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gatheringfiki · 2 years

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Winter FRE 2022 - Prompts Masterlist

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We have a lovely list of 140 prompts, which for the sake of variety have been arranged in a random order for you. Thank you so much for prompting!

Please read Prompts FAQs carefully before submitting any responses or sending an ask, but let’s cover some basics here:

Please use this registration form for each of your responses!

You don’t need to sign up anywhere to fill a prompt.

You have until 28th of February, midnight GMT to submit your responses.

1 prompt response = 1 raffle ticket. The more prompts you fill the higher your chances of winning something!

When posting your prompt response please clearly mark which prizes you’re going for. You can choose from digital, physical or both.

Use the following tag if you like: #WinterFRE2022. You can also use it to check out all the new content being created :)

For anything going up on AO3 you can use the following Collection

Primary pairing should be Fili/Kili, Anders/Mitchell, DarkHawk or any fictional characters pairing portrayed by Dean or Aidan.

Please tag your trigger warnings, pairing and rating as appropriate!

Prompts under the cut:

A story of one relationship told in 3 recipes / Polaroid photographs / Valentine’s Days.

Hades / Persephone AU

Mitchell does the “flash your partner while they’re in an important work meeting on Zoom” trend to Anders

Healing hands

One of them is a tour guide, the other one is a tourist. And then war breaks out all around them.

Tricky spell components

Predator

AU based on ANY 1930's screwball comedy film

Princes in the Tower AU (Richard III)

Entering someone slowly, so slowly that it almost hurts, but with a good reason: there’s been no prep whatseoever.

Merman AU

"That's not how you're supposed to use it."

The one usually doing the protecting is now highly vulnerable and being protected and he’s got no choice in the matter.

Witch and familar au

“You can do whatever you want to me.”

Reincarnation

Write about intimacy between your pairing, as a series of contrasts between what they’re like in a casual/public setting and what they’re like in bed.

Fantasy

Gagged with an apple

Basket

"You think I only think about you when we're both in the same room."

"I'm gonna tell Ma you said that."

Character is secretly a well-known cryptid (i.e. Bigfoot, Yeti, Mothman)

Photographer (preferably DarkHawk)

Map makers

You’re my call at 3am

"Don´t do that. Ever. Again."

Unrequited

Naked skin for all to see

“What the hell else am I supposed to do with it?!”

Fingers splayed and pushed, and he fell, defeated by their gentleness.

Seven kisses

I don’t want him to be alive in my heart. I want him to be alive in this world.

Come Kink

"It's not safe."

A continuation of a long dormant fic

Sacrifice

"Deny me bread, air, light, spring, but never your laughter for I would die.” - Pablo Neruda

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Pick ANY Stephen Sondheim lyric as a prompt

“Oh I’m pretty sure you can take a few more inches.”

Canon divergence

"Is... is that a PARAKEET in your pocket?"

“Stop staring at me. I’m fine.” “You were almost blown up.” “Yeah, almost. Now drop it.”

"Why'd you stop?"

Adventure AU based on ANY James Cameron blockbuster (i.e. Titanic, Terminator, Aliens, Avatar, The Abyss)

Eating in the dark

"Well, as long as we're doing stupid things-"

Nobody else at the party knows that they know each other/their history.

“When was the last time you slept?”

Somebody's wedding

Kisses to the inner side of thighs

1800s London

Cowboy Bebop AU

"It only hurts when I laugh"

Sleeping over

Better the devil you know, Kili thinks as he bites open his thumb and smears blood across the summoning circle. He’s a young witch. Too young to be playing these kinds of games with the powers that be. Fuck if that will stop him.

World War III

Person A is caught in an avalanche. Person B rescues him.

Carnival fortune teller prediction

Inspired by "Runnin' with the Devil" by Van Halen

IKEA

A slow acting poison

The Shining/Overlook Hotel AU

Practical jokes getting out of hand

You could try and kiss it better.

Yes I just tripped over the curb and almost got hit by a car because I was too busy staring at you

"The world doesn't need me." "Maybe I do."

Open and honest conversation about their deepest desires.

Person A suddenly starts avoiding/ignoring person B because they realized they have feelings.

Rollercoasters

Someone throws a rock with a note through the couple’s window.

Appearing on Family Feud

Mist

If it can’t be done the way it should, then it should be done the way it can.

Love letters

Crisis of the Third Century Roman AU

No hurt, all comfort

"I hate me too."

One of them is seduced into the hareem of the other.

Cucumber insertion

"Stop pretending!"

When I said Tea was at four, I meant p.m.

Until all the stars in the sky disintegrate, or are extinguished

Time marches on, the practice stays the same.

He was brave, strong, and broken all at once

Break up to make up

"You keep saying 'I've got this', but I'm not sure know what 'this' is."

I used to say I'd know you anywhere, but it's getting harder

All the clocks stopped at 11:59.

"I can't even look at you."

Espionage

Arranged marriage

One of them can see the past in the same way others can see the future. But while with the future, you can at least try and prevent the events, how do you save someone in the past?!

Being impressed by the other's skill

Holmesian

Artist / model

The Old Guard AU

The seductive edge of Evil

Candles

Kiss me with your eyes, marry me with your heart, love me with your spirit, promise we'll never part

"I don´t care how long it takes"

Shopping mall employees AU

"I had to at least try, didn't I?"

"I promise"

"You're free now. Walk toward the light... wait, why are you walking toward ME?"

“Is that a dragon!?”

90s sitcom AU

"Let me show you."

“Let me bandage you up.”

Person A goes to a book signing for Person B's book. Person B is shocked to see the person they've been secretly crushing on from their coffee-shop writing corner is a fan of their work.

Trust kink in a sexual setting

Scar

Mitchell teaches a 9am class at a local university. He always wears the same thing - black pants, black shoes, and a long sleeve black shirt - and his hair is always perfect. Except for today. Today he’s wearing a dark grey shirt with short sleeves, revealing black tattoos, no belt, and his hair is slightly mussed.

The concept of Soulmates, but with an unusual twist

Story in the form of a recipe

Western au

Person A is the new hire at Person B's place of employment.

Epistolary

Sex in someone else's bed

The most beautiful

Where do the lost socks go?

Hate sex

"I thought you were dead!!!"

Let's get married

"I never thought you'd really do that"

All hurt, no comfort

Use of a rubber chicken

The night before the battle

“Guard this with your life.”

“Hey, I’m a DoorDash driver and you order an obscene amount of food for delivery. Are you okay?”

Person A keeps having prophetic dreams about person B (meaning, person A sees something happening to/around person B in their dreams and then it happens in real life. Repeatedly.)

Brothers are annoying

The Proposal (2009) AU

Ancient Egypt setting

Hair porn

There's no better love.

Ozurie - feeling torn between the life you want and the life you have.

Shipwrecked on a deserted island

“Don’t worry; I’ll have you back to normal in no time!”

#WinterFRE2022 #Fili/Kili #FiKi #Durincest #the Hobbit #Mitchers #Britchell #DarkHawk

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goodomensblog · 5 years

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Parched

This one is for lovely Emily! ( @sunshineandchemistry )

Happy Birthday you beautiful effervescent pineapple! I hope you are having the BEST birthday aaaand I hope that a little bit of ineffable husbands kissing will make it all the better.

Parched

Seventeen days, twenty hours and eleven minutes after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, an angel and demon, following a luxurious dinner at Le Gavroche, stroll along a crowded London promenade, their hands intertwined.

For Crowley, strolling with the sunset sky bleeding pastel and their interlocked hands swinging between them, it is impossible to conceal the bounce in his step - nor does he try. And it is only his dark glasses, perched diligently on the bridge of his nose, that stand between his pleasure-creased gaze and outright discovery.

As they arrive back at Crowley’s apartment, the demon holds open the door. Once inside, Crowley shrugs out of his jacket and then helps Aziraphale with his coat. As the angel settles, Crowley procures a bottle of wine, and it really is shaping up to be an excellent evening when -

“Crowley, my dear. You never told me you had a collection of poetry!”

Crowley’s arm snaps back, and he forcefully wrenches the cork free of the bottle. It bounces across his immaculate kitchen.

Aziraphale is kneeling in front of the exposed stash of poetry, and with his hands braced on his knees and his lips pursed in interest, he appears positively delighted by the discovery.

Crowley, is decidedly less so.

Because Crowley, owner of said poetry, failed to properly conceal the cache of contraband verses within their designated cupboard prior to Aziraphale’s arrival; and so, at the sight of Aziraphale kneeling in front of his very best kept secret, Crowley pours himself a brimming glass of wine.

It’s not that he’s ashamed of the poetry collection. They are quality works. He is of course, a demon of impeccable taste.

