#this thought is brought to you by omen showing me art when i wake up | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

peeterparkr · 3 years

Text

red; tom’s version|two.

chapter two: the lucky one. “You don’t feel pretty, you feel used”

pairing: Tom Holland x Reader story summary: you’re reminiscing through your relationship a month after the heartbreak and breakup. Wondering if it went wrong from the very start when Tom arrived at New York, and him being a cautionary tale or if the problems came along the way. Perhaps the key to find back your way to him is going back through the nice things before the heartbreak came. Or is it too painful to go all over again?

chapter summary: bottle caps, a red scarf and two coincidences that probably mean something warnings: angsty a bit, cussing, word count: 6.7k playlist (updated after each chapter, including Red songs+ other for the chapter): Spotify | Apple Music

fic masterlist previous chapter next chapter

Present day. One month after the breakup.

Tom knew he had to stay quiet. Or rather, there was barely anything he could say while he was plotting his next words. He could barely believe he had a chance.

Walking down the streets with her quietly as he saw her, arranging her own thoughts. She had agreed to listen.

And he knew it was because whatever they’d felt, it made it worth it.

Y/N was angry. Not sad, angry. He had expected her to be crying. He didn’t want to be the reason why she would and he tried thinking he wasn’t. Though, deep inside, he was perfectly aware that he would be blamed for the tears that she’d shed in the last few months.

He wasn’t proud of that.

Guilt blinds. And Tom was blind in an attempt to shield. It was easier to shield on his own excuses that would serve barely as a plea to forgiveness.

Glares were directed at him. Her jaw was clenched and she had crossed her arms. The moment she’d realized what she’d agreed to, she’d turned stiff.

“Aren’t you cold?” Tom had tried asking.

“I don’t wish to speak to you.”

Fair.

And it was the middle of the night once again, how many times had they not walked under the stars with barely a destiny to reach. And now he was walking to his doom.

Y/N was mental.

In a good way. But the girl had taught him how insane you can be when it comes to relationships. In the best way possible, not as an insult.

Tom knew that he had fucked up. And he had been in New York for a while, though he hadn’t spoken to her directly, knowing that approaching her would only wound her.

It was colder now, Christmas was barely around the corner. In any other circumstance, it would’ve added to the romance.

Here it was just a bad omen of whatever would come next. The lights flickered as soon as they were walking past them.

“Are—are we not going to talk?” Tom questioned anyway. “I thought—“

Y/N shrugged. “I’m still deciding it, you see, I don’t know if I want to listen to you break my heart in an attempt of forged honesty.”

Tom dug his hands in his pockets. “I genuinely want to apologize.”

“And I genuinely don’t like you,” she snapped. “You see my problem?”

Tom sighed. “Fine,” he gulped. “But you are cold, that thing isn’t covering your neck or chest.”

Y/N had gone for a rather inadequate option for a cold winter day. Though Tom would agree that the black dress had been yet another punch to his stomach, all of course with an attempt to make him regret it, it was still rather unsuitable for the freezing city. But she looked stunning.

Her coat barely covered her, and her crossed arms were probably more of an attempt to warm herself and it served as a clear exposition of her anger.

She didn’t answer, however.

“You could wear this,” Tom offered, showing her the red scarf that once belonged to her. Tom liked to think that it now belonged to them.

The red scarf that had become a token to their relationship. From the very first day.

Y/N looked at it, and reluctantly took it. “It’s only because I’m cold.”

But Tom wanted to think it wasn’t only because of that. Wearing the scarf meant she was opening a door for him.

Seeing her again had been quite different from what Tom had expected, her hair was different and her makeup too. Her gaze seemed lost.

Whoever was standing beside him didn’t seem like her. She was a stranger, a very familiar one. But there wasn’t that visible spark that he’d fallen for. Not that he wouldn’t be able to love the figure in front of him but he feared he was the reason for its disappearance.

“It smells like you,” y/n whispered as she wrapped the scarf around her neck.

Tom smiled, briefly. “I’ve been wearing it. Your own smell wore out,” he regretted saying that. “That sounded way too creepy or cheesy.”

“Both, somehow,” she agreed. “Don’t ever say that kind of shit again.”

Tom gulped a chuckle, “noted.”

There was still that y/n in there, the one that liked the kind of cheesy things that he could say. The ones that came up at the right moment. Though, there was still that y/n that didn’t take any bullshit.

Tom hadn’t gone exactly through diamonds and sparkles after the breakup. And the city was now quite different from when it had first received him. Now covered with dark smoke and trash, with only skeletons of trees.

Guilt drowns. And Tom was, undoubtedly, drowning in a drought. Everything had dried off yet he felt like he could barely breathe.

Knowing you’re the reason for someone’s hurt is no fantasy.

And he was broken, too. Very, very broken. However, he knew he was seen as the bad guy here and he wouldn’t call himself less, and he wouldn’t admit he was aching too.

So he was trying to ignore it.

Her apartment building hadn’t changed. Not that Tom had expected it to, but it was nice to come to a familiar place. He noticed the stairs were still rusty and unclean and creaked as he walked in. New creaks had come in that he hadn’t memorized yet. He hoped he would have the chance to.

Y/N stopped at her door, with more questions than answers to give him.

“I really don’t know if I can do this,” she admitted to him. “But I know that if I don’t give you a chance to explain yourself I’ll never forgive myself.”

“That’s fair. But…I’ll do whatever you want me to, but please let me explain it to you,” he begged. “I—If you want me to leave New York and never come again I’ll understand.”

Y/N crossed her arms and leaned against the door, a red door that would open to memories he couldn’t quite forget.

“I already said I would listen,” she recalled. “But—“ her eyes met his, they looked tired. “I am having an inner monologue on why this is stupid.”

“Care to share?”

She took a heavy breath, “Well, you see, Tom, if that even is your real name…”

“Really? You’re—“Tom tried hard not to roll his eyes. “Yes, my name is Tom.”

“Tom….”

“Holland.”

“Hm, interesting. Holland, I remembered it being something else. You’re a liar, just making sure,” she said. “I’m—I just feel stupid. Because I shouldn’t be feeling this way for such a short relationship, is that even—was it? Can we even call it that?”

Her words felt bitter to Tom’s own tongue. He understood why she was defensive. “Yes.”

“Well, I don’t fucking know, maybe we confused whatever we were feeling with love, or—“

“I didn’t—“

“Could be easy, Tommy, you’re an actor, actors, as far as I know, act, and man did you play such an amazing role,” she snarled as she opened her door, leading the way. “Be quiet, by the way, I don’t want to wake up Lula or Jules.”

Tom walked in into what seemed a messed snapshot of how he remembered the place. It was the same, in essence. But sadder. The apartment still had a few sweaters here and there, and y/N’s notebooks all over it.

He could see Lula’s leftovers in their coffee table and some candy wraps that Julia had probably been eating while reading her book.

He turned to that one corner and saw it, the jukebox that had been what had defined y/n’s and his relationship. He dug his hand into his pocket to search for the locket y/n had given back. Tom squeezed it as he searched in his pocket for something else.

Guilt kills. And Tom was dying.

“Here,” Tom said as he reached out for three beer caps in his pocket, “I brought these to you,” he offered them to her, knowing there were jars full of them.

Y/N collected them. Or rather, it was her latest collection that she’d later use for her art. Or whatever she was into at the moment.

The apartment was small. It had two bedrooms which they all shared. They’d rotate whoever had the luck to have the single room. So small. And yet it felt so big.

Y/n pursed her lips but then took the beer caps and placed them on the counter.

“We’re going to the roof,” y/n said. “I’m just getting us some wine—No,” she shook her head, probably realizing that having wine would make the moment a tad more romantic or cuddly than she expected it to be. “Make yourself useful and make some tea, I’ll go change myself, I’m freezing.”

She’d brought blankets and a hoodie he hadn’t remembered he had left. They didn’t have to go to the roof, Julia was staying with Matt and Lula was not back yet from wherever she was.

She had stayed quiet, for a bit. Cuddled up in the same couch where they—

“Do you like your tea?” Questioned Tom.

She looked up. “Yeah, you can add that to your many talents. Right before lying.”

“I make better tea than lies? Good to know.”

Y/N shrugged. “How long have you been here?”

“A… few days,” Tom admitted. “I have been trying to walk up to your door but I keep getting lost in the subway, and when I did come here I panicked and cried.”

Y/N shrugged. “I thought I saw you, the other day,” she said.

“Oh?”

“It wasn’t you,” y/n confessed. “So I just yelled at a poor stranger. I—I genuinely feel sorry for him.”

Tom tried not to chuckle. “What did you yell?”

“I called him a bastard and asked what was wrong with him,” she scrunched her nose. “Not my proudest moment. I was kicked out of the bus.”

Tom gulped. “I’m sorry,” he took a deep breath. “You can yell at me if that helps.”

She shrugged. “No, I think I’m good, I let it all out with him,” she grimaced. “But I might just—“she picked up a pillow and threw it at him with barely any energy.

“Fair enough,” he nodded. “But I can be your punching bag, I deserve it,” he admired. “I see the jukebox,” Tom said, motioning to it.

She shrugged. “Yeah, would be stupid if you didn’t. It’s quite big. Barely any space left.”

Tom chuckled. “I meant—“

“No, no, I know what you mean. I’m trying to ignore it,” y/n admitted. “I notice it too, every day. Almost threw it away.”

Tom nodded. “Why didn’t you?”

“Well, it’s a very functional jukebox, the music on it,” she said. “It would be stupid to throw out something like that.”

Tom had expected a different answer, one rather more romantic. Like, that maybe throwing it out would’ve meant throwing him away.

“Right. I’m surprised the cops haven’t come for it.”

She smiled.

She… smiled?

She smiled.

Tom hadn’t thought he would see it again. So comforting. And genuine. Not forced.

“It’s not stolen,” she reminded him, “not really.”

Tom decided to smile back, but to himself. He couldn’t really look her in the eye.

“I guess I also kept it for the same reason why you kept that stupid scarf,” y/n added. Quieter now.

Tom took a deep breath. “It’s a fashionable accessory.”

Y/n rolled her eyes. “It’s been out of fashion for 10 years.”

“Trends come back.”

Y/N looked up. “Not when they're horrible, no,” she said with a heavy breath. “I don’t—“She shook her head. “No, we can’t do this.”

“Do what?” Tom questioned.

“Talk like you didn’t break my heart,” she snarked, gulping down her thoughts. “I always knew your heart never truly belonged to me, you know?” y/n said, holding to her mug. The tea was probably cold now. As so were they.

Tom was taken aback by that statement. “I—at the beginning—“

“No, it never truly did. Not completely.”

“I—“ but Tom didn’t have an answer to it.

The night was cold and New York was still awake. But it felt like it was them and only them even if they felt like oceans apart. He hated it. The first time he’d ever been truly lucky he had run out of luck.

Y/N watched him. “I always knew it was meant to be for a short time and I didn’t need anything more, I somehow knew that you’d hurt me,” she explained.

Tom had never meant to go this far. “I never meant—“

“Imagine if you had meant it though, how crushed would I have been. It wasn’t your intention, and yet I ended up crying on the floor,” she said, ironically

Tom couldn’t say more but an “I am so sorry.”

“I know you are,” she said. “I hope you are.”

Tom stared at her, “I am.”

Y/N directed him a single glance. “I don’t think you understand, Tom. This month has been the shittiest in my life.”

Tom didn’t have enough words to apologize. Or he had too many to say. Instead, he could word out anything.

“The worst part is that you also gave me the best fucking days of my life,” she continued. “So I’m at a crossroads here. Because there’s a part of me that thinks it was all bullshit and there’s also the part that knows it couldn’t be.”

Tom watched her. “It was not bullshit,” he said. “It was real.”

“That’s the worst part,” she pointed out. “I think, yeah, all of it being real then it makes it hurt even more because that means I lost the best thing to ever happen to me and you lost something so real.”

Tom nodded. “I lost the best thing to ever happen to me, too.”

Y/N was, without a doubt, the best thing he’d never looked for.

“Did you lose it because of me? Or did you lose me?” She quickly questioned, raising her brows.

Y/N was also a murderer.

“Well,” she took a deep breath, ignoring his sight as he was trying to know how to Answer. “You better start explaining yourself.”

“Before I—I… I… Right, well—Before I came here—I—Ella—“

She closed her eyes. “Actually, no.”

Tom paused, in fear.

“Here’s what we’re going to do, we will….” Y/N tried arranging her thoughts. “Tell me from the moment you hopped on the plane.”

Tom stayed quiet.

“I need to know how it looked from the moment you arrived, not… before, although I’m risking the fact you’re an unreliable narrator.”

“I am a terrible narrator,” he admitted.

Two months before the breakup. Tom’s version.

Tom remembered how little it had taken him to make the decision to escape. He had decided to escape from what everyone told him he should love.

With a backpack, his passport and a half ass made suitcase, he had hopped on the first flight to New York. No regrets as it had taken off. Sweet Escape airlines had been so kind to him.

Not telling anyone about it. To their eyes, he probably was only late to a party, and they’d see him in a few minutes with an excuse of an apology.

Yet, he was on a plane. Escaping from the perfect life.

They always said how lucky he was. Didn’t they? How incredible it was to have what he had. Because he had everything.

And he was running away from it. He watched the people on the plane, his seat was unflattering, next to an old lady who seemed to be rather impolite.

He remembered when he had made the decision to run out, the night before, a camera flash had blinded him and time had suddenly stopped. Just a few hours before hopping on the plane. Everyone expected him to do something he was not ready for. Everyone thought it would come.

Even Eleanor.

Especially Eleanor. Ella was probably counting only the minutes for his arrival. He had promised her he would be there.

No one could ever judge Tom for the decision he had made. Well, everyone would. But Tom liked to believe they couldn’t. As a technicality, that is. That they had absolutely no right to do it.

His parents wouldn’t be proud of it. Too bad.

Tom was nervous, though. The decision had been, undoubtedly, rushed. He hadn’t shown up to that early brunch.

Still wearing a suit, with a white buttoned shirt unbuttoned on his neck. He had still almost gone to that brunch in that FancyAss restaurante.

A brunch? He thought to himself. How incredibly out of character it seemed, he had become a caricature of whatever they wanted him to be.

Did he have to apologize to Eleanor? He didn’t want to.

He really didn’t want to.

He looked at his phone, Harry was calling him. A few other texts from his mother, too. Two missed calls from Ella. Probably wondering why he was late. He hoped they didn’t wait for him, for he would never arrive.

New York was a bit far from it.

The whole flight had been him trying to figure out if it was a good choice.

But he was given an ultimatum, and when those come you have to decide.

His decision was to go to New York. And it was the best choice.

It was, of course, but it was alright to doubt it. It was not likely of him to simply run away.

He didn’t have it all figured out. And that’s why he was clutching his backpack. He was chasing a dream that he didn’t even know he had.

Maybe that’s why he was running away. He didn’t know who he was. But of course he had heard it, how he looked like a million bucks. And he had said it to everyone else the night before, how the stars looked like diamonds in the skies.

He was making a name for himself, he knew that. Or rather, they were making a name for him. And he didn’t know who he was.

The flight was rather short, or maybe Tom barely had any time to think about it.

Running away from his own country, from his family, friends and from Ella, whom he barely had a title for right now.

The city was quick to receive him with bustling crowds, people pushing and rushing. But also opening up as he was walking in. Dancing around him.

How magical. He thought to himself as he tried texting Harrison, hoping his best friend wouldn’t mind receiving him at his place.

Tom managed to get a taxi that was waiting right outside the airport.

He hopped in and grinned to himself proudly. He was there.

With a new city ahead of him and no one expecting anything from him. With no one telling him what to do, with no one giving him an ultimatum and no one with orders for him.

“Where to?” Asked the taxi driver, as he stared from the mirror.

