots or details…but this was not the case. It was all there, exactly the way I had lived it, as if he had plucked the memory straight from my mind. From each streak of blood across her cheek to every tear that dotted her eyelashes.
Her furrowed brow, framed in golden hair, still shone so brightly even through the matted red stains. He had captured her completely.

In that moment, I remember she had been so hauntingly weak, yet still managed to grant me a smile.

I had held her in my arms, “I’m sorry…” Falling from my lips repeatedly as I shook with sobs.

She couldn’t speak, but even through the pain she still held so much warmth in her amber eyes.

She must have thought it a kindness, to give me one last smile, and at the time I would have agreed. That one moment had added a light to the darkness slowly enveloping me, the suffocating wrath it bore lessened and I could breathe once more. My heart, tired from my demonic massacre, melted when I saw something so homely: so her.

That’s why I thought the painting would bring me joy, but it brought nothing more than increased torture. Looking at the her face, forever still in that frame, I realised I would never get the chance to see her smile again.

Even in my darkest days, where I thought the world wanted me to be alone, she would never be there with her loyalty to bring me to my feet. When I felt like crying - or angry enough to tear the earth apart - she would never again be there with her kind touch to remind me of who I was and that the world wasn’t my enemy. There would be no more adventures, nothing so silly and carefree as spending tireless hours searching for a mere kitten. Instead, she left me with infinite time to grieve her absence and to realise who I was without a family.

So, whenever I look at the picture taken that day of our job, it doesn’t remind me of how kind she was. It reminds me of how angry I am at the world for taking those I loved. When I see that photo of her ripping the paper, I don’t feel grateful for her loyalty; it reminds me how alone I am without my family, without someone to love.

And when I see that painting of her final smile, I don’t think of how she had always made my world shine…I feel suffocated in the darkness without her.

Without her, without them, I am no hero…I am a monster -no, a demon. So when I see those picture frames full of what should be bittersweet memories, I am only filled with anger; wrath my singular emotion. Tears are my relief, and they soothe me often. For I am trapped in those memories like a curse.

No matter how much I try to remember Lucy as the one I loved, I can only feel my anger for the ones who took her. When I try to remind myself with the solitary windowpane, all I see is a fading memory trapped in a gallery of picture frames.