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bubblehorse · 2 years

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The Tiger's Cave | Chapter 1

Welcome to the introductory chapter of my first Hunter x Hunter fanfic! This is an OC-driven story, with that OC being my own Brioche Kavaro -- the eldest sibling of Banana Kavaro, as well as Kite's friend, partner, and romantic interest. It will intertwine flashback chapters alongside those focusing on the "present-day" of the Chimera Ant arc (and, ideally, the Chairman Election arc and beyond). Enjoy!

CHAPTER 1 - IN THE BEGINNING

The sun has scarcely started to rise over the banks of the Kobwuge River, it is a crisp spring day, and Gon Freecss has just learned more about his estranged father in the last twelve hours than he had in his previous twelve years of life, which was all he had up to that point. Gon leans back with his legs forward, supporting his weight with his hands on the rocky ground behind him. It’s not exactly comfortable, but his limbs are grateful for the stretch. He feels the warmth of the sun on his cheek, and it dawns on him that he’s missed an entire night’s sleep.

One could hardly fault him for that, though. Expecting to meet Ging but finding Kite instead, the welcome wagon of flesh-eating ants and gunfire, and that boisterous slot machine clown to boot...the combination of it all practically makes Gon’s head spin. Of course, that could also be the sleep deprivation. He’d been running on pure adrenaline, at least since his final confrontation with Genthru, and that had been how many hours (days?) ago now? Gon manages to tear his gaze from the sun glinting gently over the trees on the opposite bank, giving his own face a few good wake-up slaps before looking back at their new companion. “Hey, so what kind of work do you do, Kite?”

“Biological surveys,” Kite answers, sweeping a stray piece of his waist-length silvery hair back over his shoulder. Gon and his best friend, Killua, had learned last night that the gangly man was a Hunter just like them, one who had even learned Nen under Ging. “My main focus is discovering and researching new species. For instance, have you heard of the Camp Tiger?”

“Can’t say that I have,” says Killua. Gon nods in agreement with his friend, urging Kite to continue. Kite rummages in the knapsack by his knee, pulling out a laptop. He clicks through a few folders and pulls up a video to show the two boys “They’ve mastered fire. They use tree branches that were ignited by lightning as kindling.” His eyes, normally half-hidden under the brim of his blue newsboy cap, are exposed briefly, sparkling with excitement. Kite continues as he hands the small computer over to Gon. “Other than certain bipedal magical beasts, they’re the first of their kind—a wild animal that prefers its meat cooked, as opposed to raw.”

The fuzzy video recording is dim at first. It must have been shot late in the evening, Gon assumes. Two large orange cats soon stalk into view. They’re essentially identical to ordinary tigers—until the scene is lit by the ignition of a small campfire, and the two boys can see the single horns protruding from the crown of each cat’s head. Both of them have speared fish on their horns, and crane their necks to roast their kills over the fire.

Killua’s face lights up at the same time as Gon’s. “Hey, check it out! They’re actually cooking it!”

Kite allows himself a small smile and sits up a little straighter. He goes on about how it may not show on film, but it had taken him three long months camping in the forests of the Kakin Empire, setting up perimeters, collecting and testing scat samples, checking and rechecking trail cams, just to capture the thirty-second clip Killua and Gon were now watching. “So what else is there?” Gon asks eagerly, looking up from the screen. He could only begin to imagine the fantastical kinds of creatures Kite must’ve encountered in his travels with Ging.

“Oh yeah, I almost forgot.” Killua’s hand drifts down to the scabs on his shin, a set of twin puncture marks—unusually vicious, given the size of the creature. “You said the thing that attacked me was a Chimera Ant, right?”

“Yes, the Chimera Ant,” Kite answers flatly, offering the Ants none of the same enthusiasm that he had for the Camp Tiger. “It’s under a designated quarantine, level one. It’s a dangerous insect that normally no one’s allowed to be near.”

“So were you the one who discovered them?” asks Gon. “No, I usually specialize in larger creatures,” Kite says, “but right now, I’m investigating these insects. Something has been bothering me lately…” Kite trails off, a shadow crossing his face as he warily surveys the decimated Chimera Ant nest a short distance away. After a long pause, he snaps himself back to the present. “As it stands, it looks like I’ll have to move to a different location now.” Kite shifts in place once more, pulling a cell phone from his pocket. It’s a rectangle with a single elongated screen and no keypad, a much sleeker model than Gon and Killua’s Beatle-07s. “I need to make a call, but I’m not getting a signal here,” Kite grumbles down at his phone. Gon has to suppress a small snicker when he notices that, much like its owner, Kite’s cell phone is equipped simply—his only installed applications are a video browser and a GPS map.