Tom, though he was not proud of it, was having a moment. “I’m running away from my life,” Tom explained. “don’t you ever get tired of the role you’re supposed to play? Like you were not meant to play it but now you’re too stuck in it.”

“Man, I'm sorry, I ain’t got no time for that kind of poeticbullshit, I need an address.”

The moment ended quickly. “Right. Sorry. I’m an idiot… uh, it’s this one.” Tom had to look up for Haz’s address.

“Every time,” the driver sighed, chuckling. “Why do y’all think New York is some sort of magical city that will give you the answer to whatever you’re going through.”

Tom’s smile widened sarcastically, “Well, isn’t it?”

“Guess it is, in a way, but I’ll tell you something,” the driver stated, “whatever you think New York will give to you, it'll be the very opposite. It won’t be what you want but it might just be what you need.”

“Oh really?” Tom chuckled, “who’s the one with the poetic crap now?”

“No, I’m messing with you, damn all you tourists believe that kind of thing huh? New York, concrete jungle where dreams are made of huh.”

“It’s what we’re sold,” Tom gave in.

“That sounds pretty, don’t it? To not get what you want but what you need.”

“It does.”

In a way, he was right. Tom would’ve thought he needed a break. To escape. That’s what he wanted right?

But what did he need?

The city welcomed him with a short rain, the water reflected the twinkling lights, as the shadows were reflecting the life he had left behind. The people rushed with their coats, as they were off to their lives. And it felt like he was finally breathing.

Although he would not share his thoughts with the driver again, Tom thought this was what he needed. A new start with no one that would judge him.

That’s probably why he’d chosen New York, the people are too busy living their own crazy lives to focus on someone so insignificant like him. He didn’t have to be whoever he was before, the pretty face, the cool guy everyone liked.

No, he was a guy in a stupid cab, and not to be worried if they said he hadn’t chosen a better ride, on a bigger car.

No, no announcement of whatever he was going to do on the papers because his dad had arranged it.

No, now he was but what he always wanted to be. One of those cautionary tales that they tell about people who go mad and escape and live.

He was a legend now.

Maybe they were right, he was lucky. He was lucky because he had finally made it out of there.

And he saw the lights, with Broadway shows waiting for him, with new adventures coming. With a new life that he wanted to create. The Broadway signs changed to Tom’s sight.

‘A very new life for the Lucky One.’ Starring Tom Holland.

A new beginning.

Maybe he was lucky. Though he never wanted to be in the spotlight. He constantly was, though.

Except, of course, for the fact that Haz hadn’t really answered his text the way he wanted to.

Haz probably didn’t believe Tom that he was in the city.

He would just knock at the door then.

“Well man, I hope whatever kind of role you want you get it,” the driver had said as Tom had hopped off.

Harrison’s building was far from fancy. Harrison had often described it as an ‘affordable pigsty’. Tom wouldn’t describe it as anything else.

But it was perfect. The perfect stage for his new charade.

Tom carried the now heavier backpack and suitcase up and was lucky enough that someone had entered the building so he could go up and show up uninvited to Haz’s apartment. If he could call it that.

He knocked, two times and Haz opened the door.

“Piss off, you’re not actually here!” Was the way Haz had decided to greet.

Tom laughed. “I fucking am.”

“You bastard,” Haz grinned before pulling his friend into a hug. “No way, I didn’t believe you. Man, I’m so glad to see you!”

“You too, man your place is…” Tom couldn’t finish.

“A pigsty but it’s home, I’ll make some place.”

And they had.

Haz had left a few years ago, with a dream in his head and a chance to make it. Or… a chance to get a chance to make it.

Leaving London had been quite such a simple decision for him. An inspiring actor that could’ve made it back at home but decided to leave for New York? It was stupid, honestly. Very anticlimactic of him.

But like Tom, Harrison had to escape before he was pulled in.

Just like Tom had been, tangled up. Tom’s ‘big break’ had yet to come but his family had managed to get him to the rising star he was.

He loved what he did, acting was definitely his true passion but not like this. Not buying his way into parts, not going out with someone so he could be considered. Hanging around with the right people just so they could get him a role.

Haz had gone for plays instead, and Tom knew he was fantastic. But he also had to get his big break. The industry had a funny way to say this.

“So, you just left?” Haz asked with a beer in his hand as he’d taken Tom to his favorite bar. Beers were cheaper there, and given that it was a Thursday, the happy hour lasted longer.

The bar was different from what Tom had expected. An old jukebox that was playing odd songs, colorful things. Very odd.

“I bloody just left,” Tom admitted. “What was I supposed to do?”

Harrison rubbed his face, “I dunno.”

“I couldn’t keep pretending,” Tom said, as he played with the bottle. “I—It wasn’t me.”

“But didn’t you just get cast in—something important?” He questioned.

Tom sighed, “Not for talent, no.”

He had seen a girl walk up to the jukebox and pay again to play “Twist and Shout” by The Beatles, she moved her head along to the song.

“Man, who bloody cares?” Haz rolled his eyes bringing the attention back to him. “You’re getting somewhere! You look pretty, you’re cool, and you’re getting somewhere.”

Tom knew where Haz was coming from. Things were going perfectly, one could argue. But it didn’t feel real. It was just a game of make believe where Tom had eventually been dug in.

“It wasn’t that,” Tom admitted. “Ella gave me an ultimatum.”

Harrison stopped, probably now understanding more why he had left. “And how do you feel about that?”

Tom stared at his beer. “Not how I’m supposed to.”

Harrison watched him. “One can only pretend for so long.”

“Yeah,” Tom sighed as he undressed the beer bottle.

“Does anyone know you escaped?” Haz asked.

Tom grimaced, pulling out his phone, turned off. “No, well, Harry knows, I told him I had left but didn’t tell him where to,” he said before unwillingly turning it back on, to show the billion notifications popping up. Multiple text messages, missed calls. “I need a new phone so I can keep this one turned off.”

“I think you should tell someone, otherwise they’re going to call the police or something,” Haz suggested.

Tom sighed, “Before I do let me go get another round,” he said as he headed to the bar.

Though Tom should’ve known right then and there that his life would change, he was very oblivious as he saw a couple. The beautiful girl sitting right beside… some guy. The very same girl who had played ‘Twist and Shout’.

She wasn’t smiling anymore, and Tom could only interpret her stare as something unpleasant. The guy and her were both stiff.

Tom couldn’t blame the guy because he was often criticized for also being like him. Not being able to make the beautiful girl beside him smile. Not understanding her worth and brilliance as anyone else in the room did.

She had dressed up, it seemed, just for her very date and he was just… there. The guy was simply an unuseful accessory adorning her side. His eyes were glued to the TV on the bar, a program that seemed to be very uneventful.

Tom often liked overhearing conversations, and this time wasn’t an exception.

“I recently discovered my new collection,” the girl said. Tom noticed the scarf on her neck,“I will start collecting bottle caps.”

The guy looked over, “Is it going to be for your new project that you’ll never finish?”

“I will finish it,” she said as she took off the scarf, now playing with it, tying and untying it. “And I’m going to ask Ben here to save me as many as he can.”

“Y/N,” the guy said. Pretty name, thought Tom. Fitting. “You never finish them.”

“Art is never finished, William,” the girl, y/n, defended again. “It’s only… abandoned.”

“My point,” The guy, William, rolled her eyes, “You never get through with them.”

“I do,” she defended herself. “You just never pay attention to it.”

Tom watched her frustration. Even then the guy wasn’t really into the conversation. He didn’t blame him, really. But he was more on y/n’s side.

“I think you should pay attention to more important stuff. Instead of wasting your time doing whatever.”

“Art isn't whatever,” she sighed, and then frowned, noticing Tom was watching them.

“I’m not saying it’s whatever, y/n, but you’ve got to have other dreams rather than collecting beer caps.”

Y/N looked away, “It’s for a painting.”

“A painting you’ll get bored of eventually, it’s always the same, y/n,” the guy was still too busy with his own beer watching the TV.

Y/N clenched her jaw but then directed her glance at Tom, still intrigued by the conversation.

Tom cleared his throat as he finally got his beers, the guy opened them for him but Tom asked for the beer caps.

“Sorry, I couldn’t help but listen,” Tom admitted before giving her the beer caps. “Good luck on your project.” The girl finally smiled as the guy accompanying her glared at him.

Tom shrugged and dedicated them both a smile before going back to Harrison. Had Tom been William he would’ve appreciated that someone made his girl smile, it was a waste not to share her smile with the world.

And Tom, out of everyone, understood what the girl had said, people bringing him down were always for him so to have genuine support from a stranger would help her. And him.

Yes never getting anything done but still having a passion for it was accomplishment enough.

“So what’s your plan?” Haz asked as soon as he was back. Tom watched the girl, still.

“I have none,” Tom admitted, watching as y/n and William were still arguing, probably now over the fact that Tom had left the beer caps. He didn’t feel guilty, even when both of them were pointing at him as the argument kept going. “I will just—Get a break for a few days. A well deserved vacation.”

Haz watched him. “Right.”

“You know, be a tourist,” Tom shrugged. “I—I dunno I just needed to get out,” Tom sipped from his bottle as his eyes were glued to the couple, now arguing loudly but not loud enough to be understood.

Haz followed his gaze. “What are you looking at?”

“Dunno, they’re odd,” Tom shrugged. But they weren’t really. He just saw his future, so uninterested to the girl beside him.

“Not really, you should get used to that,” Haz said. “But—You’re going to tell Harry, right!”

“Problem is,” Tom brought back the attention to Haz. “I don’t think Harry will be able to keep the secret.”

Harrison crossed his arms. “What are you really doing here Tom? You do realize that you’re hurting everyone—“

“Yeah, yeah fuck that, I know, I feel guilty. But—I can’t anymore. I couldn’t fucking stay there, not anymore,” Tom snapped. “It’s not Ella’s fault. Well not entirely but—“

“No, I know,” Haz rolled his eyes, “guess the perfect life can get boring.”

Harrison thought so too then. That Tom had the perfect life. How was it perfect? How was it really? Tom was not perfect. He was far from it, nothing about it was spectacular. He wasn’t living. Even though everyone around him thought he was having the time of his life Tom couldn’t help but feel miserable.

He wasn’t getting what he truly wanted. He didn’t enjoy the roles he was getting or the parties he was attending. He was far from what his dream was. And though his ‘breakout’ would come eventually and he’d have the chance to be who he wanted to be, it wasn’t coming any time soon and he doubted that he’d be able to be happy.

Or maybe he would be. He needed a break.

Tom caught up with Haz, his life, his misery and whatever the conversation led to, it’s fair to say that Tom’s head could barely pay any attention. His decision was sinking. He’d escaped his life.

He saw the girl from before leave, with the guy following her with frustration.

“They’re gonna break up,” Haz said watching them too.

Tom saw the girl had left the unfashionable red scarf behind.

He expected them to come back for them but they didn’t.

Eventually, Tom and Haz left. Tom picked up the scarf. He tried to say that it was a little reminder that he’d helped someone. He had actually been drawn to it. He couldn’t explain why. So he kept that idea.

Of course, he’d seen the red scarf and then regretted instantly taking it. Haz had judged him too.

“Why the fuck would you pick up a stranger’s scarf?”

“Because.”

The next day, with very little sleep and a bit of a headache from the jet lag and the beers, and after telling Haz he’d be productive, he decided he wouldn’t be and instead he wanted to visit a museum. Again, he was unsure as to why he wanted to go there. Lately he only followed his instinct.

But then again he had escaped so he could do whatever he wanted, and going to a museum seemed like something they’d never expect him to do. So that’s what he did.

But of course, he didn’t know much about art or anything so he decided he’d end up at the MET. Where else would he start?

He had planned getting on the subway but he decided he didn’t have time to memorize it and he didn’t want to look like an idiot so instead he took another cab. He didn’t tell the drivers this time any poetic bullshit.

When he got to the MET, he was immediately lost. Tom had this stupid habit of never knowing where the hell he was.

He didn’t mind this time. He would take the time to explore, to think to himself. To stare and read and to learn a little.

How ironic it seemed to be at the place where so many people were at. Basic, maybe but he was still enjoying it.

The big walls and endless exhibitions were making him feel small. And he hadn’t felt that way in a while. He liked that.

His path wasn’t being decided and he only followed his heart. He got to the musical instruments exhibitions.

A piano made him stop. It resonated with him. In some sorts, or it was interesting enough for him to make him stop.

“That’s the oldest surviving piano,” a voice mentioned from behind.

Tom blinked, realizing he had stared too long at it. “Oh?” He looked back at the voice and though Tom did not believe in coincidences he couldn’t help but think this was an oddly magical one.

The beer cap girl from the night before.

“Yeah, it dates back to 1538 and was created by—pardon my pronunciation—Bartolomeo Cristofori, the Italian man who is credited with inventing the piano,” she said, staring at it too. Her hair was slightly messed up. Wearing an overall that was covered with slight paint stains, a white cardigan over it.

“Oh, I would’ve never thought that,” Tom said. “It looks old.”

“Yeah,” she hadn’t looked at him, she was too entranced by it, her arms were crossed. “It's very old.”

Tom stared at her instead, how weird it was. He should’ve brought the scarf. No, that would’ve been weird, weirder than taking it.

“So you work here?” Tom questioned.

“No, I’m just incredibly good at lying,” she stated.

“Wha-what?”

“That fact I gave you, yeah that was a lie,” she grinned and finally turned to him. She tilted her head.

“Oh it sounded… very real,” Tom felt like an idiot.

“Yeah, I’ve worked on that for a while, lying to tourists, you’re my first one of the day,” she said. “So, a pleasure lying to someone with an accent.”

“It sounded very real,” Tom cleared his throat.

“I know, it’s a real fact, just slightly twisted,” she grinned. “I gave you the date wrong.”

Tom coughed. “Oh.”

“Yeah, and you straight up believed me,” she grinned. “The date is right there yet you listened to a random weirdo,” she grinned.

Tom blushed, “well, you sounded very—“

“No, don’t feel bad, it’s an art, lying to people,” she grinned.

He nodded in agreement.

She watched him curiously, “Do I know you?”

Tom faked to not recognize her. “I don’t think so.”

She narrowed her eyes, examining him head to toe. Then stopping at his face. “No, wait, were you at Bennie’s Beer Garden last night?”

She had recognized him.

“Uh—I was at a bar,” he decided to fake ignorance. “Oh—“he snapped his finger. “Wait are you—?”

“Beer cap girl, yeah,” she smiled. “Yeah, that was me, but I looked better last night.”

Tom smiled, “No, you look fine.”

“What a coincidence, thanks for the beer caps, by the way,” she chuckled. “How weird, and now you’re the first one I lie to.”

“It’s a pleasure, thank you,” Tom laughed.

“You must think I’m crazy, collecting beer caps and lying to strangers,” she blushed now, stepping back from him.

Tom did think that. In a good way. The girl seemed to be whatever he wanted to be: a fucking weirdo that don’t give two shits about anything in life.

“Surprisingly, no,” Tom shook his head. “I would lie to people instead if I was good at lying.”

Ironic, it seemed. Didn’t he make a living out of lying? Didn’t he technically lie his way through life?

“Yes, it's very tiring work, people say they don’t like being lied to,” she said. “I do, that’s why I love reading whatever is trending on twitter.”

Tom cackled, and turned his attention back to the piano.

“I’m y/n, by the way,” she mentioned casually.

“Tom,” he answered simply.

Y/N nodded. “So, Tom, what's your favorite lie supplier?”

“I watch movies,” he said, “or celebrity gossip.”

“A classic,” Y/N grinned. “Yeah, we all choose the lies we want to believe, I guess.”

“People like that, believing lies and feeling like they’re true,” Tom gave in. “Especially if they’re pretty. They help us escape reality.”

