Timeless [Sting X Reader] || Third Book

25 : Happily Ever After, and Everything In Between

[a/n]: well since this is the very last chapter of this book, and this wonderful, wonderful series that's survived many a writer's blocks and inconsistent updates, it makes me a little sad :')

but anyway i hope you enjoy this special chapter that i've written from lance's perspective!!

- Acnologia_Slayer, still madly, madly in love with Sting Eucliffe

xx

Once upon a time there lived a pretty girl named (Y/N) and a boy named Sting. I know what you're thinking but this ain't a fairy tale. (Y/N) isn't a pretty princess who lived in a castle and Sting wasn't a handsome prince.

They met at a competition, and at first they didn't really like each other. Maybe they hated each other, I don't know. But anyway all of a sudden they stopped not liking each other like magic. Sting says all of a sudden he realizes he's been so stupid not to know how beautiful (Y/N) really is. (Y/N) says that she still wanted to punch Sting in the face and Sting says he thought it was hot.

Anyway they fell in love and they kissed a lot. (Y/N) tells me that the two of them aren't a fairy tale prince and princess, she says that the fairy tales are simply that: stories built by bricks of imagination placed upon a foundation of dreams and a fantasy of a world perfected. (Y/N)'s really smart. Sting thinks so too.

(Y/N) says that they argue and fight sometimes, and they've made each other cry sometimes, and that everything isn't rainbows and sunshine and ballgowns and sparkles. (Y/N) also told me the fights and the tears didn't matter.

I was confused so I asked her why, (Y/N) told me that it was because even when they're screaming and tearing and overflowing, she knows she still loves Sting more than anything and she'll try to fix things with Sting as soon as possible.

I realized I didn't know a lot about love. I also didn't know a lot about (Y/N) and Sting's relationship except they loved each other a lot and they kissed a lot too.

Anyway, I call them Mommy and Daddy and I love them so much because they do really nice things for me even though I'm not very nice sometimes. 

Mommy's really kind and she cares about me a lot and I love her a lot! Daddy's kinda stupid sometimes but Mommy tells me not to call anybody stupid because that's rude, but Daddy's really funny too and we do really fun things together and I love him too!

Real life is waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay different from fairy tales but I kinda like real life more.

xx

The paper, flat and colored pale from the fingers of machines crumpled a little under Lance's hands, which were in constant movement. Lance is lying on his stomach, barricaded by fallen sticks of crayon, his expression pinched into one of concentration.

There's a flourish of color on the paper: intertwining lines drawn from the tip of a bright red crayon, worn to shortness with age. 

The lines either gather into words, which gather into sentences, that are all loosely connected. The handwriting's crooked, the tail of it either crawling up to topside of the paper or to the bottom. Either way, the words searched endlessly, chasing an edge they could tumble off of.

Or the lines gather into drawings, of figures with equally crooked lines for midsections and branches of lines for limbs. The head, shaped the roundness of a coat button, is propped onto the creation of intersecting sticks, consumed into an everlasting happiness.

Lance appears slightly complacent when he sets the tired crayon on the cool floor, but his eyes linger far too close to the circumference of seriousness as they review the words and illustrations, all colored an identical red of tomato sauce.

(He remembers a dinner of pasta two nights ago, and his stomach grumbles, desiring the satiety of something- anything.)

He approves it with a satisfied nod, picking up the crayon once again. The crayon remains a stiffening straight, unable to complain as it's forced against the surface of the paper in either long strokes or quick taps. Lance writes the last words to his self-made tale (It was something he'd been thinking about when the hours grew too silent, when he'd see Sting reaching for your hand in silent want,) something that Lance had devoted secret afternoons, several sheets of paper and a tiring search for the pack of crayons he'd barely used. 

When Lance punctuates his sentences with a forceful push of the crayon against the paper, chipping a little off from the tip and leaving it against the paper for Lance to scrutinize later, but for now, Lance drops the red crayon among reds and pinks and violets and greens, among other things, and the red crayon appears much shorter, much more worn than the other colors that still wore their factory-sharpened tips. 

Lance disappears into the kitchen with a succession of his footsteps, and a curious, wandering stripe of afternoon light, one of many, falls upon the open pages, strewn about and connected by the corners; the crayon doesn't sparkle against the light like preening, expensively delicate strokes of ink, but it remains bold even against the light.

The last sentence is written out, with the large period that stuck a little too close to the last letter of the last word. It's written hurriedly, but the sentiment behind the crayon letters shines in its place.

And like in the fairy tales, we all lived happily ever after.

Below the sentence that bled of innocent love and finality, was a final image of a family of three, stick hands connected together, beautifully genuine smiles sewn on each button face.

It's only a superficially-made drawing created by inexperienced fingers, but the smiles, no matter the simplicity of the upwards curves, appear as blinding, as bright as the scattered beams of sunlight that illuminate the specks of dust that dance in the air.

For many long moments, as Lance pads back to his messy workplace with a biscuit in one of his hands and another one caught between his teeth, Lance allows the possibility of a fairy tale happily ever after with Mommy and Daddy, and every beautifully woven string of seconds in their lives.

xx

Later, when Lance is much, much older, and his once innocently soft hands learn more than idle drawing and snacks- when the curse of time place themselves on you and Sting, and the age shows in the crinkles around your eyes that display themselves at even the smallest of smiles- Lance has learned that reality truly is nothing like fairy tales,

But their own versions of happily ever after include soft laughs as the sun dips below the horizon, and dinners that lack what was once the constant bickering of Sting and Lance in their younger years; Lance accepts all these happily ever afters (And everything in between,) with grace and a smile, and he allows time to wear on.

the end.