Kite notices the questioning look on Gon’s face. “I’m working with others. There are eight of us on the team, including myself and—” he starts, then interrupts himself. “I guess I’ll just have to wait for them to show up. They’re mostly amateurs, but all extremely skilled Hunters,” he continues brightly. “I’ll introduce you to them.” No sooner had Kite finished his sentence than four distant figures cut through the early morning fog, striding out of the woods to the north. The largest of the group—who, in the limited visibility, appears to have white, bear-like ears protruding from their head—waves towards them and bellows in a deep, echoing voice to get Kite’s attention.

At this, Kite turns around. “Well, speak of the devil,” he smiles to himself. He stands to greet his approaching companions, brushing himself off as Gon and Killua follow suit. Gon wasn’t sure what he was expecting Kite’s co-workers to look like, but the mismatched group before him seems a perfect fit for their jobs. As he looks them over, he notices that they’ve all got patches of dirt and grass stains all over their pants, and the stout man who had called out to Kite has more than a few leaves stuck in his dense, curly hair.

“Hey Kite. Who are these kids?” The first to speak is a young woman with a spiky pink undercut, and a puffy-sleeved yellow turtleneck under blue denim overalls. Over her shoulders is a brown leather backpack, which appears to be squirming slightly.

“Some brand new friends of mine,” Kite says, gesturing towards the two young boys. “Dropped by for a short visit on their travels.”

“Is that so?” says another young woman with long, reddish hair and piercing green eyes. “Nice of you to come all this way. My name is Spinner Clow—Spin for short.” Spinner’s voice is brisker than the first girl’s, and she wears a hat like Kite’s, but in a yellow plaid pattern and skewed to the side. Gon figures she might be the one who takes charge when Kite’s not around. “Pleasure to meetcha,” she says, extending a hand to Gon and blowing a bubble with her gum at the same time.

“Hi! I’m Gon Freecss,” he says, shaking Spinner’s hand firmly. “Nice to meet you, Spin.” Spin’s gum bubble pops against her face as she blinks incredulously at him. “Hang on...Freecss?” she repeats aloud before she remembers to release Gon’s hand from her grasp. “Wait. Does that mean you’re—?” “Yep,” Kite cuts in, a hint of pride in his voice. “This boy is Ging’s son.” A couple of excited murmurs run through the small group. Gon beams, fidgeting behind his back with the Greed Island ring still around his finger.

“What about you?” grins the last newcomer, a young man lanky enough to rival Kite, wearing a raglan shirt with dark blue sleeves, his hair styled in a large, sandy brown afro. “Are you Ging’s kid too?” he asks eagerly, pointing at Killua.

“No, that’s just Gon. My name is Killua Zoldyck.” “Zoldyck? R-really?” The young man’s face falls as he visibly shrinks back from the boys. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but are you a part of the famous family of assassins?” the girl in the yellow turtleneck speaks up again nervously. “Mm-hmm. That’s right, but I quit the business,” Killua says, with the same tone one might use to discuss the weather, or a mildly interesting magazine article.

“That’s not all,” Kite interjects again. “They’re both professional Hunters, so that makes them your seniors.” At this, Spin’s jaw drops, and her gum from it. She discreetly kneels down to pick it up and stow it away for proper disposal later as the rest of the group exchanges more excited chatter.

Once Spin and her friends have all rearranged themselves on a more comfortable patch of grass, the other three finish introducing themselves properly. Gon learns the large, bearish man—who, up close, is a lot friendlier-looking, and resembles a koala more than a bear—is Monta Yuras, also called Mon; the young man with the afro is named Stick Dinner, who informs them with a hearty guffaw that his name dictates he handle all of the group’s meals; and the pink-haired girl in the yellow turtleneck is Banana Kavaro.

Gon opens his mouth to ask about her wriggling knapsack, but his question is preemptively answered by a small white dog nosing its way out of the canvas bag and eagerly scampering over to lick his face.

“That’s Stinky!” Banana laughs. “He travels everywhere with me, and you won’t find a better tracker anywhere. He’s like our team mascot.” “Podungo and Lin complete the team,” adds Kite, “along with Banana’s older sibling, Brioche. Where are they all now?” he asks, turning back towards his proteges.

“They’re heading toward the area of the sighting,” Monta tells him.

Kite smiles fondly, “Those three always move so quickly.” He looks to Gon like he wants to say something more about their three missing companions, but stops short again.