But he does have a certain image to maintain.

Sure, he’s not technically speaking, working for Hell these days. But he is a demon, and they generally don’t go around waxing poetic.

And they especially do not collect The Art of Pining: 101 Love Poems by Pablo Neruda.

Taking a deep swig of wine, Crowley props his hip against the counter and slouches into a rather elaborate shrug.

“They’re, er, not mine.”

Aziraphale pauses in brushing his fingers over aged spines. Arching a brow, the angel conveys, without using a single word, that he believes Crowley to be rather full of shit.

“I mean,” Crowley starts, stammering, “I uh, stole them?”

“From whom?”

“I - er, a sweet old lady. Was a dastardly business, angel.”

“Honestly, dear.”

“Fine. I didn’t steal them. But I didn’t go out collecting them either! They were gifts angel. You of all people should know it’s rude to refuse a gift.”

Crowley is prepared to go on - about how he had sent the thank you notes weeks later than was polite - but Aziraphale is no longer listening. He’s already turned back to the shelf and is, once more, running reverent fingers over knobbly spines. Plucking one from the shelf, he flips through the pages. It’s a Shakespeare.

Swallowing the rest of his wine, Crowley miracles the glass full and stalks around to the bookshelf.

The collection is comprised largely of gifts. They had been sent in thanks for the sizable donations made in support of the various poets. Despite its reputation, Crowley had always thought poetry, at heart, to be an incredibly demonic endeavor. Yeah, sure, it’s beautiful, but there’s no rule that says demonic traits can’t be beautiful. And besides, some poetry is so beautiful, the writing and reading of it has been known to stir up all kinds of impulses. Not all of them good. Just ask Byron.

Crowley decides that he is going to tell Aziraphale exactly this, when the unimaginable happens.

The angel is pulling an aged collection of T.S. Elliot’s poetry from the shelf, when a single leaf of paper slips from the pages, flips once, and flutters down, onto his lap.

The tea-yellow page is vaguely familiar, and taking a fortifying sip of wine, Crowley bends, peering over Aziraphale’s shoulder.

As Aziraphale’s curious fingers unfold the page, the memory of precisely what the page is strikes Crowley with all the force of a freight train fueled by Hellfire.

A half empty bottle of wine lingers, forgotten on his desk. Wrinkled papers crowd the surface, and ink spots sprinkle polished wood. Amidst it all, Crowley sits, hair mussed and tongue pressing between his lips as he glares down at ink smeared words. It is 1863 and the last time he’d seen Aziraphale, it had been at St. James’ Park. They’d argued. Thunder clouds had gathered on the horizon and it smelled of rain, but even so, the sun had played about Aziraphale’s hair, catching the blue in his eyes - and so Crowley scribbles on the page, because if Shakespeare and Dickinson and Byron could do it, surely he can; because he feels too bloody much and it hurts because Aziraphale is gone and not talking to him, and Crowley loves, he loves-

Crowley glimpses smeared ink, and knows with a sudden, intense clarity, exactly the manner of writing the angel will discover on that page.

Red wine pours, like a waterfall, from the glass dangling loose in Crowley’s grasp.

Yelping, Aziraphale scrambles back, barely avoiding the splatter of red.

Glancing incredulously between Crowley and the pooling wine, Aziraphale purses his lips, and with a curt gesture, miracles the spreading puddle back into the bottle.

“Really, Crowley. Sober up a bit, darling. You’re making a mess.”

“M’not drunk.”

For the second time that evening, Aziraphale treats him to the look.

“Really, I was just, uh,” Crowley sets the empty glass aside and folds his arms, attempting to look as though he’s not seconds away from discorporating from sheer mortification. “What’ve you got there? Can I have it?”

Aziraphale looks from the innocuously folded page to Crowley, and then back to the page. Curiosity is settling into the angel’s bright blue gaze, and Crowley's stomach turns over.

“...what is it?”

“Nothing. Just old stuff. Trash, basically. Might as well get rid of it,” Crowley says, and presses thumb and middle finger together to banish the humiliating creation for good.

Aziraphale is faster.

With a single blink, Aziraphale and the paper wink out of existence. They reappear on the other side of the room. Aziraphale is seated in Crowley’s overlarge desk chair and the paper is open on the desk. With a snap, the angel’s reading glasses materialize on his face, and when he glances down, his eyes go wide and bright.

“I had no idea you wrote, Crowley!”

Crowley is across the room before Aziraphale can so much as take a second glance at the page. He slaps a hand over the paper.

As if drawn by the movement, Aziraphale’s eyes flick down, and they are automatically tracing the first line -

“Aziraphale, stop!”

It comes out choked, and there is no concealing the raw edge of panic in his tone.

Aziraphale jerks back, retracting his hand as if burned.

Snatching up the page, Crowley clutches it, pressing it to his chest. And the room sinks into a heavy, uncomfortable silence.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says at last, gently breaking the quiet.

Crowley can feel the angel studying him, taking in his tense shoulders, pale countenance, and white-knuckled hands clutching at the paper.

“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale murmurs, guilt heavy in his voice, “I didn’t mean - oh, I shouldn’t have. It’s yours. And it’s clearly private. I hardly saw anything, I promise. And I won’t attempt to read any further.”

And then Aziraphale is rising from the chair, circling the desk. Crowley blinks and careful hands are brushing up his arms. Relaxing at the touch is as simple as breathing; dipping his head, Crowley leans into it.

The apocalypse has come and gone. They survived it. And then survived the wrath of both Heaven and Hell which came immediately after. And now, against all odds - in a twist of fate Crowley hadn’t dared to dream of, he and Aziraphale have a life together. A life where touches like this are allowed.

And with Aziraphale there, knuckles gently tracing the backs of Crowley’s hands as whispered apologies and assurances blend together into a single soothing murmur, Crowley comes to the abrupt and startling realization that he is acting like a twat.

“Forgive me,” Aziraphale says, soft fingers brushing over Crowley’s clenched hands.

Crowley’s fists unclench, and Aziraphale’s fingers immediately tangle with his own.

“Nothing to forgive, angel,” Crowley replies, running fumbling thumbs over the backs of Aziraphale’s hands.

And he is being foolish, because this is Aziraphale. They shared bodies for someone’s sake. After all that, sharing a bit of poetry should be a simple thing.

“It’s, ah, it’s okay,” Crowley finally manages. “Just - let me read it to you, yeah? A bit easier for me that way.”

Aziraphale pulls back, his concerned gaze tracing Crowley’s expression.

“Really, you don’t have to do anything you don’t-”

“I want to,” Crowley interrupts. Against his chest, the paper feels warm - and he has to glance to check he hasn’t accidentally set it ablaze. “Just...take a seat?”

Aziraphale does. Folding his hands in his lap, he perches in Crowley’s high-backed chair.

Swallowing once, Crowley glances over the paper. How many times has he imagined reading this very page to Aziraphale? Of course, in his fantasies, they both wore gilded doublets and elegant ruffs - and Crowley often pictured himself delivering the poetry in a verdant, flowering garden, with Aziraphale listening, enraptured, from a moonlit balcony above.

But this works too.

Rubbing his uncomfortably moist palms on his pants, Crowley grimaces, glancing up.

“Dear, if this is too stressful-”

“It’s fine, just - the poem - it’s, um, about you.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, and leans back, cheeks pink.

Smoothing the abused paper, Crowley takes a fortifying look at Aziraphale, and begins.

“I dreamt, once,” he starts, and hesitates, shifting his weight between his feet. He can feel his heartbeat - which, physiologically speaking, he doesn’t strictly need - a staccato rhythm against his ribs.

A glance up -

Aziraphale waits, hands folded in his lap. His lips curve in a gentle, patient smile.

It’s just a poem, Crowley reasons. And besides, with Aziraphale right here, looking at him - smiling - it is ridiculous to be afraid.

Clearing his throat, he begins again.

“I dreamt, once

I was earth - summer dry,

Parched

And you, my heart,

An afternoon storm.”

Golden eyes flick up. A nervous tongue brushes dry lips.

“Lush drops,

Cut summer soft air

Striking earth

As I shed dust and drank in

Your every inch.

And if you were the gale,

I was the grass

Shivering

As I waited

Wanting.”

Crowley can feel Azirphale’s gaze, a prickling pressure, but he won’t look up from the page. If he stops, he fears he may not have enough courage to again start.

“And you, darling,

Rent the very air

Electric

Engulfing earth,

Me,

Everything

Everything.

Alone,

I woke

In a bed too large

With thunder groaning

And rain

Pattering on the window

Soft as you.”

He finishes, his voice little more than a croak.