Y/N nodded slowly, and smirked. “We are getting deep now, huh?”

What the fuck did New York do to Tom that he randomly said poetic bullshit to strangers. He was embarrassed. “I—sorry.”

“No, no, I like that,” y/n was excited. “I guess you’re right. Lies are a way to cover something.”

“Yes, sometimes lying means protecting,” Tom bit his lip.

Y/N tilted her head. “Is it really?” She didn’t want to agree. “I would say lying is a way to actively hurt someone.”

“Well, were you trying to hurt me with your lie?” Tom challenged.

She licked her lips, defeated. “In a way,” she gave in. “I was trying to misinform you. So.”

“Well, what if the truth hurts more?” Tom questioned.

Y/N took a deep breath. “Then it’s a paradox.”

“Excuse me,” Someone interrupted them. “I’m sorry, y/n? I thought you weren’t coming today.”

Y/N smiled, “oh yeah, I wasn’t, I just forgot something in my locker and decided to walk around.”

The other guy turned to Tom. “Did she give you a fake fact?”

Tom chuckled, “she most certainly did.”

“Y/N, you can’t keep doing that,” the guy warned her. “You’re gonna get fired.”

Y/N grinned as she watched the guy go.

“I thought you didn’t work here,” Tom chuckled.

Y/N smiled mischievously, “I do, just another lie I said to you. You’re very lucky, two lies in one.”

Tom chuckled. “huh. Yeah, lucky me.”

“Yes, now if you’ll excuse me, little British man,” she grinned. “I’ll go lie to other people, nice lying to you.”

Tom grinned. “Yeah, yeah, nice… believing your lies.”

“Enjoy the Met,” she grinned. “Hope I get to see you again, thanks for the beer caps.”

“Thanks for the… lies,” he said, watching her leave. Maybe he was lucky.

fic masterlist previous chapter next chapter

want to be tagged?(please say it’s for red)

tag list and some friends: @noorrussell @nocturnalms @xxconfettiitsaparade @annathesillyfriend @butterflies-glitter @tomkindholland @the-salty-asian @words-to-accomplish-something @harryhollandsgirlfriend @bibliophilewednesday @tomhollandsbitch8 @boiolay @wizkiddx @spideyssunshine @parkertommy @erodasghosts @onewithnomightypowers @sunflowersandaydreams @tomshufflepuff @uglypastels @lilacsandwhiskey @badhollandfluff @saintlavrents @enilemes @white-wolf1940 @mannien @softholand @youcompletemesk @ughdangs@obiwanownsmyass @sleepingdancer @lonely-sag @n-pg-pw @readheadwriter @parkersroses @petesrparker @watermelonsponge @cherrygoldenn @a-daydreamers-day @marlenetough @mcu-spiderman

#red #red fic #tom holland x you #tom holland x y/n #tom holland x reader #tom holland #tom holland fluff #tom holland fic #tom holland one shot #tom holland smut #tom holland blurb #tom holland angst #tom holland series #tom holland imagine

124 notes · View notes

aethelflaedladyofmercia · 3 years

Text

Twelve Months - Good Omens fanfic

Happy 31st Anniversary of Good Omens! :D

To celebrate this momentous occasion, I have posted a slightly-sad, slightly-sweet Wake the Snake fic on AO3, because our demon has been napping for a whole Twelve Months, and sometimes Angel gets a little lonely!

Thank you all for another fantastic year in this fandom!

Twelve months.

Aziraphale pushed open the door to Crowley’s flat, a simple shopping bag tucked under his arm.

The lights were still off, the curtains drawn in the awful empty room he called a study. Nothing had changed.

He passed through the enormous, rotating section of wall and into the solarium. This was still bright—many of the plants flourishing despite being unattended so long, despite clearly not having enough water. A few had started flowering. They waved their branches at him as he entered, perking up eagerly.

The angel waved back, but first he peeked into Crowley’s bedroom.

He was still where Aziraphale had left him, on his last visit a month before. Bright red hair spilled across black pillows, grown into a stringy mop. Duvet pulled up to his messily-bearded chin. One hand curled up beside him on the bed.

Still asleep.

With a sigh, Aziraphale crossed over to the plants, who greeted him excitedly, unfurling their newest leaves, a few vines hanging down to brush his face.

“Hello, my lovelies. How are you all doing? Look at you, grown at least a foot since I saw you, I’m sure. And you! What beautiful pink buds. Very impressive.”

He didn’t think Crowley would approve of how he spoke to the plants, but the poor things had been so distraught on his first visit, straining to keep upright, trying to hide their yellowing leaves. So much healthier now, much happier for just a bit of attention. He picked up the watering can and gave them all a quick splash. He didn’t know how much water each needed, but it didn’t seem to matter.

“You keep it up, dears. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Picking up his shopping bag again, Aziraphale headed down the hall to the kitchen. The kettle sat on the island where he’d left it, and he quickly refilled it and set it to boil. While he waited, he pulled his latest creations from the bag: a small pumpkin spice cake from a recipe he’d been perfecting since fall, a lemon coconut cake, and a few apple cinnamon muffins.

Two plates—a muffin for each, a slice of the coconut cake for himself and the pumpkin spice for Crowley.[1] The rest went into the refrigerator, where they would never go bad or stale.

Aziraphale put the plates onto a tray, along with forks and napkins. Next he found two mugs and pulled the little tin of his second-favorite tea out of the bag just as the kettle boiled.

For himself, a teaspoon of the expertly blended leaves, steeped for exactly three minutes, resulting in a pale brown tea with a slightly spicy aroma. For Crowley, he dropped a tea bag into boiling water and let it sit until it was almost black.[2]

He carried the tray back to the solarium and selected a bright red-and-gold tulip that was nearly vibrating in its eagerness to be noticed. A moment to assure the other plants that they were still doing fabulously—particularly a self-conscious little succulent that had rather drooped over the winter but was making a fine recovery—and he once more headed into Crowley’s bedroom.

Crowley had rolled over, and now sprawled on his back, sleeping soundly. He’d apparently kicked a bit, too, as the blanket had slid down past his stomach. Aziraphale smiled as he set the tray on the chair he’d brought in some months ago and got to work.

“It’s wonderful to see you again, dear,” he started cheerfully, carefully rearranging the objects on the little bedside table. “I have a few things for you again, I hope you don’t mind.” Just enough space to slide the mug and the little plate. Perfect.

“I received a package from Tadfield again. Everyone wrote a note and then gathered them all together, really quite clever. They’re all doing well, if a bit bored.” The table was nearly overflowing with little items now, brought in by Aziraphale to cheer the place up. Framed pictures of their human friends, quarantining with their families, clustered in one corner so tightly you could hardly see them anymore.

He pulled the latest out of the shopping bag. “Anathema has started a garden,” he explained, pausing to show the photograph to Crowley’s sleeping form. It showed the witch, kneeling outside her little cottage, working on growing several rows of herbs. “I got the impression she was off to a rough start, but she hopes to send us some mint in the next package. Although Newt warned me not to expect too much, as they’d already forgotten which patch is mint and which is oregano.” He set the picture with the others, and slid the potted tulip alongside it. “I’m sure she could use some advice from you, when you’re ready to share.”

“Nnnnh.” Aziraphale spun eagerly, but no, just Crowley shifting in his sleep again, rolling onto his side.

The angel paused to pull the duvet back up to Crowley’s chin, tugging it straight and smoothing a hand down his back. In a way, his friend was nearly unrecognizable, with that hair and ridiculous beard, but in another way looked the same as ever. That was always Crowley’s way, of course, constantly changing yet somehow always the same.

He lingered, taking in the shape of that face, leaning close, lips hovering above his cheekbone—

Aziraphale pulled back, quickly digging into his bag again. “Oh! Ah, the, um, the children have been making projects for their art class. This past month was sculpture, and they sent us some. Look!” He pulled out four little figures of oven-baked clay. “Ah, young Wensleydale has made a very clever model of a train car. Brian’s is…abstract.” He turned the next a few different ways. “And Pepper’s is, ah, either a very complex symbolic representation of the Patriarchy, or…a troll, I think.” They just fit on the edge of the table, all in a line, a very mismatched tableau. The fourth, on the end, was the best, in Aziraphale’s opinion. “Adam made a little Dog, and it’s very well done, don’t you think?” The canine figure posed with one leg raised and head cocked, ready to play, but the shadow it cast was just a little too large, too ominous, for such a small creature.

With a sigh, Aziraphale shifted the row this way and that. “I sent a letter to Warlock, over in America, but haven’t heard back since Christmas. I believe they’re very busy with something. Politics. You know how it is.” When the Dowlings had left England, they’d planned to return for a visit the following summer. A global pandemic had had other ideas.

“In any case, that just leaves Tracy and Shadwell. I understand he’s decided to hate the concept of literacy this month, so no word on how his war with the squirrels is going. And Tracy has declared she will spend the summer making a fairy garden. I thought her sketches looked very promising, and she promised to send us an update in June. I’m sure you’ll find it charming.”

“Hrrrrm.” Crowley sank under the duvet, nestling down a little deeper. Aziraphale smiled, settling into the chair with his plate and mug.

“Things are loosening up again,” he explained, taking a bite of cake. Delicious, if he said so himself. Sharp and not too sweet. “People are getting vaccinated, shops opening up. It’s really a lovely breath of fresh air, at least when you’re not wearing a mask.” A long sip from his mug, then he held it, fingers tapping. “It’s been nice walking through the park again, just in time for the baby ducks. And that record shop at the corner, they’ve had some wonderful new additions. Which reminds me.”

Putting aside his mug, Aziraphale dug through the bag again and pulled out a handful of square plastic cases. “They had a whole shipment of those little records the Bentley likes. Modern music. I picked out the ones with the rudest names. I’m sure you’ll enjoy them.” He pulled out the first disc and placed it atop Crowley’s phone. The device blinked in confusion a few times, then obediently copied all the music.

“Of course, it’s not all good news.” He stacked the rest of the discs atop the phone and returned to his tea. “Reopening means the customers are coming back. Yesterday, this one individual spent almost an hour browsing the same three shelves. And then he tried to make off with one of my books.” Another long sip. “Granted, he offered to pay, but still. What sort of establishment does he think I’m running?”

Aziraphale paused, waiting for Crowley to respond, not that he ever did. The demon’s eyelids moved a little, but no more.

Sighing, Aziraphale turned to his muffin. “You know, many times in the last year, I’ve wished you were there. Particularly during reopening phases. You could have posed as a customer, and then I’d be able to tell people I was at the capacity limit. Oh, and the people who would call to try and buy my rarest books. Collectors, or so they claimed, but then they just turn around and sell to anyone for twice the price! I’m sure you’d have some biting things to say about such people.” He smiled at Crowley’s sleeping face. “I’ve missed that, and your jokes. Rather more than I expected to.”

When his plate and tea were finished, Aziraphale set them on the floor and reached again into the bag. “Now, I have been attempting to teach my computer how to use the internet. I think it’s going quite well. Adam and his friends gave me a ‘homework assignment’ to find articles on recent news events, and I made the most wonderful discovery. Did you know that humans now share their news through humorous pictures? I printed out my favorites to show you.”[3]

He flicked through a few. “Ah, to start with, a few months ago there was this American politician with amusing mittens who showed up everywhere for a few days. It was extremely droll.” He leaned closer, holding them up for Crowley to see. “Ah, a few more from America. The murder hornets arrived, though by that point everyone had forgotten them. The election became increasingly confusing, and it all ended in a parking lot. For a little while everything was ‘This-or-That Total Landscaping,’ and before that everything was cake.” He showed a few extremely clever illusions. “I did try to make my own, but couldn’t manage it without miracles, which I felt was cheating.”

Really, leaning like this was starting to strain his back. Aziraphale shifted to sit on the edge of the bed, the better to share his pictures. “Ahhh. Also for a time everyone’s calendars were stuck on ‘March.’ And then earlier this year, a group of people learned how the stock market works, but sadly not how to spell it. The whole situation seemed very much like the sort of thing you’d be involved in. And…Oh, this angel from a television show was sent to Hell for…reasons.” He glanced at the shape beside him. Crowley had curled in slightly, pressing against Aziraphale’s back. “Yes. Various reasons. And then this musician, I suppose, went on his own. Both had many people extraordinarily upset.”

The next few images would really tickle Crowley, if he could actually see them. “The biggest news is that a large ship got stuck sideways in that canal in Egypt. Stopped half the world’s shipping for a few days while they dug it out! I’m sure you would have liked that very much. Exactly your sort of trouble. The humans were all very excited.”

The final photo was another of the ship, an image Aziraphale had made himself, printing out a blank version and writing on it in felt-tip pen. The hull of the enormous ship was labeled, “An eternity putting up with the tedious bureaucracy and frequently conflicting commands of my superiors until I begin to doubt my own judgement and sanity,”[4] while the small digger working steadily beside it was “Crowley.”

Aziraphale watched the demon beside him, not really expecting a reaction, certainly not getting one. He reached over, brushing brilliant hair back from Crowley’s forehead. “I think you’d have had rather a lot of fun last year. Or perhaps you’d have been upset you could only watch from a distance. Or…”

He’d leaned much closer than he’d intended, hovering just above Crowley’s forehead.

“Well!” Aziraphale stumbled to his feet. “I suppose that’s just about everything.” He picked up the tray from where he’d rested it on the floor, starting to re-load it with everything he’d brought in. Crowley’s cake and tea sat untouched, as always, but Aziraphale wouldn’t dream of skipping them. “We’re all very optimistic for the summer. Two months and everything should be just…just tickety-boo. Perhaps we can go for that picnic soon, if…yes…”

They’d made such plans for 2020. All the things they would do now they were free. Plans, and other thoughts carried in their minds, possibilities that would play out in their own time. Not too fast, just a slow, steady exploration of everything they could be…

“Well. Pleasant as that idea is, best not to—to plan too much, as the previous year made fools of us all. I just…” He turned away from the tray and watched Crowley sleep, hands clasped before him. “I miss you terribly. And I wish…very much…”

He picked up his shopping bag. One item still inside. The same one he’d been carrying for months, trying to find the courage to bring it out.

With a shaking hand, he reached in and drew forth a soft hand-made doll. He’d spent much of the winter on it. Simple white cotton for the head and body, wooly curls for the hair, and stiff white lace for the wings. Dressed in waistcoat and bowtie made from Aziraphale’s favorite tartan.

He still wasn’t sure why he brought it. He’d stitched several little toys, particularly a lovely black-and-red serpent with gold button eyes that had watched him from the sofa since November. But this, for reasons he couldn’t articulate, this one was for Crowley.

“I, ah…” He shuffled closer, doll clutched in both hands. “I made, um…” Back to the edge of the bed, one hand fumbling across the duvet. “…thought you might like…”

Crowley’s face stood out in stark contrast to the pillow, pale skin and bright hair. Aziraphale wanted to drink it in, memorize every detail, to hold him over until next month. The curve of his nose, the sharp angle of his cheekbones. His lashes flickering as his eyes moved. His lips, pursed ever so slightly…

“Bless it, Angel, are you going to kiss me or not?”

Aziraphale gasped, pulling back from the bright gaze of slit-pupil eyes. “You—you’re awake!”

“Nnnh. Half.” Crowley shifted, head moving across the pillow, eyes threatening to shut again. “Wouldn’t miss your visit.” One hand reached out, plucked the doll from Aziraphale’s unresisting fingers. “For me?”

The angel nodded. “If…if…you like it…or I could—I could just…”

Without a word, Crowley pulled the doll under the duvet and curled up, tucking it under his chin, a faint smile on his lips.

“If you were awake you—you should have said something! I’ve been going—going off like a fool all this—oh!” Aziraphale could feel his face turning hot as he recalled a few times his tongue had been a bit too loose for propriety.

“Mmmmmh.” The golden eyes were shut again.