“Oh,” says Monta, digging into a pouch of his backpack, which was probably large enough to fit Gon and Killua comfortably, if they were so inclined. “What you told me earlier was accurate, Kite.” He pulls a small, tightly corked vial out from within the bag’s depths. “This thing right here, it looks exactly like the claw of a Chimera Ant Queen. We ran some computer analyses, and it came back a ninety-nine percent match.”

A shiver passes through the group, as though the warm breeze playing around the riverbank had taken a double-digit dive as soon as Monta says that phrase, Chimera Ant Queen. One look at Kite’s grim expression makes Gon’s stomach flip-flop. But Kite says nothing, so Gon stays quiet too.

“Can I see?” asks Killua, standing up and sauntering closer. Monta nods and hands him the vial. “So this is a Chimera Ant claw?” he lets out a low whistle. “It’s as big as a human finger.”

Gon shoots up from his spot on the grass. “Does that mean there are huge ants?”

“We’re not certain,” says Kite. “Could one have mutated that big?” Killua voices a disturbing possibility that nonetheless had been weighing on Kite’s mind for days.

“It is possible,” he answers gravely, “although it may also belong to a completely different species. Regardless, we just don’t know right now. That’s why we’re investigating.”

Spin begins, “It all started with a wonky assignment—” And then the group is off, taking turns telling stories about their time conducting biological surveys for the Kakin Empire. Kite had already spoiled Gon and Killua on the Camp Tiger, which the whole group had already agreed was the most impressive find of their adventures. Monta told them all about the August Bullfrog, a species of saltwater amphibian that sparkled golden in the sunlight, and the largest of which could swim powerfully enough to kick up cyclones.

Every one of the aspiring Hunters had come away with a staggering number of new species discoveries credited to their names—Lin, who Gon is quickly understanding to be something of a genius, had racked up over one thousand alone. Stick claims they were credited with two hundred years’ worth of work altogether, completed just under the deadline of their three-year contract.

“It wasn’t literally two hundred years,” Spin frowns, the bubble from her new piece of gum popping with frustration, “but it may as well have been that much, for how eager the guy was to get out of paying us our bonus.”

“The work itself wasn’t bad or anything! The complete opposite, actually.” Banana pipes up sheepishly, “but Mr. Wong, for real, tried to pay us in exposure.”

Kite swallows anxiously and furrows his brow, which only Gon notices. This was the first either of them had heard of any disdain for Mr. Wong, or the outcome of their Kakin assignment. Kite casts a furtive glance around his students. He hadn’t disappointed them, had he?

Unbeknownst to Kite, there had been a hushed debate in Monta’s tent that same night between the six of them. No one had argued with Kite at the time, when he had graciously thanked the head of the Kakin Environmental Conservation Agency for promising to recommend his team to other friendly nations—he was their leader, Banana had said, and the only one with an actual Hunter’s License. Plus, as Podungo had pointed out, Kite was hardly the confrontational type if he could at all avoid it, a trait they were largely thankful for in a mentor. Of course he wasn’t likely to argue their case unprompted, though they could hardly hold that oversight against him when Kite was always fronting the start-up costs of their operations. Stick had then wondered aloud if Brioche’s presence could have changed the outcome. Ultimately, a shared frustration still lingered amongst the Amateur Hunters, a feeling that they’d been cheated by a nebulous someone several rungs higher in the bureaucracy—even if their three years spent in Kakin had been the most interesting and ambitious project they’d undertaken yet.

“Mr. Wong must’ve noticed how the vibe shifted, because after that he mentioned, off the record, some body part from an ‘unregistered species.’ Something even Southernpiece couldn’t touch, and they were looking to sell it off to a Hunter rather than get it confiscated.” Another pop of her gum from Spin. “I assume giving us that lead was his way of saying thank you,” she glances towards Kite, trying to be charitable.

“We had to travel to the warehouse where Southernpiece was keeping the segment ourselves,” says Monta. “And that claw you’ve got there,” he says, gesturing to Killua, “that was just a small piece off of the limb they had.”

“You guys keep calling it a ‘limb’ or a ‘segment,’” Killua says, turning the vial over in his hand pensively. “So was it an arm, or a leg?”

“That’s the question we all had. Let’s see, I sketched a diagram of it before we left, so you’ll see what I mean,” Banana says, pulling a notebook bound in mustard-yellow leather from the knapsack previously housing Stinky. Gon catches a few glimpses of other drawings and cramped notes as she thumbs her way quickly through the worn pages. “Aha, there we are!”