Aziraphale rises from the chair.

Lowering the poem, Crowley presses his lips together, and nods once, looking at the floor. “It wasn’t much, I know. Not really much of a poet-”

Aziraphale interrupts him with a kiss.

“Hush,” Aziraphale says, kissing the frown from his lips. “It was lovely. You are lovely, my dear.”

Laid bare before the angel, Crowley feels reduced to his origins - a scattered constellation of fractured, burning lights. And yet, here, in Aziraphale’s warm, gentle arms, he is pulled together; made whole.

When Aziraphale’s hands rise to cup Crowley’s face, the poem slips through his fingers. As they kiss, Crowley shifts a hand to Aziraphale’s back; and when he carefully presses Aziraphale against the desk, he makes sure his hand is between the hard edge and Aziraphale’s back.

Crowley kisses the corner of his mouth, the edge of his jaw, and then a slow, lingering path down the angel’s neck.

“You do remember that we confessed to, ah, a rather mutual love in the days following the whole Tadfield business. You really needn’t be embarrassed by - ah, um, a bit of poetry, dear.”

Bending, Crowley presses his face into the curve between Aziraphale’s shoulder and neck and admits, “...wrote it after that day in St. James’ Park. You know, the fight. Hadn’t seen you in quite a while and I,” he heaves a breath, “really missed you.”

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale says, voice soft as a caress. And then fingers are stroking up Crowley’s neck, brushing soothing trails through his hair. “You weren’t the only one who spent a good few decades pining away.”

Sighing against Aziraphale’s skin, Crowley parts his lips and presses a delicate kiss against the freckles nestled in curve of his neck. “Worked out in the end, at least.”

“I daresay it did. And I learned you are quite the poet.”

Crowley presses a hand up over Aziraphale’s mouth. “Shh..”

Aziraphale chuckles and brushes feather-soft kisses against his fingers. “As I said before, dear - it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Retracing his way back up Aziraphale’s neck, Crowley mutters, “I’m a demon. Demons don’t wax poetic.”

“Oh they most certainly do. Have you ever listened to yourself speak?”

“Angel,” Crowley murmurs, kissing a path from Aziraphale’s jaw to his softly parted lips.

“Just, ah -”

Crowley hesitates, fingers stroking over Aziraphale’s waist.

“I’d like to hear it. Again,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley’s eyes flick up.

“Your poem.”

As Aziraphale reaches for the dropped page, Crowley grasps his hand. Massaging circles into his angel’s palm, Crowley brushes his lips over Aziraphale’s cheek.

“I dreamt, once, I was earth. Parched...”

- - - - - - - - -

I am NOT a poet and probably severely overextended my writing abilities attempting to create the poem for this. I sincerely hope it is not embarrassingly bad, and if it is - maybe all of the kissing made up for it? :D

#my writing #sunshineandchemistry #good omens fic #good omens fanfiction #good omens fanfic #ineffable husbands #otp: ineffable #ineffable partners #ineffable husbands fanfic #ineffable husbands fic #ineffable husbands fanfiction #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #EMILY THIS WAS INSPIRED BY OUR POETRY TALK AND I HOPE YOU LIKE IT

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peeterparkr · 5 years

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limits of desire⤳t.h.||7

chapter 7: hire vendors

story summary: you met Tom a night he was trying to sleep with you, it didn’t work and you became best of friends. Wedding bells might be ringing for when you both realize what you really feel.

summary:the one when someone gets on one knee

pairing: fuckboy!tom holland x best friend!reader

warnings: swearing,alcohol mention, didn’t proof read, poetry, miguel, lizzie

word count: 5.9k

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When Tom, at last, knew the answer, y/n had a different question. Maybe it had taken him too long. But it wasn’t like he hadn’t hinted it. But they belonged together. Didn’t they?

But 6 months was a long time, and time knew no mercy. But it didn’t make any sense. All was lost. He had lost the battles, the war. It had been his mistake, he didn’t choose whom he was supposed to choose. She was, after all, the one who chose him before anything and everything.

And who was this y/n? He had changed her. She was there reciting poetry, not like she had never recited poetry. But it was different. Talking about Borges, Cortazar and Neruda. Like she could only speak in poetry to Miguel.

“Surprise!” The people yelled as soon as Tom, Y/N, and Miguel had stepped into Tom and Harrison’s place. The ride hadn’t been pleasant either. She had driven, claiming Tom had drunk a little too much. Miguel was copilot, and had been kissing her hand and pointing everywhere. With that silly accent of his.

Just to add more to Tom’s hell of a night, he had forgotten about the surprise welcome party he had planned for y/n. Of course, this wasn’t how he had pictured arriving. If it were for him, he’d already had his arm around her, placing kisses on her cheek and neck, just finally enjoying her presence. Probably triumphantly, maybe even announcing they were finally a couple.

However that dream wasn’t even near happening, instead, he was watching Miguel’s perfect hand posing on y/n’s shoulder, delicately as she hugged him with fake surprise, as their friends were running over to her.

Her hand was on Miguel’s chest, showing off the big engagement ring embracing her finger and her smile was the brightest. Her nose was slightly red, and even freckled. And the cold from London was accentuating her blushing cheeks. She looked perfect. How dare she even look that way. Now that Tom couldn’t have her.

Harrison widened his eyes and frowned as he looked at her and Miguel, he raised an eyebrow at Tom, who was tipsy enough already but just gave him a shrug. Harry, Sam, and Tuwaine were as confused. Tom wanted to hit his head against the wall, repeatedly.

Lizzie, Hannah, and Jess jumped over to y/n and screamed. Some other friends approached her to meet with her, while she introduced them to Miguel. Miguel was incredibly and annoyingly handsome and nice with everyone.

So y/n continued to say hello to her friends and to enjoy the party. Between her and Miguel they were stealing all the spotlight, making everyone laugh with their adventures.

Tom left the party to go to his room, he needed to process it. From one day to another she was engaged. Y/N was engaged. The woman he was deeply in love with was engaged with another man. He went straight to his bathroom to wash his face. He just couldn’t believe it. He stared at his reflection as if trying to come up with an answer, trying to wake up; he pinched himself trying to get out of this terrible nightmare. He then dug his pocket and took out the small blue box.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, as he sat down. He didn’t even want to open it. Why had he bought it?

A knock was heard on the door, Tom quickly shoved the blue box into his drawer. The door opened to reveal a very confused Harrison.

“Who the hell is that?” Asked Harrison, with a frown.7

Tom didn’t answer.

“Man! I thought that you were supposed to arrive with her bridal style or whatever, what the hell happened?”

“Miguel happened.” Tom pinched the bridge of his nose as he was getting a very unpleasant headache.

“Who the hell is he?” Harrison asked.

“A jerk.”

Harrison rolled his eyes. “Is he her boyfriend?”

“Worse,” Tom answered as he walked past his friend making his way back to the party, to which his surprise hadn’t yet finished, and was perfectly real. No nightmare was gone. That idiot was still there. So, of course, that Miguel guy was still there.

Harrison followed him.

“Is he the guy from her Instagram?” Haz asked him.

“Uh-huh,” Tom said as he picked up a beer. He stared at y/n, her laugh was filling the room, music to Tom’s ears. He wanted to kiss her. Miguel was doing that for him.

Tom rolled his eyes and turned around.

“Weren’t they supposed to break up?” Haz asked.

Tom turned to his friend, took a sip of his beer and then flipped him off.

“Tom!” Haz rolled his eyes. “I’m not the enemy here.”

Tom frowned as they both watched Miguel. He was talking with Tom’s brothers.

The twins were looking up at the handsome tanned man with them, he was speaking excitedly, and trying to make the best impression. But the twins were more focused on trying to understand the situation. Tom just shrugged at them,

y/n suddenly stopped the music. “Hey, everyone, may I have your attention please?” She grinned as everyone stopped and glanced over at her. “I thank everyone for coming, seriously, I missed all you so much, and Tom, thanks for organizing this,” she smiled at him.

Tom smiled back but then watched as Miguel walked over to y/n, wrapping his arm around her waist. Miguel smiled at Tom as well. Tom’s smile was erased and exchanged for a frown.

“Anyway, well, I’ve got some news,” y/n continued. “Well, and since I have all of you here, I might as well take the chance…. So, you all met Miguel, right here, you’ve probably seen him on my insta, too,” Y/N grinned at him and kissed his cheek. “Miguel and I met back in Mexico.”

“We sure did,” Miguel added kissing the top of her head. Tom rolled his eyes.

“Well, and long story short,” y/n said and lifted her hand to show her ring. “We’re engaged! We’re getting married next month in Mexico! And you are all invited!”