“Crowley?” No response. “Crowley!” Aziraphale scowled. “Anthony J. Crowley, if you’ve fallen asleep again, I swear, I’ll—”

He’d do what? The angel fumed, but what could he really threaten? To stay away? Never.

“Alright then, I suppose I’ll see you in June. I’ve had several new requests for extremely rare manuscripts and I need to go pen some responses reprimanding these vultures for their cheek. I can—”

“You can stay.”

He spun around. Crowley had one eye barely cracked open. Gently, he pulled back the duvet, showing there was just enough space for Aziraphale beside him.

“I…I couldn’t.” But he stepped forward, not back. “I have business tomorrow, things to—”

“Just tonight then.”

His fingers brushed the mattress and pulled back as if burned. “You—you don’t really mean this, you’re just talking in your sleep.”

“Nah.” Crowley settled the doll by his pillow, making space. “Why else would I give you my key?”

“I…to…water the plants?”

“They take care of themselves.” Crowley held open his arms, eyes shut once more. “I missed you, too.”

Well. What could he say to that?

Aziraphale took off his shoes and slid into bed, into Crowley's arms. They wrapped around him gently as Crowley wriggled closer. “Mmmm. Y’r softer than the doll.”

“Oh.” He’d been called soft many times, generally as a way to imply he was a failure as an angel. But just this once, it made him feel rather pleased. “Soft is good?”

“Verrrry good.” Crowley twisted a bit, trying to find a comfortable way to rest his long limbs, and finally settled curled up against Aziraphale’s chest, tucked below the angel’s chin with a leg hooked over his knees.

The angel smiled. “And you’re…you’re noodlier than a stuffed snake. Err…”

A chuckle, just a stirring of breath across his throat. “Can’t wait to hear the story behind that.” Crowley nuzzled against his shoulder with a sigh. “Good night, Angel.”

Aziraphale swept the brilliant hair back again and bent down, pressing his lips to Crowley’s forehead. A soft, gentle kiss that made his friend smile a little more broadly. “Good night, my dear.”

Crowley drifted off again, burrowing close, as the angel continued to gently tease the back of his hair. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps tomorrow's work wasn't so very urgent. Perhaps a bit of rest would do him good. And perhaps...

Well. Don't plan too much. But for the first time, Aziraphale felt a bit of optimism about the coming summer and its possibilities.

“Sleep well, Crowley.”

[1] Crowley had invented pumpkin spice, and Aziraphale assumed he must like it. In truth, Crowley despised it, and regretted every autumn how it took over the entire world. He missed apple cider season. [2] Aziraphale had suspected since the early 1950s that Crowley secretly took his tea with several lumps of sugar, but would continue to pretend he didn’t know until Crowley confessed. Considering current circumstances, that was unlikely to be any time soon. [3] Aziraphale’s fax machine, revived after over three decades of disuse, had been somewhat confused to be asked to perform any task at all, much less to print memes onto photo paper with perfectly balanced color; but like the plants and Crowley’s phone, it couldn’t stand to disappoint the angel. [4] It was possible he hadn’t quite mastered this new form of communication.

124 notes · View notes

our-smooty · 4 years

Text

Flowerbeds and Fertile Soil: Chapter 14

Fandom: Good Omens

Rating: Explicit

Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens, )Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer

Tags: Kidfic, Mpreg kind of, they can choose to present however so idk, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has A Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has A Vulva (Good Omens), OCs Galor, parenting, using your snake form to avoid confrontation, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Pregnancy, if I missed a tag lemme know

Summary: They could do anything, go anywhere, all without the worry of Above or Bellow making a fuss. Even so, they mostly kept to their little patch of Eden, their cottage and garden and the simple life they’d carved out among the locals. Aziraphale opened a book shop in town, where he only occasionally sold any books (and the ones he did sell, were all modern and stocked specifically for that purpose). Crowley focused his attentions on the garden, and if he occasionally helped their elderly neighbour with her disobedient willow tree, then that was a secret no one needed to know. Lately, however, they had both been feeling rather restless, unbeknownst to each other. Aziraphale tried reorganizing his store, changing the way he tied his bowtie and even ate pizza –something he considered to be far too messy for him personally. Crowley had branched out into birdwatching, and then car maintenance (the human way), and even reading. Nothing scratched the itch for either of them.

Ao3 Link

It was Beelzebub’s turn to pick the meeting spot, so of course they were standing in a dark, damp back alley somewhere in the American Mid-West at three in the morning. Seemed a little out of the way to Gabriel, but the Prince of Hell had said something about an on-going project with the American political system that they couldn’t leave for a even a second, so here he was.

“We couldn’t meet inside somewhere? he sneered, eyeing the way his designer shoes were getting ruined in the disgusting sludge coming from a dumpster a few feet away.

“Don’t want you and your lot closer to this project than necessary. You’d just fuck it all up,” Beelzebub answered, rolling their eyes at him. Gabriel huffed and straightened his collar, though it of course wasn’t at all out of place.

“Well let’s make it quick then. Did your humans…?”

A dangerous growl that Gabriel was glad wasn’t directed at him. “No. Idiots got scared off by whatever the bastard had set up. They all ran off anyways.”

“Well mine got the job done. They sent a little… encouragement, to that ratty bookshop Aziraphale insists on keeping.” Gabriel was practically preening and he knew it. Being able to show up Beelzebub in any way always put him in a positive mood. Thwarting the enemy and all that.

“It’d be easier if we could be direct,” Beezle growled. The flies swarming around the dumpster began to make their way over and Gabriel had to swat a few away with the back of his hand.

“Get a hold of yourself, Beez. You were there, you know the almighty was clear that neither one of us could interfere directly!” Using humans as a loophole had been Michael’s idea and so far there hadn’t been any repercussions. But this had only been a test, and since things had gone well…

“We can escalate though, yes?” they buzzed, the flies zipping around excitedly and a grin breaking out on their face. “My contacts from before have been... reprimanded appropriately, and we’re ready to move on whenever you are.”

Gabriel’s face morphed into a tight smile of his own. He always had admired his demonic counterpart’s willingness to get a job done, no matter the cost. Beelzebub was shrewd and cutthroat and if they hadn’t been one of Satan’s damned, Gabriel might have hired them for a position Upstairs.

“Yes, we can move on to phase 2. Give it a few weeks, I’ll send you a memo, and a calendar invite for the pre-briefing. It’s Heaven’s turn to cater so…” Which was a good thing, since last time when it’d been Hell’s turn the lettuce on the tea sandwiches had been mouldy. Gabriel didn’t partake in the gross matter but it was the principle of the thing! “Are we still on for that event in Berlin next Saturday?”

“You’re the one who said it’d be in both our best interests if it went well, so yeah, I’ll be there. Don’t get in my way.” Beelzebub threw up a rather rude hand gesture then disappeared through a door in one of the buildings. Gabriel spent a few extra minutes in the ally, pondering whether contacting the demon to make sure their chosen apparel didn’t clash, or if that might get him in more trouble than it was worth.

The hunger didn’t really go away. Crowley woke up almost every morning with a strong desire to get to the breakfast table that persisted throughout lunch and supper. Aziraphale enjoyed it as an opportunity to exercise his cooking skills, even if it did require him to spend more of his day in the kitchen than was usual. Crowley repaid him for his kindness of course, he’d bring in fresh flowers (though with the changing seasons, he was going to have to switch to gourds), or later in the day bring him cocoa and biscuits while the angel was working on restoring a book. Sometimes, after a particularly good supper, Crowley might drop to his knees under the table and thank Aziraphale in a different way that the angel liked just as much as any of the others.

The change of season brought on a change in their routines as well. Since it was getting colder, Crowley spent a lot more of his time indoors curled up in front of the fireplace watching reality TV, or in bed taking long indulgent naps. When they’d first moved in together Crowley had tried to stay awake and active through the colder months, scared Aziraphale would be upset with him for lounging about. But after 10 years they’d come to an understanding. As long as Crowley made an effort to spend at least a little bit of time-conscious with the angel every day (barring very long naps, which were usually discussed beforehand), Aziraphale was happy. And Aziraphale being happy made Crowley happy which in turn made the colder months of the year much more pleasant for the demon.

On a blustery November afternoon, Crowley was making a significant effort to be awake as Aziraphale showed him pictures of cribs on his own laptop. He never should have shown the angel pinterest, or Amazon.

“So what do you think? I thought something traditional would be nice, and of course money isn’t really an object, and maybe there’s someone in town who does carpentry? But what about safety?” Crowley browsed the collections of cribs, and rocking chairs, and various baby paraphilia, trying to keep himself from drifting off. He’s set an alarm to wake him up just after midday in case he didn’t wake up naturally. Of course, he’d snoozed it a few times before dragging himself out of their bedroom and into the sitting room for a cuppa.

“Think we’ve seen thousands of babies make it just fine, even without all these fancy cribs and chairs and baskets. You know we can make just about anything safe if we want to, with wards and a good talking-to.” He paused on a simple crib made of light pine with gently scalloped finishings. “I know I’ve seen signs for ‘rustic’ furniture around the village, m’sure you could find someone to make one like this.”

“That would be lovely, wouldn’t it? It’s been a very long time since I had to make use of any woodworking skills, but I’m sure I could sketch something up for a professional to take a look at. Would you like to help, darling?”

“Sure, go get us a pencil and paper then, and maybe a refill?” There’d be no more coffee since Aziraphale insisted he keep to under a cup a day, but maybe the angel would allow him some tea. Aziraphale gave him a beatific smile then rushed off to his stacks of stationery. Crowley secretly thought it was sweet how Aziraphale still wrote letters on his own custom paper, with fountain pens and a personalized wax seal. Over the millennia he’d gotten thousands of letters from the angel, and he kept each one in a lockbox that was now hidden in the back of their closet. Outwardly, Crowley rolled his eyes when Aziraphale returned, playing the part of out-upon husband as usual.

“Alright, you get a start on here then, while I make more tea. You’ve always been better at the arts than me anyway.” Debatable, but Crowley was too sleepy to really argue. He took a pen and some paper and began to doodle out crib-shaped creations. As the kettle whistled and Aziraphale hummed to himself his drawing moved towards the more specific, detailing little flower engravings for decoration along all the legs. When Aziraphale came back with the tea and some biscuits, Crowley had less of a sketch and more of a fully fleshed-out design.

“Oh Crowley! It’s gorgeous love,” Aziraphale exclaimed as he sat down to take a look. Crowley had barely been thinking about what he was drawing, instead letting his hands take over while his mind coasted in a half-dreaming state. “I love the flowers, and the wings on the corners. “You’re so creative.”

“Thanks angel,” Crowley murmured, looking at his own drawing like he was seeing it for the first time. He took a sip of tea from the cup Aziraphale passed him, relaxing back against his angel. “But I’m sure you can do it better, if you try.”

“Nonsense. I think it’s perfect. Maybe we could do a little more research, just to make sure it’s up to safety standards, just in case, but otherwise, I don’t think I’d change a thing.” Crowley would have argued if he wasn’t already half asleep again, his teacup leaning dangerously to the side. “Are you really so tired my dear? You should have said.”

“Wanted t’spend some time w’you,” he mumbled. The teacup was gone from his hands, presumably taken by Aziraphale, and a warm blanket draped around his shoulders. “Don’t want you t’be lonely.”

“My sweet demon,” Aziraphale cooed. “Thank you, you’re always thinking of me. But I think I’m going to read for a little while, if you’re like to take a nap. You can use my lap, if you’re like.” Crowley was already sliding down so he was horizontal, his head cushioned against Aziraphale thighs. The angel used one hand to turn the pages of the book resting on the arm of the sofa, the other slung low on Crowley’s hips. That hand wormed its way under Crowley’s sweater--soft cotton, with little devil horns on the hood--so he could touch the bare skin of his belly.

“Love you,” Crowley hummed. Aziraphale wiggled a tiny bit, either in happiness or to get more comfortable, and sighed happily.

“I love you too, dear. Get some sleep.” And Crowley drifted off.

At first he was dreaming about the garden. Not the Garden, but his garden in the South Downs, at the cottage. It was summer, peak flowering period for some of his favourites and he was down on his knees at one of the smaller flower beds pulling weeds. The sun was exceedingly warm at the back of his neck but that was alright, he was nearly done. Then he could go inside and drink some of the lemonade Aziraphale had made earlier.

The dream oozed forward at a leisurely pace and he enjoyed every second. The sun slowly sank towards the horizon and the wind got a little chilly; it must have been later in the summer than he thought. Even though the weather was turning, he still felt warm though, an unfamiliar heat spreading from his core and out to his limbs. He looked down, almost expecting to see something silly like a hot water bottle--dream logic of course; even when he knew he was dreaming Crowley’s imagination got away from him--but instead saw his own body. And the baby bump.

“That you, Sprout?” he asked, his voice echoing strangely in the hazy dreamworld. “You’re very warm, taking after your Papa?”

A familiar wriggling, and something Crowley struggled to define. It almost reminded him of when we was still an angel, and he could sense love, a glowing joy from inside, spilling out through his cracks. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation, the dream’s slow pace lulling him into a sense of security. Here in his garden there was just him, the baby, and what felt like pure joy.

Crowley didn’t notice the dream shifting. The garden slowly getting darker and colder, the flowers wilting, shriveling, dying. Their cottage faded away, becoming an empty field, the sky a roiling grey. When Crowley opened his eyes and saw his surroundings, the oncoming storm whipping the dead grass and flowers all around, he knew. The warmth in his stomach pulled away and Crowley felt cold.

Something was coming.

Aziraphale was startled from deep in his reread of Frankenstein’s Monster by Crowley’s shuddering. Normally when the demon had a bad dream the first sign was a noise; a whimper or a shout that would alert Aziraphale to the situation so he could intervene. But even lacking the normal markers, the angel could tell something was wrong. Crowley was a very still sleeper, even if he did cling, and the erratic shaking and shivering he was doing right now certainly wasn’t normal.

“Crowley love, wake up. Shhh, it’s alright,” he said, loud enough to wake the other but softly enough to avoid startling him. He set his book aside and brought both hands into the equation, caressing and petting Crowley’s hair and shoulders. “Come on darling, time to wake up.”

“‘Zira? S’dark.” He didn’t sound upset, or panicked and Aziraphale let out a breath of relief.

“You were only asleep for an hour, but the suns already set, given how late in the year it is,” Aziraphale explained, still petting Crowley’s hair. “Were you having a bad dream?”

Crowley rubbed his face against the angel’s belly, dispelling the sleep from his eyes. “Strange. I was in the garden, and then it was dark out. Could feel…” He stared down at his stomach. “I think I could feel them there.”

“Really?” Aziraphale meant to ask more about the dream, but was easily sidetracked by the news of the baby communicating. “In what way did you see them?”

“Not see, just felt them. They were warm. But then it got dark, and I felt like I was freezing, and the cottage was gone--” his voice got faster and faster, his breathing more shallow. To stop him flying off into a panic attack Aziraphale thread his fingers through Crowley’s hair again, not really tugging but still a firm presence. “And then I woke up. That's it, nothing exciting angel.”

Aziraphale hummed lowly, in the way he knew relaxed Crowley. “I’m a little jealous of you. For getting to feel them, not for having a nightmare.”

Crowley wiggled so that instead of just his head resting in Aziraphale lap, his entire upper body was laying across his legs. Then he grabbed the hand the angel didn’t have woven through his hair and pressed it to his stomach.

“S’the best I can do. Maybe if you concentrate you’ll feel it too?” Aziraphale tried his hardest, willing his entire celestial self to focus in on that one small area. Underneath his hands Crowley shuddered, but Aziraphale kept on searching until--

“Oh!” He could feel something, at least. It wasn’t really warm, like Crowley had said, but there was movement. It was reassuring to know they were there, and alive, and growing. “You’re amazing Crowley.”