Looking at the notebook, Gon and Killua quickly understood the Amateur Hunters’ confusion. Banana’s notes on the charcoal sketch, based on her and her friends’ observations, pointed out that while the bone structure most closely resembled a leg, it was too large to match any recorded species. Furthermore, it had six claws—three times the usual number found in an insect leg—leading Banana to hypothesize that the cluster of bones making up the mid- and hindfoot had instead evolved into something like fingers. Someone else’s loopy handwriting in a pink gel pen noted that an odd spiny segment might have been the tibia.

“You’ve been unusually quiet this whole time, Stick,” Banana says as she turns to their friend reclining on the grass. “You thought all this was really weird too, didn’t you?”

Stick sits up, bringing his hand up to his mouth in mock-deep thought, trying to hide the telltale curl of his lip. “Well, I guess…” he says, stretching out the last vowel sound as long as his lungs will allow, “Whatever creature that belongs to must be pretty LEG-endary!” He throws back his head with a victorious laugh, not bothered in the slightest when Spin delivers a punch to his shoulder. “Were you just sitting on that the whole time, Sticker?” Spin sounds exasperated, but everyone else knows she’s only groaning at the atrocious quality of Stick’s puns. Even Kite can’t help but crack a smile as Gon and Killua’s laughter joins in with the rest.

“Let me give this back to you. Before he,”—Killua jerks his thumb towards Stick, still rolling on the grass and easily amused by his own antics—“makes me drop it.” Killua leans over to Monta and deposits the vial in his enormous hands.

“Don’t worry about it,” Monta says easily as he stows the vial back in his bag. “They let us take two samples to study, actually. Lin and Podungo have the other one with them.”

“So where did Podungo and Lin go off to?” Kite finally asks. “And with Brioche?” is implied.

“Somewhere south of Yorknew City, I think,” says Spin.

“The person who found the leg apparently lives in a city pretty close to the ocean,” Banana tacks on.

“I realize you just got back,” Kite says, lifting himself from the grass, “but we should really hurry after them.” Yorknew was an entire ocean away, and they had no time to waste if this Queen theory had any truth to it. “Hey, would it be okay if we came along with you?” Gon’s excitement is palpable.

“Yes, of course.” Kite doesn’t hesitate to invite them both. The group could benefit from some new faces, and he knew his students would shine with the chance to flex their knowledge for the young pro Hunters. The rest of the group stands, while Banana gently coaxes Stinky back into his traveling perch in her backpack.

“It’s funny,” says Killua, as the group sets off, having gathered all of their things. “We were in Yorknew not too long ago. Before you guys though, during the auction.”

“We were trying to buy Greed Island, this game that Ging made, but first we had to make a ton of money to buy it, so we searched through all these market stalls for items with traces of Nen on them, and THEN one of our friends needed help with a kidnapping, and—”

Killua gives Gon a soft tap on the shoulder, and Gon pauses, taking a quick, deep breath and smiling sheepishly before he returns to recounting their adventures in Yorknew City six months prior, more slowly this time. Killua links his arm with Gon’s, and the two fall into step effortlessly. Kite, bringing up the rear, is the only one in a position to witness this subtle moment, and smiles to himself, straightening his cap again.

Good Hunters are well-liked by animals. They’re often blessed with good friends as well.

Ging’s words ring ever truer in Kite’s mind, and in observing the two boys as they trot along the dirt path back through the woods, and eventually to Stick Dinner’s van, he’s distinctly reminded of himself and Brioche Kavaro as children. Kite had given Gon a largely abbreviated account of his life prior to meeting Ging. There had been plenty before that, and plenty after, but it hardly felt right to tell that part of the story with only half its participants present. Brie would want to tell their own story to Gon, anyway.

NEXT CHAPTER

#hunter x hunter #hxh fic #hxh oc #kite hxh #suziwrites #the tiger's cave

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canadian-riddler · 3 years

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The Future of Fear

By Indiana

Characters: Jonathan Crane, Edward Nygma

Synopsis: You really CAN find anything on the Internet.

AO3

Edward had been giggling to himself over something on his computer on his side of their shared office space for some time now and it was becoming incredibly distracting. Jonathan had been trying to think of some suitable method to shut him up while not angering him enough to force Jonathan to leave and pay for his own office, but had come up lamentably short.

Perhaps another cup of coffee would help. He retrieved his empty mug and made his way towards the percolator, which was unfortunately located on a low table behind Edward’s desk. Edward, strangely, did not attempt to goad him into conversation as per usual, so obviously Jonathan had to look for himself at what it was that had him so engrossed.