Harrison, Tuwaine and the twins all stopped looking at y/n and turned their attention to Tom, who seemed to be emotionless.

Tom was feeling the worst he had ever felt. The world was spinning around him, and all the voices were clear. Her words were echoing through his head, and he just stared at them as she kept rambling and as her friends approached to congratulate her.

Lizzie approached Tom, and Tom tried to escape but Lizzie laughed.

“Tommy!” She chirped.

Tom rolled his eyes as he kept walking. She followed after.

“Oh, you’re not hitting on me, huh? I’m sorry am I breaking any rule?” Lizzie chirped, crossing her arms above her chest.

“The rule of basic social human interaction, yes,” Tom snapped, rolling his eyes.

Lizzie grinned. “Seems like I don’t have to be her shield tonight.”

“I’m sorry?” Tom questioned.

“I’m glad Y/N got to her senses,” Lizzie commented.

Tom scowled. “To her senses?”

Lizzie laughed. “Please, she won’t be mourning any more, y/n was blinded before she left.”

Tom scowled. “What do you mean?”

“You won’t play with her anymore, Tom, she deserves better,” Lizzie said. “We both know that.”

“I never played with her,” Tom defended herself.

“Not the same way as you played with me, no, but you gave her hope, like just before she left,” Lizzie accused. “Yeah, I know what happened, perks of being her female best friend.”

“And what exactly did she tell you?” Tom inquired as Y/N and Miguel shared a kiss. Tom rolled his eyes.

“Ah, nothing just that you shared a moment and you backed away,” Lizzie shrugged, Hannah and Jess joined them. “But hey! Now you don’t have to worry about her trying to make a move! Look at the hunk she got.”

“He’s not that good looking,” Tom faked a laugh.

“Are you kidding?” Hannah giggled. “He’s my definition of Prince Charming!”

“I got damned lost in his eyes,” Jess sighed with a smile. “He’s got the whole deal. It’s like Chris Hemsworth and Zac Efron had a baby!”

The three friends started to adore him as if he was an actual god. Tom couldn’t stay there so eventually he walked out, to enjoy his beer all on his own. He couldn’t stand seeing her closely because Miguel was around her. So he stared at her from the outside sitting down on that old table he had outside, seeing her oh so radiant and so happy. With that jerk.

Harry, Sam, Tuwaine, and Harrison joined him.

“Hey man,” Harry greeted him.

Tom looked up. “Don’t even dare to say I told you so, I know it was too late.”

Harry sighed as he sat in front of him. “How are you feeling?”

“I want to punch him in his perfect teeth,” Tom admitted, drinking from his beer. “He is an asshole.”

Sam shook his head. “He is actually quite nice.”

Tom scowled.

“He made me feel bad about myself,” Sam explained. “Dude’s a fucking greek god.”

“He’s not-”

“Woah,” Harrison laughed. “I guess he’s not saying-look, I know we don’t like him, but he doesn’t seem like a bad guy, and okay, yes, gotta admit it took me by surprise.”

“How are you feeling?” Tuwaine asked.

Tom scowled. “I…How am I supposed to know it? How the fuck am I supposed to react? Engaged!” Tom said with disgust. “Want to know what’s the worst?”

“What?” Asked Tuwaine.

“She asked me to be her maid of honour.”

The four of them burst out in laughter. Tom growled and rolled his eyes.

“You’re the-no!” Harrison was red from laughing, he was holding his stomach and throwing his head back.

“You’ll look so pretty in a pink dress!” Sam joked laughing.

“Guys! Cmon, cmon,” Tuwaine tried to stop them in between fainted giggles. “We all know Tom’s colour isn’t pink!”

Tom crossed his arms. “Ha-ha.” He kept watching y/n, while his brothers and friends kept laughing. “You done now?” Asked Tom. “I need to solve this.”

“Tom, it took you a lot to realize your feelings,” Harry said wiping a tear off. “Okay, no, no, don’t make that face Tommy boy,” Harry kept teasing. “Look, okay, I just… wow, karma is a bitch, ain’t it Tom?”

“Well, did you say yes?” Asked Tuwaine.

“I said I would… think about it, because honestly? I can’t be able to see her marry that idiot, look at him! He is awful! And she looks at him as if he can shit unicorns.”

They turned to face him, and just on cue, he was smiling with his bright white teeth, staring at her. His brown, slightly curled hair as his beard made him look extremely handsome. And just as the latino was laughing, the four friends realized, the guy was just perfect. Made by hand, even.

“Uh, okay, okay,” Haz tried to calm down Tom. “Look, uh, she is not... that in Love…” and then again, just in time, they watched y/n look at Miguel, her gaze was completely lost in his eyes, she was mesmerized by her fiancé. “Hey, uh, why don’t you… try to make a move on her? We can get rid of him, you make your moves…”

“Yeah, try and seduce her, as you do with everyone else!” Tuwaine tried to encourage Tom.

“That didn’t work four years ago,” Sam commented.

“Buuuut she basically told him she had feelings for him when she left!” Harry pointed out.

“Okay, let's make it this way, you can just flirt with her a little, make your magic and boom, you’ll have her tonight.” Sam agreed.

“It’s not like that, I want to prove to her I’ve changed,” Tom defended himself.

“Then you will have to say yes,” Harrison answered.

“You’re saying he needs to be a maid of honour? Pink dress and everything?” Sam laughed, joined by the perky giggles of his twin brother and friend. Haz rolled his eyes.

“I’m saying this would give you the perfect excuse to be all around her, all day, help her with everything, and make her realize it’s not him who she wants,” Haz explained.

“Yes! Be her confidant!” Harry added. “And point out to her that she’s doing some crazy shit.”

“I don’t even wanna help her plan this wedding, it just… no,” Tom frowned. “I can’t be able to plan her wedding unless she was marrying me.”

“Okay, if she’s marrying in a month, in Mexico that means she is leaving man,” Tuwaine pointed out. “Might be easier to stop a wedding from the inside than from another continent.”

“You need to do whatever it takes,” Sam added.

“All is fair in love and war,” Harry sang.

“Now shush, she’s coming,” Haz said.

Y/N walked out. “What are you all doing here?” She asked them, she ruffled Tom’s hair. “Why aren’t you hitting with one of my friends?”

Tom stayed quiet. “Because…I’ve changed.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow and then laughed. “Sure, Tom,” she rolled her eyes. “So, what are you doing here? It’s cold…”

“We wanted some fresh air,” Harrison said. “So, you’re gonna get hitched, Y/L/N?”

“I sure am, Osterfield,” y/n answered.

“Where is Mr Perfect from again?” Tuwaine asked.

“He’s Mexican,” y/n nodded. “And about that, I have to settle some things tomorrow, and I was wondering if you guys could hang out with him.”

Tom shook his head. “No way.”

Harrison kicked him. “Sure.”

Tom glared at Haz.

“Tommy?”

He glanced over at her, she was confused.

“You’re mad cause I didn’t tell you I was seeing someone, huh,” she said.

“Uh, Sam, Harry, T, hey, join me inside… there’s yes,” Haz said as the boys followed after.

Y/N chuckled as she sat across Tom. He looked away from her gaze.

“Tom.”

Tom couldn’t look at her.

“Tom,” she repeated.

Tom looked at her. “Y/N.”

“You’re mad,” she said, reaching over for his hand.

He blushed and coughed. “How couldn’t you tell me?” Tom asked her. “I’m…”

“It was unexpected Tom,” Y/N said.

Tom sighed. “He seems nice,” Tom commented with poison, but a part of him meant it and that was the worst part. “So, are you staying tonight?”

Y/N chuckled. “No, told you I have a room at the hotel, with him.”

Tom took a sip of his beer. “Right.”

“Tommy I really want you to be my maid of honour.”

“How would that even work?” Tom asked her. “I mean, I don’t even know what they do.”

Y/N reached over for his hand again, Tom’s heart jolted. “I know it sounds silly, but usually the maid of honour helps the bride by planning the bridal shower, and they help the bride all along the way because they can calm her, look you don’t have to be called my maid of honour, it can be… like my sidekick.”

Tom scoffed as he looked away.

“There’s no one in this world who knows me like you do,” y/n explained. “I just want someone to help me get my dream wedding.”

“What about your future?” Tom asked her.

“What about it? For the first time in my life, I’m… spontaneous! Just like you are.”

Tom shook his head. “You see y/n I didn’t mean to marry a stranger.”

“He is a stranger to you, but when I met him it was as if we had known each other since we were kids,” y/n defended herself. “And he makes me happy, I just… know we are meant to be, he is just perfect for me.”