“What, me?” Crowley laughed, thoroughly pleased with himself. The anxiety from the dream didn’t stand a chance against praise from Aziraphale. Still, Crowley looked like he was done sleeping, because he sat up and stretched languorously. “S’a bit late to go out, but we could order in?”

“If you want. You’ll have to take a look at your application and see what’s available.” Somehow, despite being a ways out into the countryside they always had plenty of options for takeout. And they were well known by all the delivery persons as excellent tippers, so their food usually arrived on time or earlier than expected. “I’m not craving anything in particular.”

“Good, ‘cause I am. I want fries, and maybe a ceasar salad. Oh and falafel.” Crowley was already tapping wildly at his phone, presumably making his order. “And maybe something sweet, for after…”

“Cravings dear?” Aziraphale teased, nudging Crowley with one elbow like he used to do years ago, when they would walk through St. James’ Park. That was before the end that didn’t happen, when even the smallest contact between them was taboo. Now they could touch whenever they wanted, and so Aziraphale didn’t stop at just one nudge, instead choosing to lean heavily against Crowley so he could look at the screen, “The poor delivery person is going to have an awful lot of trouble carrying all that.”

Crowley just rolled his eyes and continued scrolling through his options. “So you don’t want bubble tea? I was going to get you taro flavour but if you think it’s too much--”

“Now now let's not be hasty love. I'm sure a large tip will make up for any trouble on the driver’s end.” Crowley giggled. Aziraphale tucked the sound away in his memory with all the other cute things Crowley did but would never admit to.

“I thought so. You can never resist, can you?” Refusing to be needled, Aziraphale decided to fire back. Crowley was so cuddly and soft; so completely unworried now that the nightmare had faded that he couldn’t resist. He nuzzled right underneath the other’s demon-sigil where he knew Crowley was extra sensitive and revelled in the full-body shudder it produced.

“Why should I? There’s no shame in liking nice things.” Aziraphale let the implication hang. Crowley could still be touchy about being called nice or good outside of the bedroom depending on his mood. This time however, Crowley sighed and shimmied away a bit so he could show Aziraphale the screen.

“Whatever you say angel. Does this look good?” The order list was expansive, and probably much more than either of them would be able to eat tonight. But that was alright, leftovers wouldn’t last long given Crowley’s new and voracious appetite.

“Splendid love. I’ll go set the table?” It was really an excuse to get up and move. As much as Aziraphale loved cuddling and pampering his husband, he did tend to get restless. Now that Crowley was awake and relaxed he could get up and bustle about, working off all the energy that had built up while the demon napped. With the excitement of the baby coming Aziraphale had been finding it difficult to sit still and not rush about, preparing everything.

“Can’t we just eat here?” Crowley asked, sprawling into the warm space on the sofa left behind by the angel. Aziraphale smiled and passed his slothful demon the telly remote.

“No, I won’t have you drop tahini and falafel bits all over the carpet. You can eat at the table or not at all.” Crowley glared but there wasn’t really any real anger in it. In fact, it was quite cute, not that he’d ever say that out loud. Crowley would not tolerate being called cute, no matter how happy he was.

“Fine, stuffy angel.” He turned the TV on and quickly navigated to NBC where Aziraphale knew they’d be playing Golden Girls at this hour. After one last fond look Aziraphale couldn’t stand still any longer, so he hurried off to get everything ready for their impromptu feast.

#fanfic #good omens #crowley #crowziraphale #aziraphale/crowley #aziraphale #tw mpreg #trans male pregnancy #gomens #ineffable husbands #ineffable lovers #fbafs

12 notes · View notes

curufins-smile · 4 years

Text

In the Shadow of Þerindë

Young Feanor discovers the cause of his mother’s condition

Fëanáro was content. His father gave him free rein of the palace, and Fëanáro was allowed to go wherever he liked so long as there was no danger of him hurting himself. He had mapped out all the little nooks and crannies from the kitchens to the highest rooms, and found many excellent hiding spots for a young elf to conceal himself in should he wish.

There was a set of rooms, however, that he loved most, and those were his mother’s personal chambers. She was gone, now. Fëanáro had visited her body many times in the gardens of Lórien with his father, but her hröa was cold and still no matter how he attempted to rouse her. He always brought a drawing or something he made to show her, but her eyes would never open to see it. When he was too young to understand that she would not wake, he would pepper her face with kisses, and pat at her with his tiny hands in an attempt to get her to look at him. But she never would.

Fëanáro loved her rooms the most, for they were filled with her works. He would run his fingers over the bright embroidery, that shone with such colours and was in such fine detail. Even at a younger age, he knew it to be special.

He had much of her work himself. His father could not usually bear to speak of his mother, but from what he had said when he could, Fëanáro knew that in the year before his birth his mother had spent all her time obsessively embroidering and sewing clothes for him. Most of her work had been in stitching on rich and beautiful fabrics that he could have outfits made in by other seamstresses as he grew older. There was enough to last until he was beyond fully grown.

It was as though she had known her time was short.

Of course, Fëanáro still had Owl too, beloved and battered, though he felt he was a little old to carry it around now. He still found comfort in it when necessary though.

Fëanáro was currently sat in his favourite spot in the gardens. He had his bound sketchbook for him, and was practicing busily. His father had arranged for the great loremaster Rúmil to tutor him in sarati, and the letters had captured Fëanáro like nothing before.

He was putting the finishing touches to a slightly wobbly line of sarati when he heard the voices. It wasn’t unusual for courtiers to wander this part of the gardens, but his alcove was secluded, and his curious ears pricked up to listen to something children might not be meant to hear.

“Honestly,” a lady’s voice was saying, “King Finwë was looking absolutely delicious this morning.”

Her companions emitted various levels of agreeing noises.

“All that lovely hair,” sighed a second female voice. “His fëa must be so strong.”

Fëanáro screwed up his face in disgust. Of course his father was the strongest and most handsome, but he was not for the likes of these people. He was for Ammë.

“Of course,” said a slightly nasal male voice, “that’s part of the problem, isn’t it.”

The two ladies hushed him, sounding suddenly fearful. “Quiet!” said the first, “There’s a ban on speaking of it!”

The male voice laughed. “Please, this part of the gardens is always empty. And anyway, everyone knows what happened. Such a shame, I’d do anything to get my hands on a Serindë original.” Fëanáro scowled at the mispronunciation of her title, but his interest was piqued.

“Except the prince,” said the second lady. “Poor mite.”

Fëanáro did not even dare to breathe. What was it that he did not know that all others did?

The first voice snorted. ”Poor mite?” she said incredulously. “The Valar called his birth a product of Arda Marred. If you ask me he’s no better than the fallen Vala, Melkor.”

The second lady gasped. “How could you say such a thing?” she exclaimed. Fëanáro agreed with her. His head was spinning. The Valar had said that about him?

The male voice spoke up again, nasal tones smug. “Please, Rielle, don’t act like you don’t think the same. Everyone knows the prince is the reason that Queen Míriel is dead. He consumed her very fëa, so that all that she is is lifeless and grey. That ill omen stole her energy for his own.”

Fëanáro dropped his charcoal. He could barely hear the first lady agreeing with the male. “Yes, it’s true,” she said. “Have you never touched him? His fëa is so bright that the very heat of it means his skin is hot like a stove.” She sniffed. “I suppose that’s what having two souls does to a person.”

Fëanáro slid off the bench with a thump.

“What was that?” cried one of the ladies, startled.

“I knew we should not have spoken of it,” said the first. “Come, let us leave before whoever is spying sees our faces.”

The trio bustled off noisily, leaving Fëanáro finally alone to sob.

It was getting towards Telperion waxing, and it was time for Finwë to find Fëanáro. It was a daily game the pair played. Fëanáro would be off in some hidden nook, and Finwë would track him down for dinner. Today, however, Fëanáro was in none of his usual spots and Finwë was becoming a little anxious. He had found Fëanáro’s art tools abandoned in his favourite garden alcove, so he flagged down a passing servant, who told him that the prince had been seen going into his mother’s rooms.

Finwë himself had not been in Míriel’s chambers since shutting up almost all her work inside. He could not bear to see most of it. It was the ultimate expression of the sheer life force she had had, the fire of her colours and the intensity of her designs.

Fëanor was in there, surrounded by tapestries. He had clearly been tearing through the bags in a fit of almost madness, trying to find something. He was sat with his back to Finwë, and laid in front of him was Míriel’s last project.

It had been intended to be a family portrait. Both Finwë and Míriel were stitched in minute detail, so real that Finwë could not stand to look at her embroidered face. But she had left a large space in her arms where she would have put Fëanáro.

“I don’t know what he will look like!” she had laughed, when he had questioned her about it. “Some days I think I should simply stitch myself holding a flame, for I feel that more strongly than anything.”

Soon after she had not the strength to even lift her needle, and it remained unfinished.

Fëanáro was running his small hand over the design again and again, feeling the difference in texture between the embroidery and the gaping hole.

“Fëanáro?” Finwë asked softly. The place felt almost sacred, and he did not laugh loudly at discovering his son as he might usually. The lack of cheerful greeting was highly disconcerting too.

Fëanáro turned to look up at him, and Finwë immediately knelt to gather him into a hug on seeing his red rimmed eyes. He had clearly been crying for some time.

His son’s voice was hoarse from weeping when he finally spoke, face muffled against Finwë’s chest.

“Did I kill Ammë?” he asked. Finwë felt his heart drop.

“What?” he asked, hoping he had misheard. He loosened the embrace to allow Fëanáro to pull back slightly and look him in the eyes.

“Did. I. Kill. Ammë?” Fëanáro enunciated clearly and deliberately, staring Finwë down.

Finwë was suddenly incandescently angry. He had worked so hard to try to ensure that Fëanáro was shielded from this. Who had told him? Finwë had endeavoured for these last years to keep his son forever smiling her smile. His rage was interrupted by Fëanáro squirming to get free.

“I knew it!” he cried, tears running freshly down his face. “I killed her and you hate me!”

Finwë realised it was the first time Fëanáro had ever seen him angry and immediately scrambled to fix it, pulling Fëanáro back to his chest despite his protestations.

“No, no, no,” Finwë said, burying his face in Fëanáro’s dark hair. It wasn’t the same colour as Míriel’s, but the texture was almost identical. He felt Fëanáro’s sobs more than heard them. “I’m not angry at you, my son. I’m angry for you.”

Slowly, tentatively, Fëanáro’s arms encircled him, returning the embrace.

“Did I kill her, Atya?” Fëanáro asked him, still pressed close.

Finwë still wasn’t ready to deal with this. “No,” he said emphatically. “I don’t care what whoever it was said, you did not kill her.”

“Then what did?” asked Fëanáro.

“Your mother was-“ Finwë stopped to swallow down a lump in his own throat. “She was exhausted.”

“Because of me,” countered Fëanáro.

”No!” cried Finwë. He let Fëanáro go again to look at him properly. “Listen to me,” he said. “They don’t understand. No one understands. It was no one’s fault but He who marred the world’s.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Fëanáro broke into fresh tears.

“So they were right? My birth is the product of Arda Marred?” he sobbed.

Finwe cradled Fëanáro’s chin in his hands, looking into his eyes.

“Hear me this, Finwion,” he said, and watched Fëanáro’s eyes widen at the name that he had not used since deciding to go by his mother-name. “You are my son, and I would have no other. Even if it would bring your mother back, I would cast you aside for nothing. Nothing I say can change the thoughts you have already decided on about the circumstances of your birth, but know you that you could kill a thousand people of our blood and I would love you all the same.”

Fëanáro sniffled slightly, and Finwë decided to press his luck with a joke. “But please don’t, because I don’t know what I’d do if you killed a thousand people.”

That made Fëanáro at least crack a wobbly smile. “Now then,” Finwë continued, forcing down his own pain to paste on a smile of his own. “I believe that dinner tonight is your favourite,” he said. “Something so spicy that the rest of us want to weep!”

Fëanáro’s smile became a true one, and Finwë stood and lifted his son onto his hip. “Oof!” he said. “You’re getting too big for this now. Soon you’ll be carrying me!”

They left the room of beautiful things behind them, and Finwë did not let himself look back.

#feanor #finwe #miriel #tolkien #the silmarillion #mine #my fic #fanfic #feanor is about 6ish here #of course this isn't resolved #thanks to alackofghosts and amethysttribble for helping me hash out the hcs on this :)#-tiny voice from the bushes- it's THerinde

154 notes · View notes

pictsies-crivens · 5 years

Text

The Tattoo Post

It's been a couple of weeks in coming, but, it is time I gathered my thoughts together and wrote about the tattoos I got 2.5 weeks ago, and the reasoning behind them. I'll cross-post on Twitter at some point. Apologies, it's a long one.

Here they are:

The explanation: a sad tale of the end of a marriage, now ten entire years ago. The original tattoo, on my upper arm, a birthday gift from my spouse to match their own. I won't go in to details, but we shall say the events surrounding The End caused an episode of extreme depression, and the thoughts that will inevitably accompany such episodes.

I found myself one afternoon soon after The End, sitting on the floor of the new house I had rented with my teenaged children, setting up the television service. I saw Alex Kingston, who caught my eye, as we have the exact same hair (I call her my hair twin). She was standing in the midst of a group of soldiers, with a lovely young redhead, and a young fellow in tweed. The young fellow said, "I’m about to do something incredibly stupid and dangerous. When I do, jump." (Note: Whovians can probably guess I'm talking about Time of Angels/Flesh and Stone.) I remember being confused, as my dad watched Doctor Who when it aired on PBS and the Doctor guy certainly didn't look LIKE THAT. I finished watching the episode, then saw Smith and Jones (a Tennant one). Welp, I was hooked. I fell more and more for this quirky crazed show, finding other Whovians online and in the graduate classes I was enrolled in. If you notice the silhouette inside the TARDIS door, you'll discover who my Doctor is. Step the first to distracting my broken mind from it's singular focus on the dark.

I know, gentle reader, you're probably thinking, shut up, what about Crowley? Well, I'm getting there.

Step the second: I've randomly engaged with the work of Neil Gaiman through the years, starting with Sandman. I became a fan in earnest after watching Stardust (maybe 2 to 3 years after its initial release). It was in the quicksand slow-sink of my after-divorce that I found Good Omens. Gods, it was like taking in a lungfull of clear air after the near drowning in sorrow I was doing every day. I genuinely laughed, probably the first time since, well, you know, reading the paintball incident. Those ineffable idiots bring me such joy. I found Sir Terry Pratchett, DiscWorld, and the delirious giddiness his writing brings my soul.

I decided, a few years back, to cover up my tattoo that shares a similar pattern with the one on my former spouse. With what? Had to be something I loved, something that had brought me joy, one of those things that had been my life raft. The decision was easy. Doctor Who (space scene and the TARDIS, maybe Starry Night?) for the cover up, and the book cover image of Crowley (who, I had decided, was the greatest character ever conceived of in fiction). This perfectly imperfect and adorable thing right here, if you were wondering which book cover:

Well, I gathered the funds, and researched artists. I found the quite talented and cool as all get out David Cox (https://www.instagram.com/davidcoxtattoos/) and was all set to go, I was thinking, yes, this summer.

On May 31, the show dropped, and I saw a living, breathing Crowley. And my precious, impossible, enough of a bastard to be worth liking/knowing Aziraphale. (Yes, I'll probably tattoo something of him, though Michael Sheen is forever inked upon my heart now). The dam in my head with ten years of writer's block collapsed, leaving floods of words and stories in its wake. I'm writing again; I've found my (Ineffable) Muses. Searching out for my fellows in fandom here on Tumblr, I saw an art piece by the insanely talented @retrouvel.