It seemed to be some sort of Internet forum. There were very few things Jonathan could have found less interesting than a horde of anonymous bumpkins arguing with each other over the smallest of inconsequential things. He shook his head and put his cup down on the table.

“You really should see this,” Edward said. The squeak of the chair indicated he had turned around in it.

“I can’t imagine why I would care to.”

“This is a series of posts about what a helpful person your fans believe you to be, for one thing.”

Helpful? Fans? Jonathan barely dignified that with a backwards glance. “You’re not even trying to be convincing this time.”

“No,” Edward said, tilting the screen back and turning the laptop towards him. Jonathan moved to face him and leaned forward, his fingers splayed along the desk’s edge in order to maintain his balance. “Look. This person is convinced you wouldn’t harm them because they’ve been diagnosed with GAD.”

“They what?” He did not have time to locate this post on the screen, much less read it, because Edward had already whisked it back towards himself.

“’I mean, he was a teacher once, right? That must mean he cared,’” read Edward. “’He wouldn’t make someone with anxiety suffer even more.’”

“Edward, how do I find this person? I have urgent information for them.” Or urgent plans, at least.

“From the number of people who claim their greatest fear is their student loans,” Edward answered, the corner of his mouth curling upward, “you could probably put up a flyer at any university simply offering to help them.”

“Help them?” Jonathan repeated. “Why – with what?”

“Well, this person seems convinced you would empathise with them because they were bullied as a child. So their childhood trauma, I presume.”

Even after he’d read it himself it still made very little sense. “And why is that?”

“Because you were bullied and that makes you kindred spirits.”

The next batch of text on the screen seemed to prove this theory and yet it still seemed as though Edward was making it all up. Jonathan continued to stare at it until the only logical thing he could do in response came to him: he laughed. The more he thought about it, the funnier it became, and he found himself with his face buried in his arms atop the desk, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. What utter nonsense was that? Help someone resolve their ingrained traumas merely because – no. No, it simply could not be real. Edward was pulling his leg. He straightened, wiping his face with his sleeve, and discovered Edward had disappeared. And taken the laptop with him. It had clearly been a joke. It was just not possible that there were people who sat down and typed out their fears and personal histories in great detail and left them where anyone could find them. There were especially no people who actually thought he, the Master of Fear, would ever attempt to solve their –

His thoughts were interrupted by Edward’s return, which was accompanied by a flurry of papers thrust into Jonathan’s face close enough he had to crane his neck backward. “My gift to you,” said Edward, resuming his seat. Jonathan looked down at the first page.

It was a list of… personal information. And a lot of it. Familial problems, dislikes, triggers… “Edward, this can’t be right,” Jonathan protested. “You made all of this up.”

“In this day and age, I don’t have to,” Edward answered. “Think about it, Jonathan. Now you only have half the work to do. Hell, I think you could get away with picking some kid who’s terrified of climate change by strapping them into a virtual reality headset and investing in a couple of heat lamps.”

“Come now, Edward,” scoffed Jonathan, putting aside the papers for the moment, “surely they would notice they were wearing one of those things.”

“Why would I suggest it if it wouldn’t work?” Edward presented him with a video of a begoggled woman who seemed to be in the throes of a fear of heights so intense she had forgotten entirely that she was crawling on her living room floor as opposed to venturing out of an elevator onto a thin wooden plank eighty stories from the ground.

“Why did no one tell me about this sooner?”

“To be honest, I thought you’d start lecturing me about doing things the old-fashioned way,” Edward said, leaning back in the chair and clasping his hands behind his head in order to stretch. Jonathan shook his head.

“Oh, no, Edward. Knowing all of these things ahead of time means I can get right to the interesting parts.”

“The screaming?”

“And the crying, and the begging, and the shaking and sweating,” Jonathan said, with a little more fondness than he meant to, and Edward laughed.

“You will find no shortage of people happy to freely hand out the information you need,” he said. “Now go away. I have things of my own to take care of.”

“I need to borrow your phone,” Jonathan said. “There are a few calls I would like to make.”

Edward fished it out of his back pocket and handed it to him after he had unlocked it. Jonathan returned to his own desk, taking a few minutes to determine whom he wanted to contact first. The first number rang and rang, as he had expected, and as it did so he mentally composed the message he was going to leave. When the requisite beep came he spoke in a soothing voice long since well-practised. “Hello, my name is Dr Jonathan Crane. A friend of mine passed along your story and I have to say that it truly touched me. I should like to set up a meeting so we can discuss getting you the treatment you need for your anxiety. And not to worry, it will be free of charge. As you know I have a personal understanding of your circumstances. Please contact me at your earliest convenience. Good day.”