Tom felt his heartbreaking apart, shattered into tiny pieces as he was hearing.

“So the wedding… next month?” Tom Asked.

“Yes… so I’m… just buying my dress here and then I’m off to Mexico to see the rest.”

Tom bit his lip as he took a deep breath. “When?”

“In two weeks,” Y/N answered.

“So you’re gonna spend Christmas there?” Tom frowned as he started to peel off the paper from his beer.

“You can come, I mean if you’re my sidekick...” she offered. Tom looked up at her. “Please?” begged Y/N.

“y/n, I don’t know…” Tom gulped.

“Oh, so you’re gonna make me do this?” She chuckled and got on one knee. “Thomas, will you be my maid of honour?”

Tom sighed as he rolled his eyes. “Alright.”

She chirped and jumped over to hug him.

Oh, what was Tom getting into?

—

Y/N had dropped Miguel at Tom and Haz’ place early in the morning, of course leaving him after having a small makeout session in her car. Tom had clenched his jaw trying to ignore it.

“Hey!” Miguel greeted them. “No puedo (I can’t), I can’t believe it, Man, I’m hanging out with Spider-Man.”

Tom felt his pride pushing him up, as he smirked, coming up with an idea to make the man regret he was trying to compete with Tom. Of course, Miguel didn’t even know it was a competition because it certainly wasn’t, but Tom wanted him to regret it. Tom was going to win.

“Sure,” Tom laughed as he made him walk in. “I’m Spider-Man.”

“So how did you meet y/n?” Miguel Asked. “She told me it was at a Halloween party.”

Tom nodded, as Harrison joined them. They both had a plan to know what exactly we’re his flaws and where and how they would take him down.

“Yes,” Tom agreed. “I was trynna sleep with her.”

“Tom Holland, the Spider-Man,” Harrison added getting to Tom’s game.

“And she rejected you,” Miguel added. Tom and Haz paused and stared at each other.

“Yeah, but I’m glad, we are the best of friends,” Tom said after he cleared his throat. “So, uh, Miguel, we usually go to the gym and train a little, hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, need to go to the gym, too,” Miguel answered.

Sooner or later the three of them were at the gym, Tom and Harrison realized that Mr Perfect was even more than perfect. He was boxing as well, and he trained at the gym as well.

Tom had borrowed him a shirt, and he didn’t know why or how but it looked better on Miguel. As if Miguel was made for that shirt.

But Tom and Haz had another plan to destroy him while gathering information about him.

He was 27 and had studied at Harvard. Mr. Perfect had plans to continue studying and they included y/n. He was a singer and had graduated with honours. He also spoke 4 languages fluently. He played the piano and the guitar. Of course, Tom only thought the only thing he didn’t know how to do, Tom guessed, was how to fly.

He was perfect. And Tom and Harrison were watching him as he was boxing, sure, he wasn’t as skilled at Tom, but hell, he looked good while doing it. Quick learner he was.

“This is gonna be tough,” Harrison commented, as they walked to the locker room. “He’s gonna be more competition than you thought.”

Tom glared at his friend. “I know her better than him.” Miguel was taking off his shirt, and walking to the shower just to reveal just a perfectly tanned and sweaty body. Tom scoffed. “And… I mean, I’m pretty ripped too.”

Tom leaned against his locker, as his coach approached them.

“Hey, Tom, who’s that guy?” Patrick asked. “Man’s got skills.”

Tom bumped his head against his locker rolling his eyes, before turning to Pat. “He’s y/N’s fiancé.”

“Oh, y/n as in… y/n? but weren’t you….?” He pointed at Tom confused.

“Yep, y/n as in the woman who has Tom drooling,” Haz laughed. Patrick blew his cheeks and shook his head.

“You’ve got it bad, then, that boys got mad cows disease,” Patrick commented. Tom lost it.

“What?”Tom Asked.

“You know what I mean,Y/N is having fun” Patrick shrugged, Tom bumped his head into the locker repeatedly. “I mean, sorry, sorry.”

“Guy’s a damn Greek god,” Harrison admitted.

“Look, I’ll… just,” Tom rolled his eyes. “I mean, I know her. I’ll just.”

“He must have some dirt on him,” Patrick pointed out. “Hire a P.I., I know a guy, everybody's got skeletons in the closet. Nobody is skweeky-clean, he can find something on him.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “That sounds cheap.”

“I’ll charge you double,” Patrick laughed.

Tom faked laugh. “I meant it’s a cheap thing to do.”

“He play's cheep, you gotta match that,” Patrick pointed out.

Tom laughed. “How does he play cheap?”

Haz nodded. “That whole thing with y/n, being latino. Making her fall in love with him in Mexico.”

“That "monster thing" of his,” Pointed out Patrick.

Tom frowned. “Fine. Get the dirt.”

Miguel had walked back in, towel around his waist. Tom was slightly jealous of the tan the guy carried. Big sculptured body.

“Hey,” he greeted them, showing his ad-material smile. Tom coughed. “Hey, oh, y/n told me, you’re having lunch with her, right? And with the rest of the bridesmaids.”

“Shoot,” Tom cursed and nodded. “Right, So… you’ll be stuck with Harrison.”

“He’ll be stuck with who?” Asked Haz. Miguel laughed. “Right, guess I’ll show you around London…”

Y/N was waiting for her friends anxiously at Lantana Cafe Shoreditch, she was drinking from her hot coffee as she tapped her foot. Her life was about to change in just a month, and she needed them to give her all the strength she needed. The last six months had been the best for her, it had helped her get her mind off Tom. She was over him, of course.

Or that’s what she had thought, at least. The moment she had seen him with flowers at the airport, her world had slapped her back into reality. But said feelings had been completely erased the moment she had seen Miguel. Miguel was everything she wanted, and Miguel was everything she needed.

He was a good guy, perfect in every way. And she had said yes.

She stared down at the ring, Tiffany’s. It was funny since he had proposed without one. But when she had said yes, he had called his mother and gotten her a ring. It was beautiful. Miguel was her dream come true. Or she tried to convince herself. Her mother had first questioned her, but when she had met Miguel the day before, every question was forgotten. Everybody had congratulated y/n, especially her girlfriends who described him as the perfect catch. He was handsome, intelligent, and he had money. Not that that mattered, but her friends had been kind to point it out.

But she still knew that she was still stuck somewhere else. But she had convinced herself that she couldn’t think about it anymore. Being in love with Tom had been so hard, all those years. They belonged to different worlds, and sometimes it was too present. And y/n knew how hard it would be to be around him if they were to ever date. As if they would’ve dated. He didn’t love her.

y/n needed to sort everything out before leaving to Mexico, because of course, she hadn’t told anybody, but these were her last weeks in London. She was going to move, say goodbye to her precious life.

To everyone. Because otherwise she’d be attached to hope.Hope which, had arrived first.

Tom arrived first, all washed up with that black leather jacket he liked to wear. He had a flower again, a single sunflower, and he was taking off his helmet, making y/n warm up. She stood up and hugged him while he kissed her cheek.

“Oh my god, thanks for coming,” she said, as Tom chuckled and handed her the flower. “Thanks, Tommy, you’re an angel….Oh, where is Miguel-?”

“Stayed with Haz, he was going to show him around,” Tom answered coldly.

“So. thoughts?” Y/N asked as the waitress walked over. “Ah, he’ll have tea with cream.”

Tom chuckled as he shrugged. “Yeah, I’ll have that,” he smiled at the waitress who bashfully winked at him. Tom ignored the wink and turned back to y/n, who frowned.

“Wow, you really did change,” she pointed out, and Tom shrugged.

“So, Mr. Perfect, huh?” Tom said, changing the subject. “Is there anything he can’t do?”

Y/N stayed quiet, rolling her eyes. “Well, he is indeed perfect,” she gave in. “No, but really, what did you think? Be honest, Tom, that’s what you do best.”

“Does it matter? I mean, I’ve always talked about your boyfriends, but now you’re getting married, what’s the point?-”Tom gulped.

“Tommy,” y/n laughed.

“Don’t get married,” Tom said seriously looking into her eyes.

Y/N felt her heart sink and blinked watching him. He meant it, he was serious.

“What?” Y/N asked, and stared deep into his eyes, he reached over for her hands.

“Don’t get married.” He repeated.

“Why?” Y/N stared down at his lips, and at their holding hands.

“You don’t even know the guy!” Tom insisted.

“I need a real reason,” y/n cleared, frowning. “I’m in love with him.”

“You just met the guy!” Tom reminded her.

“So? Time knowing someone doesn’t mean a thing, I mean, I’ve known Lizzie for 15 years now, yet she is not my best friend, you are! Love is timeless,” Y/N defended herself. “That’s no reason, I will marry him.”