I sent a message after a couple days thought, and asked if I could base our Crowley design off their idea. And bless them infinitely, they said yes. A bit of a change, because I wanted WINGS, and a more traditional tattoo look, but at heart, it was inspired by the amazing Retrouvel, and I can't thank them enough. Do note, he's still sideways, though not exactly sauntering. That's why I have flame haired Crowley. Apologies to Master Gaiman for the use of his fantastic line from Sandman #6 and the capitalisation of a letter that is not so in its original form. It is a favorite phrase of mine, for all its infinite possible connotations.

I'll end with this: Friends, when you're drowning as I was, find something, anything to cling to. I had my now adult offspring (hi kids didn't forget you), a lovely therapist called Misty, my Doctors😉 and my Gaiman and Pratchett; to them I still cling so very tightly. Remember, there's someone, probably more than just one someone, that wants you to stay. I'm one of them. Find your buoy, your life jacket, anything that floats in your ocean of tears and doubt (tell Rose to bunch over, there's room on that door) and bloody cling to it. Just call for it, send up a flare, rescue will come.

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #anthony janthony crowley #goodomens #gnu terry pratchett #peter capaldi #doctor who #tattoos #neil gaiman #apologies to neil gaiman #Retrouvel #hi nick frost i still love you the tattoo about you is coming soon #sandman #hi guys if you need help the trevor project is awesome #if youre looking for a place to donate money trevor project

427 notes · View notes

stainandscribble · 5 years

Text

Beyond Words (I)

A Not So Beautiful Goodbye

Pairing: Jongdae (EXO Chen) x Reader

Genre: Jongdae Poet AU, angst, quartet?

Summary: A poet reminiscences about his old lover and their relationship in his new anthology, reminding himself of the importance of sincerity, and that love words are just as important spoken aloud as they are printed on paper.

PART 1 PART 2 PART 3

AUTHOR’S NOTE: since Jongdae’s Barista AU has been doing so well, I decided to switch the roles, so that Jongdae is now the poet. Also, April and a Flower is art in its purest form. So excited for Dear My Dear

Word Count: 4169

Jongdae walked out of his publisher’s office, his brand new book clutched by his side. His knuckles turning white with the force of his grip on the hardback copy - the very first printed one.

His fingers felt the rough green material cover, focusing on its imperfections. The book felt heavier than it was; rougher. He could feel the effort with which he bled ink into paper, and he could hear the clicking of the computer keys like a ghost of an echo in his ears. This was the heaviest book he had written. Not because physical weight, nor the number of pages that had ended up in the final print. No, it was a different type of weight. The weight of a heavy heart; crushing his chest, beating despite the damage. It was the weight of emotional baggage he had spilled- the printing ink might as well have been made out of his tears

I spilled all my love for you

As ink on paper

How could I forget

To fill you up first.

Yes, this anthology was born of pain, and regret; and somewhat bitterly, he thought it was best one he had ever written. It was heavy, and so damn hard to write he had spent many a sleepless night staring at the lined paper of his notepad, locked away in his office. Alone.

It had been a long time since Jongdae had been this hollow, a cavern carved out of his chest, the inflamed tissue now a home for despair rather than a heart.

He had only himself to blame. Jongdae did not shy away from admitting his wrongs. The least he could do was admit them and leave behind any self-pity festering in his broken heart like an infection.

Instead he did what he knew how to do best; he spilled all his sorrows and apologies as ink onto paper.

Ironically, that ability, this dysfunctional coping mechanism, was the very reason he was in the predicament in the first place.

Your love for me was like an inkwell; never drying

And I,

I was like a pen,

Which drew from you forever.

I did not notice,

How you dried up in silence,

Blinded by the illusion of your infinity.

Sometimes the best things in your life; the best people, leave. Sometimes you leave them. It is all a vicious cycle of life. A part of life he had recently became intimate with. Nothing lasts forever. All is finite. All good things must come to an end.

Still Jongdae’s biggest regret of all, was the fact you didn’t have to be finite.

If only he had paid more attention to you, instead of drowning in ink and pretty words, he could have continued on. With you by his side.

He had left the building of his publishing company, glancing up at the sky. The heavens were heavy this morning, overcast with clouds so dark and looming day had taken on the look of night. There was no rain yet, but Jongdae was sure that at some point the clouds would be unable to hold their weight, and the rain would come in a violent storm. Like any other summer.

The inkwell is empty and when the pen immerses

It comes back dry,

Leaving the words I wanted to write,

To remain a whim.

The ride back to his apartment was quiet, the sky still ominous, but Jongdae knew that the calmness, and the stillness were bad omens. The calm before the storm. The only question that bugged him was when the sky would open, pouring its tears onto the ground from the sky in a hail of bullets.

He wondered how loud the heavens would roar as it happened. Would it feel as if the windows were shaking? Would he be able to feel it in his bones, despite tucking himself away in his apartment?

Would it shake him the same way you leaving him did?

He doubted that- nature didn’t have the same kind of power. A storm was not a woman; although it was eerily similar in its magnitude.

He flicked through the anthology, finally taking the time to appreciate the work and effort put into its creation. The cream coloured pages stared at him with hundreds of ink eyes. Their looks were accusing, and among the black letters, he saw you. Your eyes, clear and sparkling in the way they looked at you, your smile bright. He reminisced the adoration with which he looked at you those the last few years, eyes wide and sparkling at everything you did. The corners of his lips quirked upwards in a cat-like smile at the happy memories.

Finally, after the present settled over him again, pulling him out of the happy daydream, his smile fell, and the light feeling in his chest, and the way his heart beat a little faster at the memory of your soft lips against his left him too. It left him cold and aching despite being hidden away safely within his home, His heart nestled safely in in his chest, protected by the cage of his ribs.

Light brown eyes moved to look out the window, the world outside brightened by flashes of lightning. On the table before him, the vase of red tulips was wilting, the petals falling gracelessly against the windowsill, no longer their vibrant red, but rather a burgundy colour fading into brown.

Like flowers on the windowsill,

I forgot that unlike the ones growing wild in meadows,

The rain shall not come water you,

And that dew shall not condense on you like the pearls,

Which I never gave you.

You sat in your old room, surveying its blank walls. When you moved out, your parents took down all the posters, and drawings you stuck on the pastel green paint. It was the decision you made at thirteen, and the decision you cursed all your Uni years. A decision you had accepted over time. Now you found the colour soothing and familiar, and in a world where you were always moving, you were glad for the little comfort it brought you. It was still your room.

Now, with the turn of events, you moved back, and you were ready to reclaim your space; the tubes and frames at your feet were the beginning.

One photo was staring at you, of you, a little younger, smiling along with the man beside you. You were in a meadow filled with wild flowers you had frequented with you mother when you were little. You remembered the raspberry bushes you used to pick fruit from, and you remember making flower crowns from the chamomile growing there.

You had taken that man there. Showed him all your favourite things; the meadow, the raspberry bushes, the sketchbook filled with gouache paintings. He showed you the ink splattered notebooks and the small coffee shop at the end of the street.

But the sunny days were over. The storm raged outside, thunder clashing in the darkness. And the raspberry bushes were gone too, and concrete blocks had taken their place.

And the man no longer showed you the world with ink stained fingers either.

But he had not showed you anything for a long time now, even before you left your shared apartment. So you left him. It had felt like he had left you a long time before you did.

Your mother’s voice broke you from your musings, and you left your room surprised to see her standing in the corridor with a brown package. She handed it to you wordlessly and disappeared into the kitchen. The look she gave you was piercing, and there was a certain amount of concern floating behind her soft eyes. You tightened the grip on the flimsy paper that wrapped around the object, and you could already feel that it was book.

For a moment you didn’t understand why it came; you certainly didn’t order one, but the look in your mothers eyes was enough to tell you who it was from.

“So he did finish.” You murmured, hands tearing at the paper in desperation, giving way to the soft green of the cover.

Flowers in April

The golden lettering was delicate and beautiful, and you wondered why he mailed it to you. You were no longer together. You walked out months ago. You were moving on.

Opening the book, your attention was caught by the handwritten note on the front page, the black pen standing in stark contrast against the off-white paper.

“To my muse.

I thought it would only be fair to give this to you, after all you had suffered because of it. You should at least know why you were suffering.

I’m sorry for all my shortcomings.

- Jongdae”

Your eyes followed the trail of the pen, his handwriting familiar from the little notes he used to leave for you, and the shopping lists that were stuck to your fridge.

The ache of your heart was familiar too, familiar from all the nights he ignored you, and every time you sat at the dinner table alone with only the tv to keep you company. The heart in your chest ached for your loneliness, but it also ached for the home that was long gone, the home you did not wish to return to and the man who occupied it now. This time, he was the one eating dinner at the empty table, sleeping in bed alone and you had no pity for him left.

But you are not a flower,

You were a woman.

You are a woman.

And I,

was not a pen,

But a man.

Jongdae listened to the thunder raging outside, shaking his windows, turning his day into night with anger.

That was one of the ways You and the storm were different. You did not shout, you were not like the storm, shaking the windows in their frames and destroying things in the wake of your rage. You had left quietly, given back the keys to your shared home, and before he could protest, make an excuse for his absence, you had left without a word, leaving no trace behind but the cracks in his heart.

7 months ago

You came back from work, ready to order takeaway and watch films with your boyfriend. The weariness in your bones weighed you down as you made your way up the stairs, wanting nothing more than to climb under a blanket in the living room, wrapped in Jongdae’s arms.

The door opened, and you caught the sight of him at the kitchen counter, his phone in hand, calling someone.

“Jongdae, do you want pizza?” You asked, looking up at the leaflet you had stuck on the fridge. You turned to face him, weariness leaving your bones at the hope of spending the evening in peace. The lightness does not last long, and he crushes it in his hands, unknowingly, without a thought.

“I’m busy.” The words leave you heavy. You know them too well now it seems. Jongdae had been like this for a while, more preoccupied with phone calls and writing than sparing you a moment. Just like you, he seems tired, but for a different reason. One you do not know, and one is not willing to share.

“What about watching a film later?” You try again, hoping. Being foolish. Deep down you know the answer already, feel the rejection before it comes. Your heart has been breaking recently. The cracks started growing deeper, and you don’t know how to mend them.

“I don’t know.” He tells you, his soft voice cold and indifferent, eyes not looking at you when he speaks, and with another crack, you realise he hadn’t looked at you since you arrived.

PRESENT

You had walked out of your office, your hands now empty as you left your portfolio and necessary documents with the client. You had finalised the designs this week and everything was ready for editing.

You were given the task of illustrating a reprint of a popular book series recently, and you had been very proud of your work. So far it was one of the biggest projects you have done. It seemed you were riding the lucky wave. Your boss had given you a slight raise as you moved to a better position at the company. This project had been a success, and the company was contracted for another project, and the clients had requested you.

It was time to celebrate.

You had invited your friends out for a few drinks later that night.

The bar had a chic vibe to it. Everything was made of sleek wood and toned down colours, coupled with the dim lighting and pretty chandeliers, it was a perfect place for you to unwind and gloat your success. You didn’t get to do it every day.

You were sipping on you third cocktail, your three friends laughing at some work gossip. It had been a pleasant night so far. That is, until you caught the eyes of Jongdae’s publisher. The woman had averted her eyes when she saw you looking, but you could still make out the displeased look on her face, and the sour curl of her red lips.

The black dress she was wearing was fancy. Fancier than what you wore, but it did not bother you. not until your eyes found the one person you hoped not to see that night.

It was not that you hated him. It was not that you loathed him. It was that you resented him. For how he had treated you; spent the last months of your relationship ignoring you. As if you didn’t live right there with him. As if you didn’t share his bed. As if you were not irrevocably in love with him.

Your heart broke all over again, seeing him here, with the beautiful woman opposite him, when he had said he was too busy to come here with you.

His eyes caught yours. Their soft brown drawing you in with their warmth. He was still familiar, he still looked too much like home to you. And in your slightly intoxicated state, you saw the regret and remorse bubbling behind the kaleidoscope of browns in his irises. Or maybe you just wished to see it.

You didn’t want to find out.

“He’s here.” You turned to your friends, and the moment they realised who you were talking about, they had made their way to the bar.

“Can we get a tequila?” Your friend asked, bringing over a whole bottle of the alcohol, along with four shot glasses.

“What’s that for?” You asked, surveying the glass wearily.

“For the fun of it.” She told you, the cheeky smile that formed on her lips matched the flame in her eyes.

“You are beautiful. Never forget that.” She told you as you took your first shot.

Only when I had lost you, I realised

That you, like an inkwell

Needed to be filled.

And like a flower,

Needed to be watered;

With words of love,

Looks of awe,

With warmth.

6 months ago

“I’m eating with the editors.” Jongdae told you as he fixed his tie in the hallway mirror, barely sparing you a glance into the kitchen. You had spent the last hour making his favourite, hoping against hope he would stay for dinner. Turned out you were trying in vain.

“I thought we could eat together.” You told him, your voice small, barely above a whisper as the hope fuelled elation left your body.

“Not today.” Jongdae said, his voice softer, sounding resigned as his shoulders hunched a little. He had been feeling tired lately, bored. For now, he wanted to leave. Get out of the familiar four walls, breathe in some fresh air.

Dinner with the editors was a good reason to leave. Besides, he was in the process of writing his third anthology, and it was an important meeting he had to attend. Jongdae needed everything to go smoothly.

His hands fell to his sides when he stopped fixing his tie, and you barely heard the quiet goodbye that left his lips. Or maybe you just imagined he said it. Lately, you couldn’t figure out which it was.

Tears burned the back of your eyes, but you didn’t let any spill. Outside, Jongdae had put his head in his hands breathing deeply, before getting in the car and driving away.

You felt him climb into bed late in the night, but he never moved closer. He used to brush your hair back and kiss your forehead before falling asleep, but now he stayed far away, and you had been colder in your bed with him than you would feel with a stranger.

And your heart broke.

PRESENT

Jongdae found your form in between the tables, eyes glued to the side of your face, feeling more like a spectre than a man. His heart roared in his chest, beating against his ribs the way an animal beat at the bars of their cage. The way it had not done in months. For a moment, the moment that lasted a split second when your eyes met, he felt more alive than the last few months.

His anthology had been a success, and he had come in to celebrate that. Still, the biggest celebration, better than wine and better than gin, was the sight of you.

His publisher had seen it, the way his eyes fell on you, again and again. Jongdae, for the life of him, could not understand the way her lips curled when she caught your eyes. He was too preoccupied with stealing glances your way to pay attention to her.

Everything about you called to him, reminding him of his love for you. Reviving the passion you had shared, setting his whole body aflame. The sight of you flowed over him like water, cold and refreshing. He was awake. For the first time in forever he felt lucid.

“Well done Jongdae. Your anthology had just become a bestseller.” His publisher told him, reaching over the table to hold his hand. He brought it back instantly as if it burned.

Over the course of the last months he had figured out what he done wrong. He had admitted his shortcomings. And he had promised himself to be better, for you. He was not going to ruin it tonight.

Sitting among your friends, you were glowing. Dressed in your best dress, eyes sparkling as laughter bubbled from your chest. It was a warming sight, like watching flowers unravelling in the spring. And his heart wretched when he realised, he wasn’t the reason for your joy any longer.

Now, you, like a wildflower,

Are experiencing spring again,

After a harsh winter.

You are spreading your petals,

And green leaves.

And I, like a fool,

Stare at the empty windowsill,

Not seeing you.

I cannot water you anymore,

And pearls, like dew

I cannot give you.

He watched you stand up and make your way to the exit, and without a moment of hesitation, he was out of his chair too, making a bee line to you, heart pounding at the idea of you.

He caught you by the elbow as you turned away from the bar.

“Jongdae.” You warned him, voice low as you stared right into his eyes. Jongdae’s eyes were soft when he looked at you, and you could make out their glassy sheen of tears in the darkness.