Edward, to his credit, had managed to keep his laughter quiet enough it was unlikely the phone had picked up on it from that distance. Jonathan could not keep an amused smile from his own lips. “If they fall for that they deserve what they get,” Edward said, folding his arms across his chest. “I suppose we’re going to need to rig you up a fake office.”

“You are going to need to rig me up a fake office,” Jonathan corrected, selecting a new name on his list. “And I need one of those headsets. I would also appreciate a cup of coffee.”

Edward heaved a long-suffering sigh, but he did shove his chair backwards in order to set up the percolator. Jonathan dialled a fresh number and waited.

“Hello, my name is Dr Jonathan Crane. A friend of mine passed along your story, and I must tell you that I was truly moved by it…”

#Riddler #Scarecrow #fanfic from Indy #so says Indy #just a silly thing from last night #wasn't what I originally wanted so I might have to do an alternate eventually #by that I mean in about three years lol

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twistofpayne · 6 years

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i used to be a baker - lirry

A tumblr prompt went by my dash and ate away at me until I wrote this :) Enjoy! Please let me know what you thought. xx

P.S. I wrote another Lirry fic for the big bang that’s coming out in a few weeks, so expect more from me in the near future.

“Not again,” Liam hisses, barely audible even to himself over the shrieking smoke alarm. He drops the skillet and it clangs loudly against the stovetop, flinging bits of remoulade and tarragon onto the backsplash, the other burner, and his exposed forearms. “Damn,” he groans, now thoroughly disgruntled by the cacophonous alarm, his singed armhair, and hazy kitchen fogged by burning zucchini.

This is his third attempt this month to recreate a dish from the Jamie Oliver cookbook that Niall had given him last Christmas, and the third time the alarm has humiliated him into his defeated routine: He cracks open the tiny window above the sink, props the door ajar with a loose shoe, and grabs a clean cutting board to begin fanning the smoke from his flat. Old-fashioned air-con. The building is ancient enough that the landlord had laughed in Liam’s face when he’d had asked about central air. Not that Liam really expected much; it was clear from the Craigslist posting that the landlord was desperate and looking for an equally desperate tenant. So two months ago Liam had squeezed all his belongings up two flights of stairs into 3B and attempted to carve out a home amongst the yellowed wallpaper, dingy florescent lights, a testy cooker and over-active smoke alarm.

Adding insult to injury was the serene voice drifting from the speakers of his laptop, instructing him how to identify the best zucchinis in supermarket bins for use in creamy sauces as opposed to oily ones. With his arms occupied by waving the cutting board, Liam squints across the kitchen to calculate the optimal moment to pause the video between his wild flaps of the cutting board, and it’s only then that he catches sight of the dark figure in his doorway that’s definitely not the right shade of ugly yellow wallpaper to belong there. He starts, nearly losing his grip on the cutting board but managing to cling quickly to it at the last second, enough to stop it from flying into the man’s face. Because it is definitely a man, but a strange one. Liam’s eyes sweep up the man’s frame - made longer by black skinny jeans, made leaner by an oversized hoodie - and rests on jade green eyes burning (visible from two meters away) with a luster of barely concealed impatience.

“Hey-o,” Liam stutters, more in surprise than in greeting.

“Cheers,” the man replies, catching Liam further off guard with the speed of the response. “Did you know your alarm’s going off?”

His voice is deep, deeper than Liam would have expected for his almost-slight build, but clipped with the same irritability of his narrowed gaze.

“Oh,” Liam stammers again, and feels himself flush with embarrassment. He hasn’t managed to meet any of his neighbors yet, but clearly this intruder is one of them. He lowers the cutting board to his waist, as if it’s a shield between them. He lifts his chin to speak over the blaring alarm. “Er, I suppose you can hear it when I prop open the door.”

The man nods and his chestnut curls flop forward into his eyes. It strikes Liam as an undignified motion by an otherwise pompous solicitor. “A bit,” he answers. “Oh, and the six times before that, too.”

Liam winces. He hates upsetting people, and even more so he hates knowing that he’s upset people unintentionally. Zayn calls it a personality flaw (even though Niall tries to shush him every time): Liam likes to be liked and takes great pains to accomplish that. And there’s the added annoyance that now that he’s over the shock of finding this stranger in his flat, he can’t take his eyes off of those angled cheekbones, or the twisted curl of his judgmental smirk, or most of all the wide-set green eyes that make Liam feel out of breath in his own home.