“You’re asking me for reasons and I’m giving them, you’re just giving comebacks,” Tom snapped.

“If I can have a comeback then it isn’t a good reason,” Y/N declared. “Give me a real reason, one which I can’t give an excuse for. Is he a bad guy?”Tom stayed quiet staring into her eyes as if he was trying to say something but words wouldn't come out. Y/N leaned over. “I need a reason, be honest Tom.”

Tom gulped and closed his eyes as he looked down, avoiding her gaze. He couldn’t speak.

There were 3 words, they could be transformed into 6 even, that could stop the wedding. Y/N was perfectly aware that if Tom dared to say those words, if he felt them, she would stop the wedding.

“I know you don’t believe in weddings Tom,” she murmured.

“Maybe I do,” Tom said.

She looked at him. “Then, I ask you again, why shouldn’t I marry him?”

“I…” Tom murmured, and he looked up at her. “Does he make you happy?”

“Very much so,” y/n confirmed but stared into him, begging him to say those words.

“Then I’m happy if you’re happy,” Tom finally conceited.

Y/N sat back and crossed her arms over her chest, not believing what was happening, really disappointed. But Tom was honest, so y/n knew that this whole thing was stupid. She was marrying Miguel, Miguel loved her and she loved him.

“How did you fall for him?” Tom asked. “How does he make you feel?”

“I don’t quite understand it, I wouldn’t know how to explain it, seems like I knew more about love when I didn’t have it,” y/n said. “It was an accident.”

“Two souls don’t find each other by accident,” Tom said.

“That’s from Borges,” y/n pointed out. She blinked.

“Yeah, I read his works, I also read Pablo Neruda,” Tom commented. “Well, now, if little by little you stop loving me, I shall stop loving you, little by little, if suddenly you forget me, do not look for me…”

“For I shall already have forgotten you,” y/n finished. “That’s actually the poem that got me into him.”

Tom grinned. “Really? Funny, that’s the first one I read last night, I read it and ended up all night reading his works.”

“I…” Y/N had to clear her throat. “Yeah, I shielded myself in poetry.”

“I guess I have to, as well,” Tom gulped. “ I want you to know, one thing,” he started reciting again. “You know how this is: if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you.”

y/n just stared at him, mesmerized. Feeling her skin warming up but cold at the same time. As if he knew how she had felt when she had found that poem. Because that particular poem was for him. Because she had found poetry that was speaking to her broken heart.

Poetry that had healed her and made her fall in love with Miguel. But now the same poetry that had healed her, was ripping her apart. She had to stop.

She cleared her throat. “That’s cheating you probably heard Madonna’s version.”

Tom shook his head. “No, I figured that if you’re into poetry now I might as well be into it.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, chuckling. “Really? What for?”

“Because it’s you,” Tom said. “We’ve been apart 6 months and 6 months we’ve grown apart, and I really don’t want that, I still want to be the one who knows your thoughts before you can even think of them.”

Y/N blinked, watching him. She was broken again.

The door opened to greet her friends, Lizzie, Hannah and Jess had arrived. “And there are my bridesmaids,” Y/N grinned standing up. “Please behave, Tom, with Lizzie, now she’s even madder at you because she wanted to be my maid of honour since we met.”

“Great.”

Tom sighed as he stood up to give them a smile.

They all hugged her and Hannah and Jess said hello to Tom.

“The bride to be!” Hannah sang. Y/N blushed as she nodded.

Lizzie basically screamed as she hugged y/n, then ignored Tom completely, Tom rolled his eyes.

“Hannah, Jess, Liz,” Tom said with a smile. “How are you guys?”

Liz ignored his question as she sat down, ordering a coffee.

“Well, this isn’t awkward,” Tom mentioned as the five of them were all sat down now. They started to gossip about something about dresses or shoes, y/n wasn’t really listening, she was just smiling, her eyes glued on Tom.

“Oh gosh, now, you were with Miguel, weren’t you Tom?” Hannah asked and Tom nodded as the waiter brought them all their coffees. “He’s the dreamiest.”

Y/N chuckled and nodded in agreement.

“Hey, pass me the Splenda, please,” Liz asked, and Tom passed it over. “Can anyone else pass me the Splenda?” Liz asked again and Hannah quickly gave it to her. “Oh wait no, did you just break a rule, Tom?”

Tom sighed as he looked down at his own tea. Y/N rolled her eyes, as she was going to speak trying to defend him, but her phone vibrated. She smiled and got out to show a text from Miguel.

He had sent her a picture with Harrison. “Wish it was you, love you, amor mío.”

Y/N got back to her senses, Miguel was the love of her life. Yes, it was him. The poetry that had healed her. She smiled and showed it to her friends. “Isn’t he adorable?”

“Lovely,” Tom said as he looked away. Clearly, there was something bothering him.

“So, okay,” Y/N said. “We have three weeks and there’s a lot we have to do before I leave.”

“Do you have a venue?” Asked Lizzie, taking out a notebook. “I’m prepared,” she glared at Tom.

“So what do we need?” Tom asked, taking out his phone.

“So I have a checklist,” Lizzie continued.

Y/N sighed as she looked down. “Okay, so it’s… This is too much.”

“No, look, we’ll start with this… So there are 5 important things, we have to set the budget.”

“Right, uh, Miguel is taking care of that, and he gave me this number,” y/n wrote it down on a paper.

“Holy shit,” Jess commented. “Damn.”

“Now, wow, okay… date?” Hannah asked.

“New years,” Y/N answered.

“Who gets married in New Years?” Jess laughed. “But hey, it’s nice! New year, new you?”

“Now, we have to book the venue,” Lizzie continued.

“Ah, his mom is taking care of that, we’ll get married in Bacalar, Quintana Roo,” y/n explained excited, taking out her phone to show them pictures of the beautiful place, it was a garden in a lagoon, it was beautiful. It was amazing, just a paradise. “It’s this place called Paraiso Bacalar which means… Well, paradise We’ll arrive in a boat and everything, it’s amazing… The most romantic place and Miguel proposed to me in that town, and that venue is just perfect..”

The three girls let out a sigh and smiled, letting out an ‘aww’. Tom stared at the place. “It has a lagoon?”

“Yeah, yeah, we’d get married in the lagoon,” Y/N smiled.

Tom looked down. “All fairytale-like,” he commented.

“Now, the guest list!” Lizzie smirked. “Who are you inviting?”

“Uh, I have the list already, and besides it’ll be around 300 people, I mean most of them Miguel’s family, apparently Mexican families are big and they invite everyone to their wedding,” y/n laughed. The three friends stared at each other, and Tom kept quiet.

“Oooh,” Hannah smirked and wiggled her eyebrows. “What about the honeymoon?”

Y/N smiled. “Ah, apparently we will take a cruise.”

“Uh, the florist…” Lizzie continued.

“Okay, Liz, thanks for all of that, but I’ll plan that when I’m in Mexico, I already have a wedding planner helping me with all of that, I need the things I can solve here-” y/n explained.

“Right, look, I’ve been MOH 6 times now so I know everything that needs to get done, I’ll help you, even if I’m not the official one,”

“Mo?” Tom asked confused.

“Made of Honour,” Liz rolled her eyes. “Honestly, y/n he doesn’t… Okay… So it’s… So, we've got the bridal shower, the bachelorette, dress fittings,” Lizzie explained. “Shopping for your trousseau.”

“What’s a trousseau?” Tom asked again even more confused, as the girls laughed.

“Lingerie, darling, for the wedding night” y/n answered. “Oh, you’ll be a good help with that, you’ve seen more lingerie so you’ll know what’s up.”

“I’ll… be what?” Tom’s eyes widened as he blushed.

“Now, for our dresses,” Lizzie continued. “What colour?”

“I was thinking turquoise? To go with the lagoon…” Y/N felt overwhelmed. This was really happening and she couldn’t back away. Or, she could, but it wouldn’t feel right. But this whole information was too much.

“Great, what’s your dress size, Maid of Honour?” Lizzie asked with poison as a smirk was placed on her face, Tom frowned.

“What’s your jock size, Liz?” Tom snapped.

“Guys, please, behave,” y/n rolled her eyes. “Okay, so… I need my wedding dress, I already have my appointment tomorrow so.”

“When is Miguel leaving to Mexico?” Asked Jessica.

“Tomorrow, as well,” y/n sighed. “He needs to get everything arranged.”

“And your bridal shower will be this Friday,” Lizzie was speaking mostly to herself as she was looking down at her calendar. “Tom you need to plan that one, at your place.”

“You’re getting married, y/n,” Tom murmured, staring down at his tea.