“I know what I did wrong.” He told you, sincerity lacing his voice, thick with remorse and deeper than usual. You could feel the desperation rolling off of him like waves.

He was wearing a nice suit today. A deep grey with a bluish tinge, and a white button up underneath. His fringe was parted, exposing his forehead and the straight brows that furrowed as he looked into your eyes, searching for something. Whatever it was; forgiveness or hate, he didn’t find it.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered.

“That is how I find out?” You spat. He knew you were talking about the anthology.

“You didn’t call.” You accuse him, poking a finger against his chest, and he lets you.

“I wrote it.” He tells you, silently begging for you to understand. But you won’t. Not this time. You had told him already; tell me what happened, tell me why you didn’t talk to me.

Instead, he wrote an anthology, spilling all of it on paper. Just like he always did. Just like you suspected he always would. And you had grown tired of that. He spilled all his emotions onto paper, dressed hem up in pretty words and rhymes. Devoted his time into doing so. By doing that he left you alone, and as he spilled all the love he had for you somewhere else, you were left to give him your love. Over the last months of yoir relationship, all the little acts of love had ceased to exist. There was no notes left on the fridge, there was no flowers on the vase on the table.

“You did.” You tell him, disappointment rolling off your tongue, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth.

The whole world now knew you broke his heart. The whole world knew you left him without a word. But did the world know how he had left you, months before you left him? How you had sat at dinner alone and slept alone. Did they know that? Did Jongdae tell them that? Did he write about his faults?

You didn’t know, and you didn’t know if you wanted to find out.

“Y/N.” He starts, but there is nothing that comes out of his mouth, and you shake your head. Desperately wanting him to understand. Because despite everything, you still love him, but you cannot live like this, like a stranger that shares his bed at night.

“I don’t think you figured it out quite yet.” You tell him when he stays silent, not knowing what to say. You find it amusing. A poet lost for words.

“I didn’t pay attention.” He confesses, looking defeated.

“I locked myself away and tried to run from you.” He tells you, walking closer, his wide eyes looking straight into your own.

“I was too proud to say something was wrong. Too proud to admit that I was doing something wrong.” He admitted, hands balled into fists. For a moment he averts his gaze, looking everywhere but you, before bringing it back to you, eyes red with unshed tears, shoulders shaking with frustration.

“I wasn’t sincere. I should have told you then, that I love you, instead of keeping it to myself. I thought you knew, but no one can read minds.”

“I’m sorry.” He tells you, and you know he is apologising for his actions. All but the writing. You could see the ink stains on his fingers even now. You had accepted him writing, locking himself up for a week and coming out a dying man. You have accepted that. But you have not accepted the way he treated you then, and you were not going to accept ever again.

“I’m not ready to accept your apology.” You tell him, voice even, and you seem calm as he looks at you with the hopeful spark fading from his eyes.

“Why didn’t you just,” You begin, searching for the right words, “Why didn’t you tell me then?” You finally ask, referring to the poems in the anthology. Love poems- all directed at you, written from the very beginning of your relationship.

“I didn’t know how.” He admits, wrapping his arms around you, burying his nose in your hair.

“You should have done this earlier.” You tell him, hugging him back, feeling like you have come back home for the first time in months.

“I know.” He whispers, caressing your hair, bringing you closer by the shoulders, until he envelops you.

“I know.” He mumbles again, and you listen to his heart beating out of his chest.

You move away, letting him go, before giving him one last look.

“I’m glad you know. Goodbye Jongdae.” You tell him, your voice soft, without any hint of malice. You seem content. You feel content. This was you leaving on your own terms. You loved him. of course you loved him. Sometimes though, you think, love is not enough. It does not keep you warm at night, or less lonely. Sometimes love is not given equally as it should. So you leave, walk away without turning back, knowing now where it was that he had spilled all his love- into words. You thought, that maybe, just maybe- Jongdae loved his words more than he loved you.

Jongdae followed your retreating figure walking back to your friends, glowing like the sun. As he was left in the dark night outside the bar, alone.

I’ve lost my privilege to love you

I can only apologize to you,

For being winter,

When I should have been endless spring;

How you were,

My infinite happiness.

- The Beautiful goodbye I could not give you.

53 notes · View notes

auroral-melody · 5 years

Note

Why do you ship Lucifer/Dream ? I'm just curious.

NONNY I LOVE YOU FOR GIVING ME AN OPPORTUNITY TO JUST YELL ABOUT THEM

As with most of the convoluted, context-less things I post (e.g., the full-on rewritten characterization of Beelzebub in Good Omens), it started with a simple conversation between myself, @procrastinatingbookworm, and @aqueeraphale…and ended up in a hence unwritten fanfic that maybe we’ll get around to eventually.

Put it this way: self-written fanfiction is the answer to why I ship them. I need to actually write it on a page for y’all. I’m not really going to go into ~Oh, My Ship Is Canon~ because it’s clearly not. I’ll point out a few things in canon I want to talk about, but this isn’t a “I ship them because [] and [] in canon” it’s a “I ship them because I HAVE FEELINGS ABOUT STORIES I WROTE/MY FRIENDS WROTE”.

So how did this happen?

I’m pretty sure it started with something along the lines of generally agreeing Dream being bi, on the basis of Lucifer Pretty. Which evolved into an, “oh, that’s fun! let’s write it” RP, along with some doodles (back in May 2018. My art has improved since, and my character design thoughts, but)

Which turned into the concept that basically goes as follows

- Morpheus lonely and depressed- Death essentially brings him to Lux, to definitely set him up with Luci bc hey obvs they’re both bi disasters. Maybe see what happens- Morpheus voice I don’t dance- Death voice Okay I’m lesbian but he’s being nice and offering so I’ll dance with Luci instead- Morpheus voice [shocked pikachu meme]

Basically, it boils down to the fact that Morpheus was a very…lonely and sad person and tends to make enemies easily. Lucifer clearly doesn’t hate him, or Dream would probably be dead in a ditch, but he’s obviously engaged in their relationship as friendly rivals. Lucifer has just left Hell, and is kinda not knowing what to do with himself. He’s looking for something new and different.

They’re both incredibly touchstarved/affection-starved. Morpheus intentionally isolates himself from his friends and family, not seeking out friends, while Lucifer has spent the last billions of years completely alone in Hell.

So the setup here works pretty well. Death wants to help her brother, Lucifer is like, the one person who isn’t pissed at him, Morpheus Sad.

From then on is essentially just what we’ve written. They end up…somewhat dependent on one another for comfort because they just aren’t good at investing in any other relationships. And Death and Lucifer become more friendly.

Morpheus and Luci’s relationship is…tumultuous at best. They care for each other, but they cling so much to the One Thing they like at the moment. It’s not exactly the best thing. So the fact that Dream transformed into Daniel was pretty awful for everyone involved.

This AU fits in with the Lucifer continuity mostly based on Lucifer taking place shortly after Sandman ends. Dream is not often brought up, but allow me to go through some places where he is, and how I interpret them in context of the AU.

Obviously, this will have some spoilers. Also light NSFW art.

Lucifer (2000), issue #8.

[Image Description: Four panels of the Lucifer comic. The first is a backdrop, with Lucifer’s text saying, “But to Dream of the Endless, I imagine it would look like poaching, pure and simple. And since he’s the gamewarden he wouldn’t like that at all.” The second panel shows him holding a sword over a goddess’s son. The goddess, Izanami-no-Mikoto, looks on. She is made of stone. He says, “He’ll do it. I won’t even need to compel him. If I speak his name, he’ll come, and see what you’ve made here. So it’s your call, Queen of Death. Heads I win, and tails -- tails it all comes down.” The third panel shows the goddess holding up a hand to stop him. The fourth, the kneeling son says, “She offers atonement, Lucifer Morningstar. She offers your wings.” End description.]

In the AU, it makes a lot of sense that Lucifer would be able to easily summon Dream of the Endless with a single word. “He’ll do it. I won’t even need to compel him” is an interesting phrase. The absolute certainty in Dream’s actions – even if this is after Morpheus’s transformation (which I’m not sure of), Lucifer characterizes Dream as though he knows him well.

Oof. Lucifer: Nirvana.

[Image description: A watercolor cream and purple comic panel. In the distance, there is a boat. From the boat, Dream of the Endless says, “Bearing in mind our previous meetings, Lucifer Morningstar, might I suggest a bargain? I will ask no favors if you will offer me no gifts.” End description.]

This is the only conversation I recall in Lucifer or Sandman in which Daniel!Dream and Lucifer speak to one another. Yet Dream says,

“Bearing in mind our previous meetings, Lucifer Morningstar, might I suggest a bargain? I will ask no favors if you offer me no gifts.”

In the AU, their relationship soon after Dream becomes this version is tentative. Hostile at worst. They might be trying to figure out what comes next.

[@procrastinatingbookworm and I did write a fic on this! Find it here!]

Either way, they’ve talked before.

[Image description: A close picture, misty, cream and purple, watercolor, of a small boat, silhouetted. Dream’s silhouette is on the right, along with a small bird perched on the end of the boat. Lucifer is sitting, lounging on the left side of the boat. Lucifer says, “The situation isn’t likely to call for either. Your predecessor preferred a corkscrew to a stiletto. What’s your position?” End description.]

How did they end up on a boat in the middle of nowhere? Lucifer looks supremely comfortable, lounging, completely trusting that Dream offers him no harm. They’re standing, very awkwardly, on opposite sides of the boat.

Lucifer is making a metaphor here, regarding how Morpheus was not very to-the-point. He knew how Morpheus worked, how he thought. He’s asking in an almost affronting way: “What’s your position?” that could be interpreted as curious or as a thinly veiled hostility.

[Image description: A watercolor of Dream’s profile, somewhat silhouetted. He has white hair. He says, ‘By all means let us be direct. Someone has used human dreamers to stage an assault on you. I assure you, this someone has attracted my attention, too. The matter will be dealt with.” End description.]

Dream is taking this matter very seriously. It just seems that Morpheus may not have put as much attention into random attacks, but Dream is very involved. In the AU, this is kind of because Dream is keeping an eye out for Lucifer.

This conversation just hints, to me, of much more backstory between them.

They’ve been trying to bargain, offering favors or gifts to one another – something they don’t really have a good reason to do in the comics, except maybe to secure an alliance, but that feels…?? Well, considering the rest of the conversation…

[Image description: two panels, watercolor. The left is Lucifer’s face, and he says, “Actually I intend to deal with it myself. It would be unfortunate if our investigations hampered each other.” The right panel is of Dream, with a hand on his waist, looking down. He says, “I am interpreting that statement as a threat. Very well. This touches profoundly on my interests, but you are the injured party. Your rights are paramount.” End description.]

Lucifer is certainly difficult to make an alliance with. (Tangent, but I love this issue’s art style.) Dream still seems surprised – “Very well.” He is respecting Lucifer’s somewhat “bugger off” statement.

[Image description: A watercolor landscape shot of Lucifer on the left, with black wings spread, and Dream on the right, turned away from both the camera and Lucifer. Dream is saying, “I will conduct my own inquiries, along avenues that will not intersect with your own. Whatever I discover I will pass on to you. Via an intermediary, of course.” Lucifer replies, “As you like. But somewhere discreet. No white ravens.” He is referencing the bird also present but off-panel. End description.]

At this point, Dream turns mostly away from him. In my eyes, I see this as hurt/deflecting, supported by the fact that he says he will pass information via an intermediary – unnecessary, it feels, considering they’ve been talking, they’ve had multiple conversations before...it’s very sudden. Feels like it was based off of what Lucifer said. Which was a threat, but still, Dream knows how to not cross boundaries and get himself killed from a threat.

Lucifer doesn’t seem to have a strong opinion on this, or rather, he says, “As you like.” Letting Dream do whatever.

I don’t really have much to say on that part. It’s just a really fascinating conversation.

The Sandman (1989) Issue 72:

[Image description: Mazikeen and Lucifer sitting on what looks like a bench or stone beside one another. Mazikeen is to the left. She has an arm around Lucifer’s shoulders. Lucifer has his hands steepled in front of his face and his expression is unreadable, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed. Mazikeen is almost leaning on him. She is wearing a red dress with no sleeves. Lucifer is wearing a blue suit. Both have curled hair, and Mazikeen is not wearing a mask. Overlaid, there is text from Matthew the raven, talking about Morpheus’s death. Matthew says, “I mean, Despair may be the thing that comes after hope, but there’s still hope. Right? When there’s no hope you might as well be dead. What’s in my heart?” End description.]

I find this significant in the AU because, firstly, it’s a point where Mazikeen shows affection to Lucifer. She has her arm around him. It feels...comforting, to me. Secondly, it’s the one panel of Lucifer I can find in the Wake -- and it’s when Matthew is talking about how he cares about Dream, and he’s figuring out his relationship with this new Dream.

Overall, Lucifer clearly respects Dream as just...another individual. He attends his funeral. He speaks with him multiple times.

In our AU, he and Dream are happily married, and their relationship post-Morpheus is settled, loving, happy. Because I love happy endings!!!!!!!!!!!!

I hope you enjoyed reading!! Feel free to shoot me a question about my thoughts on this AU. Because I have a LOT.

#Anonymous #my posts #asks #answers #dream / lucifer #i also ship john and lucifer ama #constantine i mean #listen at this point it's luci/dream/maze and maze/death and maze/beatrice and maze/constantine/luci #i have a lot of ships

5 notes · View notes

hellomissmabel · 7 years

Text

Of Dusk and Dawn part 3

MASTERLIST

Pairing: Apollo/Steve x reader, Bucky x reader

Warnings: None.

Word count: 1.619

Summary: Y/N is the Pythia, the Oracle of Delphi, blessed by the God Apollo with the gift of foresight. Yet one day a hunter sets foot in her temple and she is struck by a dark vision. With the blood moon approaches fast, higher powers take the upper hand and shake up Y/N’s life and love. Is she strong enough to survive the wrath of a Goddess? Or shall she wither and die in the aftermath of a God’s sorrow?

A/N: Written for @marvelous-fvcks her challenge.

Series masterlist can be found here

The temple of Apollo is a majestic work of architecture, opening its door for the first time after a period of prayer for the priestesses. Yet inside, an even greater work of art resides. The Pythia is unmatched in her grace, her beautiful form surrounded by clouds of scented smoke bringing her into a state of transcendence. Yet her trance is broken as soon as I set foot in the temple, her eyes slowly focusing onto my face with the delicacy of an angel.

“You have a question, traveller?,” she addresses me with a featherlight voice.

I put down my bag and kneel beside it, opening it and showing the Oracle the gift I’ve brought her and the God Apollo. “It is not much, but I hope it is enough.” Gingerly, I show her the golden amulet that once belonged to my mother, a priestess in favour of the Goddess Artemis. With great care I place it in her outstretched hands and with unfeigned astonishment she admires the piece of jewellery.

“You are not a traveller, neither a soldier,” she speaks warmly as she delicately runs her fingers over the pale blue gemstones adorning the golden charm. “You are a hunter and you have come here for a cure.”

Slowly, I peel off my clothes, bearing my sweat-slicked chest to her Y/E/C eyes. As she lays the amulet aside, her attention drawn towards my wounded arm, she places her tender hands on bicep. “Poison,” she whispers softly, her eyes tracing the dark current of the venomous blood running through my veins.

Even though my skin has long been hardened against any feeling due to the poison I am shaken by the familiarity her touch evokes in my heart. She has the same soft hands as my mother and the same sophistication with which she carries herself effortlessly. “I can feel that,” I exhale with a shudder, drawing her eyes to lock with mine.

For a few seconds were are both floating in oblivion, nothingness surrounding our bodies as we melt into the atmosphere. But those few seconds are just that, seconds, and as she retracts her hand from my battle-worn skin, it feels like we are two atoms colliding in a universe yet to find its course. “I can feel you,” I repeat with a sharp breath, my fingertips aching to cling to her.