He nods once in reply, hoping his ears aren’t as visibly red as they feel. “Right, reckon I’m sorry about that.” He arranges his lips into what he hopes is a meek smile, conscious that he’s apologizing over the noise of the still-shrieking smoke alarm. “Won’t happen again, mate.”

Just his luck - the alarm ceases blaring while Liam is mid-sentence, but he isn’t quick enough on the reaction and so the last two words sound like they’re shouted over the newfound quiet. He knows his ears are scarlet now, and beneath his embarrassment he desperately hopes his apology is enough to excuse the disgruntled neighbor from his flat.

But the man doesn’t move, just stands in the entryway with one hand on the brass doorknob and the other on his hip.

Awkward silence falls--or it would, if not for the contrived voice of the earnest vlogger still emanating from Liam’s laptop, now lecturing on the proper way to slice zucchini halves.

“Grip the zucchini firmly,” the female voice commands, Irish accent audible from the few words. “I find it best to grip the head to minimize any slippage. Make sure you’ve got a sharp knife--”

Liam breaks in to interrupt the monologue’s mortifying entendre (because with a face like that, how can Liam not let his mind wander at the mention of firm gripping?). “I’m a bit too novice to be amateur,” he says quickly as he turns to the opposite counter to pause the video. Before he can, the man takes two long strides into the room and beats him to the laptop.

Liam is so jarred by the boldness of his neighbor that he barely hears the words coming from his mouth. “Er, what?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed.

“I said, is that Kelly Parker?” The man bends forward at the shoulder to lean closer to the screen.

“Er...” Liam begins. “Y-yes, it is.”

“My mum used to watch her on the telly all the time growing up,” the neighbor says conversationally, his irritated tone dissolving into one of reminiscence. “I’d no idea she was on YouTube.”

“Yeah?” Liam says, clinging to the man’s change in mood. “My friend Niall put me on to her. He’s Irish, too. Reckon that’s how he found her.”

The man tilts his face a half-inch to the left to survey Liam out of the corner of his eye. He says nothing, so Liam rushes to fill the silence. “Do you cook too, then?”

“I dabble.” He turns back to the video and reaches up with one long-fingered hand to pause the video before Kelly Parker can finish dicing her remaining zucchini. He pivots on one heel to scrutinize the battle-weary stovetop. Picking up a serving spoon, he pokes at Liam’s remoulade, which has turned the color and texture of day-old mud. “What have we here, Shep?”

Abashed, Liam rotates the slightly sodden Jamie Oliver cookbook and points to the recipe. The man pokes at Liam’s sauce again and clucks his tongue. “Too much cornstarch, I think.”

“It’s supposed to be thick,” Liam gives a halfhearted defense.

“Right, well, we’ll just have to start from scratch, won’t we?”

Liam’s mind screeches to a halt - ‘start from scratch?’

And then - ‘We?’

“Yes, we,” the man replies. Liam clamps his mouth shut, realizing he had voiced that last thought aloud. “I’m Harry, by the way.” He -- Harry -- doesn’t turn to face Liam, doesn’t offer a hand to shake, and so it takes Liam a second to realized it was supposed to be an introduction.

“...Hi, I’m Liam.” Liam says, trying his best to adapt to the notion of introducing himself to someone after they’ve made themselves at home in his kitchen.

“I rather like my quiet, so I’m going to teach a you a bit. Let’s set off that alarm a bit less, mm?” Harry reaches up to rifle through the cabinets over the cooker.

Liam nods, resolving to hide his bewilderment by the appearance and authority of his new neighbor. “... Right. Uh, thanks loads, I guess. Are you right next door, then?”

Still shifting aside bottles of olive oil and curry, Harry shakes his head. “Downstairs, in 1D.”

Liam grimaces. “You can hear the alarm all the way down there?”

“Like I said, I like my quiet. D’you have any apple cider vinegar?”

“Ehm, no,” Liam replies, scanning the closed cabinets as if a bottle might materialize out of thin air. Not that he’s entirely sure what apple cider vinegar is.

Harry stops rummaging through Liam’s supplies and rocks back onto his heels. “Not a problem, we can just nip down to mine. Grab the terragon, will you, Shep? And the recipe.”

Before Liam has time to argue, Harry scoops up the defrosted salmon and the remaining stick of butter and disappears down the hall, leaving Liam standing mutely in the kitchen. It’s like a hurricane had descended on his flat in one second and disappeared the next.

He briefly considers staying here, hiding away behind a more carefully locked door from now on, but as if on cue, there’s a thump and a muffled yell from his upstairs neighbor. He cranes his neck and looks upward at the ceiling. There’s no way to hide from any of his neighbors, not with walls and floors this thin. And besides... Harry may be a hurricane, but he was a rather fit one. Liam chuckles to himself at the last image of Harry’s curls flopping forward as he whirled out the door.