“I’m getting married, Tom.”

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These Violent Delights

Link to ao3: These Violent Delights Genre: angst and fluff Word Count: 4357 Summary: Simon is watching 'Romeo and Juliet' in Magic History and he watches Baz write something on a paper. Later, Simon finds the paper and sees that Baz wrote a romantic sonnet. Who is he in love with? Includes one quote from Wayward Son but no spoilers. There’s also quotes from 'How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43)' by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, '[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]' by e.e. cummings, 'Love Sonnet XI' by Pablo Neruda and 'Annabel Lee' by Edgar Allen Poe, and 'Romeo and Juliet' by William Shakespeare.

___

Leonardo DiCaprio is one gorgeous bastard. I've always thought so, when I was watching Titanic with Agatha during the Christmas holidays. (I think she wanted me to hold her hand. Maybe she wanted me to see what an epic romance looks like. I missed the cue. On both accounts.) He also makes one hell of a Romeo. Like, I get why Juliet would lay down her life for him. He's wearing a medieval knight costume to a party on screen. He's got a cheap fake sword, too, but unfortunately, he's not using it. It's not really that interesting, right now. Nobody's getting stabbed. Juliet is so enamored with Romeo. She's such a fool, really. Baz' hair is blocking the corner of the screen. It's fluffed up and soft on top of his head.

I've stabbed goblins, trolls, merwolves, a dragon, once... I've never been to a party. Baz would look good in a knight costume. Or with angels wings. Demons wings, maybe. Is that a thing?

Baz is taking notes, because of course he is. Even when we're watching a movie in class. Penny's right next to me, she's not taking notes. I'm not taking notes. I mean, we all know the story, right? Romeo and Juliet fall in love, their families have a feud that any Family Feud host would keel over because of, in the end they kill each other or something... Baz turns his head, and I can see that his hair falls in a swoop over his forehead. How tragic... Maybe I'll end up stabbing Baz. I just hope he'll - ...

I really should have held Agatha's hand when I had the chance.

I try to drag my gaze back to the screen, but the top of Baz' head is pretty distracting. Maybe he sat in front of me on purpose, so I couldn't see. He knows damn well how tall he is.

Baz is well fit – I mean – Romeo is – I mean – Juliet. No, Agatha. I like Agatha. Merlin, what is wrong with me?

Romeo's not that fit, obviously. I mean, in a way, yeah. In a, I'd like to have arms that strong, way. In a, I'd like to have eyes that bloody gorgeous, what the hell? The director's called Baz, apparently. I didn't know there were people called Baz. Not so unique now, are you, Baz? I guess he's not actually called Baz. I don't suppose there's anyone else called Tyrannus Basilton bloody Grimm-Pitch. Bummer. Baz would make a great director, for sure. He's great at yelling people and ordering them around, for starters. He's also great at everything. Wow, they're talking for so long. Someone stab me. Crowley, his hair is so nice. I want - I want his shampoo. What the fuck is he writing? Is he already doing the homework? Sneaky bastard. Maybe I should call him out. Maybe I should start on the homework.

I start poking Penny with a pencil.

“Sod off,” she says.

I turn back to the screen. There's some argument. Two of the guys start punching each other, Romeo tries to go between them...

“Who's that?” I whisper to Penny. “Tybalt and Mercucio,” she whispers back. “Merlin, have you been watching at all?” A scratch? What is happening? Is this guy dying? My eyes are drawn to the screen. Suddenly, I feel unusually cold.

'A plague on both your houses...' he says... I grip the sleeve of my sweater. I watch as Mercucio dies, I watch as Romeo gets revenge on Tybalt... I watch Romeo and Juliet in the chapel... Baz sits up straight. He has stopped writing. I watch as Romeo drinks posion, thinking Juliet is dead... As Juliet reaches out for him... I thought Romeo's eyes were blue before, but in the close-up of his face when he's dying, they look kind of grey, almost like Baz'... I grip my sleeve tighter. I watch as Juliet shoots herself. But I can't watch the back of Baz' head anymore. I focus on the other corner of the screen and don't look away until the bell rings. What's wrong with dancing and parties? The screen goes black and my gaze snaps back to Baz.

Why does someone always has to get stabbed?

He's shoving his stuff in his backpack, all except for the paper he'd been writing on. He crumples it and throws it in the trashcan by the door. I keep looking at the door, even after he's gone. “Simon?” It's not an inevitability, is it? Romeo and Juliet, dying...

“Simon?” I mean, I knew, of course. Everyone knows. Romeo and Juliet die in the end.

“Simon.” It couldn't go any other way. “Simon!”

I snap my head around. Penny is looking at me. Why is she looking at me? “Simon, are you – crying?” Her eyes turn soft now. I try to unclench my jaw.

“No, I -”

I unclench my hand and touch my cheek. My fingers come back wet. Oh.

“It was just...” I start. “Just such a sad story.”

“It's Romeo and Juliet,” she says. “It's the sad story.” “I know,” I say. “I was expecting it, ob– obviously. But it still – still hit me like a ton of bricks.”

A truckload of bricks. A mountain of them. Even though I was expecting it.

I'm overwhelmed with the urge to count the days left until the end of the school year. How many days before...

I shoot up out of my seat. “How many hours til lunch?” I say and smile at Penny. She smiles back, but I can tell she's still cautious.

“You can't go a minute without thinking about food, can you?” she says and we start walking out of the class room. She tells me about what sentences from Shakespeare she thinks you can still make spells out of. She doesn't notice when I stop at the door. No one's left in the class room. No one sees when I duck down and pick up the crumpled paper Baz put in the bin and shove it in my pocket.

I catch up with Penny.

So, that was that for Magic History. I grab the strap of my backpack a little tighter than I usually would.

I think I'll have sour cherry scones for lunch.

___

After last period, I go to the restroom and perch myself up on the toilet seat. With jittery hands, I pull the crumpled paper from my pocket. I unfold it carefully, then close my eyes. Why did Baz throw this away? It can't just be notes, then. Baz wouldn't throw away his notes, unless he'd copied them carefully into his notebook before. Whatever is on this paper, Baz didn't want anyone to see. It's probably nothing. Just scribbles or maybe a sketch. I shouldn't do this, right? But – it's Baz.

I open my eyes and read. I am your Petrarchan sonnet, you are my Shakespearean tragedy

We are no star-crossed lovers but (You were the sun and I was crashing into you)

Ne'er dare there escape me no greater sigh and ne'er there be a lost soul more forlorn than me, gazing into thy pale blue eye, thou art my most cherished oxy-moron I call you tedious fool though the only fool is me you are my downfall (it's not the only way I fall) How unfair for thy image to be fair

Sanguine, for thy hope, for I am out for blood I will bear this burden, for I am bare

to the snow that burns me, the words that cut I wish we could run, my love runs deep, Fearing how soon we will run out of time Thy face when thou say'st 'wow' makes me say 'woe' I, your antithesis, thou art my rhyme There's no reason Stake my heart, deliver thy killing blow Upend me with bronze curls, torturous lips When thou bitest thy thumb but never thy lips Upend me with smiles, the beauty thou art, fuck you and curse what thou doth to my heart I read it twice. Except for the words he's crossed out, I don't really know what it means. But I do recognize the form and rhyme scheme. We talked about it in Magic History just last week. It's a sonnet. We're watching Shakespeare, and what does Baz do? Write a fucking sonnet. The pretentious arsehole. The complete wanker. Maybe it's a coded message and this is the key to uncovering one of Baz' plots. That would make sense of the fucking gibberish it is. Maybe someone else was meant to pick it up out of the bin. But there'd be easier ways if he wanted to pass something on to Dev or Niall. Maybe he meant for me to find it. No.

I don't fully understand, but my throat runs dry when I read it again. I feel cold again and I bite my lip because I feel like I'll make some noise otherwise. Love. He crossed it out, but it's still there. Baz is talking about love. Aleister Crowley.

Baz doesn't love anyone, or anything. He's a vampire. They can't. Maybe he was making fun of sonnets. Or of Romeo and Juliet. It could be like – creative writing. Fictional. Unreal. But it just feels a little too – honest.

Baz loves his mother. He talks about her like she hung the moon. He loves playing football. He's so fucking good at it, too. He loves school, he puts his entire soul into it. (He has a soul.) He eats Salt and Vinegar Crisps at night.

Crowley. He's in love with someone. No. He's tragically in love with someone. I don't know what to think.