“You must go to the seaside,” she quickly whispers as she turns away from me and walks swiftly back towards the alter. “There you will find what you’ve been looking for.” She takes the amulet back into her hands and inspects it curiously. “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you much else, hunter. The visions aren’t sharp.”

“Please,…,” I beg her while I approach her cautiously, joining her at the alter and following her eyes as she studies the amulet. “I’ll give you anything, anything at all. Just please help me. I want to feel again.”

With a brief caress, our hands momentarily touch and the amulet crashes to the floor, splintering in a thousand little pieces. The young woman cradles next to the broken remnants, holding her face in her hands as she rocks back and forth, unfathomable cries an omen of what she has seen. Her eyes are as white as the marble of the temple floors and her voice is merely a ghost of the loving tenor it carried before, stripped from all emotion and veiled in an ominous darkness.

“Under a blood moon one chord shall be cut and another thread shall be woven.”

With frantic gestures she crawls over the ground, the fumes of the candles growing thicker and surrounding her like a pair of devil wings. “Under a blood moon one chord shall be cut and another thread shall be woven,” she chants in a barely-there voice, over and over again.

I call out for another priestess and soon enough a dark-haired woman emerges, folding the distraught Oracle into her embrace. “What did you do?,” she hisses at me, never taking her eyes away from the Pythia.

“I did nothing, I swear!”

“What did she say?”

“Under a blood moon one chord shall be cut and another thread shall be woven,” I tell the priestess, who tears her attention away from the Oracle’s trembling form and raises an eyebrow at my exposed torso. Then she notices me arm and reaches out for it, but this time I do not feel her touch.

“My sweet.”

There is the rustling of blankets as your body releases the tension that held you captive the entire night. You wake up bathing in sweat, screaming and clawing and squirming as your lover holds you down.

“My sweet Y/N.”

Your cries pierce through bone and marrow as you wail in Apollo’s embrace. He can’t stand to see you in so much pain, so he soothes your mind with a deific ointment and presses his palm to your heart to soothe you.

“Y/N, please, my sweet, wake up. Open your eyes, love.”

This goes on for two full days and two full nights, until the third morning you finally reach consciousness. His bright baby blues are the first thing you see when you open your eyes, smiling through the tears. “My Apollo.”

“My sweet,” he replies in unadulterated relief, peppering your face with kisses. “My sweet, what happened to you?”

You push yourself up on your elbows, yet continue to rely on his sturdy frame to keep you from falling apart. “I’ve never been triggered this violently…” Your voice is hoarse and the syllables barely sound coherent, yet with a weak smile you prophesise what you have seen.

“I saw Poseidon’s trident, very vividly so. And there was a red-headed child playing with a pendant…,” Your eyes flutter closed again as you recall your vision. “A pendant with a sun. I was a spectator and watched as she played with it. but for some reason she got angry and snapped the pendant in two, throwing it into the sea.”

“Y/N, look at me,” he urges as he notices you’re drifting off again and he cradles your face in his soft hands. “A red-headed child, a sun pendant and Poseidon’s trident. Anything else, my sweet?”

Shaking your head as the images turn faint and blurry, your presence lingers for a tad longer in the space between the present and the future. You start to become restless again and Apollo has no other choice than to use his powers to tear you away from the apparitions.

“You kept mumbling ‘non-believer’ in your sleep, my sweet. Does it mean anything?”

“There was a non-believer, who visited the temple shortly before the vision, with an arm like metal, stripped of all feeling,” you recall when the image of the dark-haired hunter crosses your mind. “He was a hunter once but lost his faith after the war was over.”

“Did he do anything to trigger you?”

You hesitate and search Steve’s eyes. Should you tell him that it’s the blue-eyed stranger’s touch that erupted such a violent vision? No, it will only anger him and now you are with child, you cannot endanger his or her future like that.

You keep your lips sealed, nuzzling into his broad chest, whispering against his bare skin. “No, I think not. He had already received his answer and merely wanted to pass on his offering. The amulet fell from my hands and that’s the last thing I remember.”

“Then it must’ve been the amulet, my sweet. I will inspect it first thing tomorrow.”

“My Apollo,” you smile up at him, your fingertips caressing his cheek. “Please, I have to talk to you. I – I was wrong to react the way I did and I’ve given it much thought.”

“And what have you decided, my sweet?”

“When the child is born, you will give it your blessing and claim it as your own. You will visit this child every two days, not every two weeks. This child needs to know its father, but you cannot tell it who you really are until it has come of age. Our child will know you as Steve first and later as Apollo.”

Eyeing him nervously, you swallow thickly and cast your eyes towards your sweaty palms, wringing them together until he nods his head, agreeing to your terms. “I will do all those things and more, my sweet. I promise.”

He brings his lips to yours in a chaste kiss. “You are my lover, my sweet, my muse. I cannot deny you anything.”

Your heart stills at his words, constricting as soon as he calls you his muse, Cassandra’s foreboding prophecy still fresh in your mind. Yet you do not let this hold back your true feelings for him, afraid you might not share any more tender moments like these, your life in the daytime endangered by a moonlit night so fierce and so ferocious.

“I love you, my Apollo,” you rush out in a deep breath, your lips moving of their own volition. “I love you as Steve and I love you as Apollo.”

“And I love you, too, Y/N,” he replies warmly, presses another tender kiss to your lips. His fingertips weave into your hair and you moan softly as he tugs gently, taking this opportunity to deepen the kiss. “I love you as Y/N and I love you as the Pythia.”

“You should rest some more, my sweet,” he hums softly into your hair, laying both of you down again on the bed, coaxing you into a fitful sleep free of hallucinations. And as you lay peacefully in your Apollo’s arms, the sky turns red under a blood moon, the Goddess Artemis plotting her revenge.

Tagging: @avengerofyourheart @a-little-hell-to-raise @marvelingatthewonder @mrshopkirk @hardcorehippos @knittingknerdy @winterboobaer @italwaysendsinafightt @viollettes @hymnofthevalkyrie @feelmyroarrrr @justareader @austinamelio @volklana @4theluvofall @themcuhasruinedme @theoneandonlysaucymo @caplanbuckybarnes @nenyakj @amrita31199 @emilyevanston @minervaem @howlingbarnes @buchananbarnestrash @youandb @you-and-bucky @fvckingsteverogers @thatawkwardtinyperson @that-sokovian-bastard @abovethesmokestacks @marvelrevival @marvel-fanfiction @justanotherbuckydevotee @barnes-heaven @heartmade-writingbucky @buckyywiththegoodhair @captnbarnesrogers @mellifluous-melodramas @its-not-a-phase-hux @melconnor2007 @ivvitm1109 @toofuckinfabulous @ailynalonso15 @hollycornish @delicatecapnerd @camigt1999 @learisa @curlyexpat @palaiasaurus64 @fanndas-snow-goddess @crisssivonne @yourenotrogers @tomhollandzs @supernaturaldean67 @aletheladyinred @beyondbarnes @xbergiex @reniescarlett @promarvelfangirl @capbuckybuchanan @lovemarvelousfics @yknott81 @rrwilson66 @pegasusdragontiger @mizzzpink @salty-holographic-stickers @sammyissassy @sebstanchrisevanchickforever19 @kudosia @bellejeunefillesansmerci @lumelgy @southernbellestatues @daringtodreamawake @neurotic-narwhal @cokamarie24 @blue1928 @movingonto-betterthings @breezy1415 @isnt-the-blog-youre-looking-for @jesspfly @weenie-butt @debzybrazy @fuckingchaotic @always-an-evans-addict

Series tag list: @nativesebby @taylorjacksonandtheolympians @sad-af1121@throwingup-rainbows @thegreentgirl @jughead-wuz-here @redroomproperty @sgtbxckybxrnes @blackcoffeeandgreenteaforme @lifeofmarvvel @amiarealfan @captainsbestgal @whiskeyandwashitape @kimistry27 @superpaperclip @acunningstargazer @heyitsaznfangirl @follow-the-freeway @mo320 @lostinthoughtsandfeelings @katalina-from-hellbound @grantsgorgeousgirl @winterwolf57 @lycanmomma @caffeinatedcellist -@thefandomimagines @lostinspace33 @jasmineladjevardi @majbritsr @dinorapreira @naturalistamisslyn @winenighthoe @aliasauthor @heneed-somemilk @quoththe-raven @thelostswan @2017booklover @suz-123 @lumelgy @magellan-88

Strikethrough means I couldn’t tag you!

#of dusk and dawn #greek god au #amarvelousfvckingwritingchallenge #steve x reader #bucky x reader

205 notes · View notes

windup-warrior · 5 years

Text

Prompt 18: Marked (Makeup)

The Mark of the Fury

“It was as though committing murders had purged him of lesser rudeness. Or perhaps, Starling thought, it excited him to see her marked in this particular way. She couldn't tell. The sparks in his eyes flew into his darkness like fireflies down a cave.”

― Thomas Harris, The Silence of the Lambs

From a young age, my father decided that my influence in his life warranted Rhalgr as my guardian deity. Throughout my life, I have gone back and forth on whether or not I thought it was a suiting choice. Some take their guardian solely based on their birth date but no, not my father. By birth alone, my guardian would have been Llymlaen, the Navigator. See, not very suiting. I guess I do not really blame him for deeming Rhalgr more suitable. As I come into my adult life, I think I have decided that while his motivations for doing so were not necessarily kind, he was not incorrect.

But destruction is not necessarily a bad thing. It is a natural part of the life and death process and ultimately paves the way for greater, newer things to be built. It culls weakness and clears a foundation for the next cycle of all things. This is true for people or animals or nature or even civilization as a whole. The Breaker of Worlds was not gloom and doom as others so claim. After all, he too was a father. His son, Byregot, is the purveyor of architecture and industry and a god of the arts. His daughter, Halone, is the mover of glaciers and is a goddess of war. She also happens to be the patron deity of Ishgard and my father’s birth guardian.

Ironic, is it not?

The Fury was brought into this world by The Destroyer, the irony of which is not lost on me when it comes to my father and I. If I were the type to sit and psychoanalyze myself, I might even say that perhaps my father and I were backwards. He is the destroyer, the architect of our family’s ruination, and I am the rage left in his wake. I am the fire and ice all wrapped into one, made solely for the sake of raining this fury down upon others.

“Look what you did.” Those had been his dying words, his head set upon my knee as I held him in hopes of guarding him against the flames that roared around us while our home burned to the ground. Though I had been but twelve at the time, he had no qualms about putting an insurmountable burden upon my shoulders that I would end up carrying for the rest of my life. He blamed me, a child, for all the ill omens in his life. If he got sick, it was my fault. If a hunt went poorly, it was my fault. If we did not eat for a week because he was too drunk to provide for us, it was most definitely my fault.

Are you seeing a pattern here?

By the grace of the Fury, I bore this weight alone. Thank the Twelve that he never sired any other children, at least none that he knew about. That he might visit this rage and anger upon another child makes me ill to think about. By that right alone, I would gladly bear that weight upon my own shoulders until it broke my back if I had to.

Look what you did. At the time they had been a condemnation, one last admonishment from a man who had never loved me. Only through some diluted sense of honor did he make a half assed attempt at caring for me in a physical sense. He put food on the table (sometimes), kept a roof over our head (usually), and kept us warm (on occasion). But it was always begrudgingly, as if he wanted to be rid of me but knew that even if he was, his shame would keep him from returning to the life he had left behind in Ishgard. On numerous occasions did he have a chance to rid himself of my burden and on those occasions, he did little to stop the tide that sought to overtake us, as if passive allowance of my demise would save him the shame of killing me himself.

Look what you did. I survived. I survived when he would have liked anything but. When the fire raged and consumed the entirety of my material life and the mortal life of my father, I survived. Not only did I survive but I was tempered by the flame, strengthened against the cold of a world that cared not if I lived or died. I fought the hand I was dealt and I came out on top. Sure, it had been a gamble and seldom was it without struggle. But here I am, pushing twenty-three and thriving. For the first time in what has been such a very long life, I am thriving.

Look what you did. If he could see me now, would it make him proud to see how far I have come or would he rage at the thought that I could be successful without him? I have made my mark upon this world and though my light will one day be overtaken by darkness once more, I can say that I made Eorzea better. Not just Eorzea, but everywhere my adventures have taken me. Each and every one of them, I have endeavored to buck the labels that he so easily thrust upon me when I was but a child, to prove not only to him but to myself that I could be more than the sum of my trauma and tragedy. So often, it is easy to place blame upon our cards, as if they are solely to blame for what we get in life. But I think that is a piss poor excuse, a reason for apathy, enabling a trend of victimization that allows people to wallow in their sorrow for far longer than could be conceivably reasonable. Not me. I refuse to be a victim of my circumstances. I refuse to be the child they whispered about in hushed tones and spoke of the evil I would bring upon this world. I adamantly refuse to subscribe to the notion that I will bring nothing but hell to those whose lives I touch.

I refuse.

Twelve be damned, I refuse!

In a life where so much hinges upon balance, I walk the thin line between here and there, between the seen world and the void. Between the light and the dark. Between life and death. Between seen and unseen. Between good and evil. I will walk that damned line like the best of them, if only to prove them all wrong. I am more than they ever thought I would be and that knowledge alone will be my revenge. My I told you so. My big middle finger in the face of everyone who ever doubted me.

Look what you did. I rose above, Papa. I climbed out of the pit of despair that you dug for us both and at last the light of the sun warms my skin against the cold you would have otherwise filled my life with. For all that you let them fashion me into a monster, I have become anything but. I am not proud of everything I have done along the way but you know what they say… the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I would say that the road to heaven is paved with hard decisions and difficult deeds. I spent so long believing him, believing that I was never meant to be anything more than a savage if left to my own devices and you know… I was for awhile. And now I am more. More, more, so much more.

With that in mind, back to the subject at hand. In my time, I have come to embrace Rhalgr as my guardian but for all that he may be my guardian, he has as much influence over me as my own father ever did. He is there, a presence that I seek to prove wrong whenever I can, to show him that destruction is not the end but rather the beginning. We fall apart to rebuild ourselves into something bigger, better, stronger. Like kintsugi pottery, molded into something beautiful and shiny not by masking our flaws but rather by accentuating them, treating our breakage and subsequent repair as a piece of our history rather than something to be hidden away and not talked about. This truth I will continue to believe and as such, I will continue to rage against those that seek to silence my destruction, to cover it up and pretend it does not happen, pretend that I do not matter or exist.

Rhalgr is my guardian but I bear the mark of the Fury upon my soul. Halone guides my hand and blesses my blade, marked by Rhalgr as it may be, and though Ishgard will likely never claim me as their own, I fight with the knowledge that once upon a time, I fought for Ishgard too. Exhibitionary as the skirmish may have been, I still got the opportunity to don the colors of House Fortemps and to fight beneath the banner of the Holy See. It is quite likely something I will never get the chance to do again but for the short time that I did, it was a taste of what I could have given to them had things been… different. That said, I will not allow myself to get caught up on What Ifs. Those things can easily be the death of the most solid of souls. What Ifs can haunt you like the scariest of specters and I refuse to let them shade my life. My venture into fighting for the Holy See of Ishgard was just that, a venture, not meant to prove permanent station. Instead, my calling is to Eorzea and Hydaelyn as a whole. The Alliance will always need me in some way and as time goes on, I am certain that others will find need for my strength and talents, so much so that even if Ishgard came calling, I do not know if I could, in good conscience, say yes to them.

The Fury would have to forgive me for that at the very least. Until then, I remain stalwart in my bid to continue proving them wrong, with a hand of destruction and a heart of fury.

#FFxivWrite2018 #writing prompt #prompt 18 #marked #makeup #rhalgr #halone #ishgard #karma rambles

0 notes