And, more practically, he thinks as he gathers up the herbs to stack on top of the Jamie Oliver book, Harry is now holding his dinner hostage. He stifles a grin as he locks his door and descends the stairs to Harry’s flat.

Whatever he was expecting Harry’s flat to be decorated, this isn’t it. Almost every surface is covered in Persian rugs, crocheted doilies, hand-stitched throw pillows on the velvet couch. There’s a light smell of incense and... something sweeter that Liam doesn’t recognize but is what he imagines lavender smells like. The walls and ceiling are draped with LED lights, but soft ones that give off the dim aura of twilight.

“In here, Shep” Harry’s tenor floats out from the room to Liam’s left. He ducks his head through a bead curtain and finds himself pressed up against Harry in the kitchen. It would have been larger than Liam’s but for the extra counter space Harry has added in the form of wheeled carts and fold-out boards that descend from the walls. It’s cramped, hot, and smells delicious.

Harry is already working at the same busied pace that he was in Liam’s apartment. Something liquid sizzles in the cast iron skillet and Harry’s elbow pumps rhythmically up and down while he slices the heads off of a stand of asparagus. Liam watches, mesmerized, as Harry nimbly tosses the heads into the frying pan before turning back to Liam. “Got to start with an oil base, because asparagus carries the oil better than a cream or tomato sauce,” he explains. He wipes his hands on a houndstooth-patterned rag. “Now, I’m out of Merlot, but I do have a nice Riesling if you’d rather.”

“Er,” Liam starts, but Harry is already lifting a bottle down from the rack on the wall and digging for a corkscrew in a drawer that rattles with silverware. “Thanks.” While Harry pours, Liam lifts his gaze to the walls - all cupboards are bursting with tins, spices, wall-mounted herbs, the occasional stick of Toblerone. “You’ve got so much,” he marvels.

Harry grins down at the bottle now burbling its contents into a stemless wine glass. “I used to be a baker.”

Unsure how to respond, Liam gestures ambiguously to the ingredients stacked on Harry’s countertop. “Thanks for this. When I saw you in the doorway, I expected you to box my ears. I didn’t quite expect you to be kind enough to give me a cooking lesson.”

“I didn’t either, to be honest,” Harry responds and hands Liam the wine glass. “I couldn’t help but fall for those confused puppy dog eyes.”

Liam chokes on the Riesling slipping down his throat. Eyes burning, he wipes his lips and stares at Harry. “My what?”

Harry’s put on what Liam can only describe as a simper. “Please, Shep. I can only handle so much innocence in one evening.” His eyes seem to dance in the dim kitchen.

Shep. Liam just now realizes that Harry’s been affectionately been referring to him with a canine nickname this whole time. He blinks again, and Harry’s tone softens. “Am I reading this wrong? I thought that zucchini video was such a blatant come-on.”

“I--” Liam’s voice falters, halved by the distance that Harry closes between them. He lifts one long, ringed finger and runs it over Liam’s bottom lip where the wine has left a syrupy stain. Liam’s throat is tight and he doesn’t think it’s the Riesling.

Harry’s so close that Liam can see flecks of hazel in the green. His ears feel as scarlet as they did in his own flat, once again flustered by the rangy neighbor with the hungry look. It’s not unwanted, but it’s surprising. Liam’s always fallen for the old-fashioned types, the brooding gentlemen who open car doors for him, not beaded curtains.

“Yeah?” Harry intones, goading Liam to speak.

His eyes rake up Liam’s face and Liam’s lips separate, almost unconsciously. “Yes,” Liam says. One word, issuing from his throat as easy and effortless as a breath. It doesn’t even make sense as an answer, but it doesn’t matter. They both know what it means.

“Yeah?” Harry drawls again, the smirk audible in his voice. His hot breath is on Liam’s neck, and Liam’s entire body feels as if it’s a pillar of fire, a pillar of uncontrolled, sudden, and befuddling want. Harry’s hair tickles his nose. Liam sucks in breath sharply, inhaling the warm scent of butter, tarragon, Riesling, and a hint of smoke.

Above their heads, the fire alarm goes off.

#lirry #lirry drabble #harry styles drabble #one direction drabble #liam payne drabble #lirry fanfic #lirry ficlet #lirry fic #oh god it's been so long since i posted any writing #anyway i have a lirry fic coming in the big bang next month so expect lots more

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