Who? Who would Baz Pitch write tragic sonnets about? Who does he love so much? Is it Agatha? It has to be Agatha. Maybe he thinks he can't be with her. Crowley, why does he make it sound like such a tragedy? He's in love. He should be soaring. He should be happy. He could have anyone. (Well. Not anyone. But it's not like he wants me.) I realize I've hidden here for quite some time; Penny will be worried. I fold the paper carefully in put it back in my pocket. I make my way into the dining hall. Penny is frowning at me, but she's saved me some sour cherry scones.

“Where were you?” she asks.

“What's a Petrarchan sonnet?” I reply.

She pushes the plate with the scones to me.

“They're usually about unrequited love,” her frown deepens. “And they often include oxymorons.” Unrequited love... Baz is in unrequited love? Impossible.

I know what a Shakespearen tragedy is, obviously. It's the plays that don't have a happy ending. The ones that are... tragic. “Oxymoron,” I say. “What's that?”

“It's a self-contradiction. Loving hate, and that kind of stuff. Why? You need help studying? We can meet up later.” “No, it's fine,” I say and start picking one of the scones apart. “Was just wondering.” I am your antithesis... your opposite... Agatha isn't Baz' opposite anything. They're both posh and fancy. Only that Agatha's nice, and Baz is not. (Too much, anyway.)

Stake my heart... That's so dark. Why would Baz write stuff like that? He can have the dances, and the parties, and the fool-headed love. He can have everything.

I wonder why he's underlined the 'moron' in 'oxymoron'. Is he calling them a moron? Maybe they're thick... Baz probably thinks anyone not as smart as him is a moron. That could be anyone, except for Penny.

I've pulled the scone into tiny pieces. I'm not hungry right now, which never happens. But I don't need to eat. I need to know who Baz is in love with. I need to.

“Simon?” Penny says. She's frowning again. “Are you alright? You're not eating?” No.

“Of course. I just, uhm... Need to get some homework done.” “Are you keeping something from me? Remember, no secrets.” “It's... It's not my secret, okay? Just trust me.” If I showed Penny, she could figure out for sure who it's about. But for some reason, I don't want to. Baz is not in the dining room.

___

Baz is sitting on the bed, and all I can think is that he's in love with someone, and he writes sonnets about them, and he calls them moron and the sun and beautiful.

And he thinks he's going to run out of time.

Baz is a hopeless romantic. I didn't think he was before, but now I can see him on candlelight dinners, with roses on Valentine's day, Baz going to the movies, Baz holding hands... Baz has long, slim fingers and his hands are rough and beautiful. Beautiful. I wonder if I could write a sonnet. Not a fancy one, but...

“Baz,” I say and clear my throat.

He looks up from his book and cocks an eyebrow at me.

“Get lost,” he says.

“I just – I -” I pull the paper from my pocket. He drops his book and his eyes widen. He must know what it is, even before I've shown him what it is.

“Where'd you get that?” he demands, but his voice is shaking. He sits up and walks towards me. Not confidently, like usually. His gaze flickers around. His hand reaches out, but he doesn't grab it. (Juliet's hand reaches out...) “I just – I found it -”

“Crowley, Snow, you ever hear of privacy?” Usually, he would snarl at me. Usually, he would just grab the paper from me. I've never seen him lose composure like this.

“Who is it?” I say. My voice is shaking, too. Suddenly, his face snaps shut and his hand shoots forward. I let him take it. It's his. (I know it half by heart.)

“None of your business. None of this is.” “Who is it about?” “Nobody.” He stalks back to his bed, conversation over. Not for me.

“Tell me.” “No.” “Please.”

He stops talking and picks up his book. I know he's trying to ignore me, but I'm not going to let up. I can't. “Why do you even care?” He's not giving me an inch.

The arch of his brow is perfectly formed.

Romeo kills Juliet's cousin. Doesn't that make him a villain, of sorts? It was self-defense, in a way, but still. Shouldn't she hate him? But she loves him anyway... She's such a fool.

“I think you should tell them.” “Have you read the poem at all?” “It's not...” I say. Swallow. “I think you're wrong.” “I'm never wrong.” “Agatha and I aren't together anymore, if you're worried about that.” He's staring at me. His mouth is hanging open. It's Agatha. It has to be.

“Simon...”

“It's Agatha, isn't it?” I feel like crying. His jaw snaps shut.

“Merlin, no,” he says. Is he denying it? No. I think he's serious. (He's giving me an inch.)

“I just... I just think you have a chance.” Agatha doesn't have blue eyes, or bronze curls. I don't know why I didn't think of it earlier. Who has blue eyes and bronze curls? “I don't,” he says. “Did you tell them?” “Ha.”

“Then how do you know?” “I just do. Leave me alone.” He turns away. I won't let him.

“I just want to help. Let me help.”

“Snow.” He sounds so exhausted. Of course he is. He's yearning for someone.

“You don't understand anything.” I want him to call me Simon again. I want to go over to his bed and – do – something. I sit on my own bed and growl at him.

“Maybe I could ask them,” I say. “What they think about you.”

“Merlin, Snow, you want to be my wingman?” “I guess.” “You're ridiculous.” “I'm right.”

Call me Simon.

“We're not even friends.” Right. But not even my worst enemy should be so – so desperately in love. It must hurt so much. (It hurts so much.)

“We could be.” “Don't be insane.” I wonder why he's not picking a fight with me. He's dismissive, but not vicious. I think I've made him vulnerable.

“I'm not going to fight you,” I say then. I'm not going to cry again. I won't. I draw my knees to my chest.

“Of course you're going to fight me,” Baz says. His voice is almost soft.

“You're not going to run out of time,” I whisper. “Is that why it's a tragedy? Because you think you're going to die? You won't. I won't let you.” “Simon,” he says.

Stop calling me Simon. I'm going to cry.

“Are you having me on? Do you really not know who it is?” “No.”

“Are you trying to spare me...” “What?” “Nevermind. Not even Bunce could figure it out?” “I didn't show her.” “Then stop thinking about it.”

“I cant,” I say. Baz' whole face is tense.

“Just pretend this never happened. Treat me the same as before. It doesn't matter. It doesn't change anything.”

It does, though.

“It's not just your poem,” I say. “I just... I don't want us to be Romeo and Juliet.”

“Do you even hear yourself?” “You know what I mean. I don't – I don't want to hurt you.”

“These violent delights...”

I flinch. These violent delights have violent ends is a forbidden spell. When someone is fighting, it kills or heavily wounds both parties. Baz curls in on himself on his bed, but he keeps his gaze fixed on me. “I don't want to fight you. Are you going to fight me?” I ask.

He pauses and keeps looking at me.

“You really haven't figured it out, have you? Crowley, you're such a moron.” A moron? My breath hitches. No. What am I thinking? What the hell am I thinking?

“Who is it?” I say again. “Who's your downfall? Your rhyme? The bloody sun?” He closes his eyes, lips drawn together.

“Stop mocking me,” he rasps out.

“I'm not. Please. I just want to know.”

He opens his eyes a crack and sighs and I know that he's giving in. I'm holding my breath.

“It's you, you fucking numpty.”

I freeze. Everything freezes. I must have misheard. I must have a brain disease. It's impossible. (But I have blue eyes. And I guess my hair could be described as bronze. And if anyone's going to end Baz, it's me. Nobody's going to end Baz.)

“The snow that burns me...” he whispers. “It's your fucking name.”

Baz is not in love with someone else. Thank fuck. Thank Merlin. Thank Aleister fucking Crowley. I can't do anything but stare at him. Baz shakes his head.

“I never should have written that stupid sonnet. But... I couldn't help myself. It was Romeo and Juliet.”

I'm his Shakespearen tragedy. Nicks and slicks.

I sit up and am over on his bed in an instant. He looks alarmed.

“Snow – don't,” he says quietly. He's laid his heart in my palm. He's written a sonnet about me.

“Lets do this, then,” I whisper. I want to lean in and kiss him.

“Do what? What are you talking about?”

He looks like he wants to scoot away from me, but he doesn't move. I want to grab him by the shoulders and never let go.

“Today in class, all I could think about was you,” I say.

I want to let go of his shoulders to bury my hands in his hair.

“About how much you want to kill me?” he says, a self-deprecating tone in his voice.

“No. About how I don't want to kill you. Mostly about your hair.” “What about my hair?” He touches it self-consciously. I want to take every bad thought out of his brain and throw them to the merwolves.

“About how I want to touch your hair.” I lean closer.

“About how you're more beautiful than Romeo.” I carefully raise my hand. He doesn't move away. His hair is so soft.

“About how Juliet is a fool for being in love with a villain.” His eyes are so beautiful. He lets me take his hand.

“But he's not a villain,” I whisper. “Not really.” “Snow,” he says stiffly. “You do know – that Romeo and Juliet is a cautionary tale.”

“If it's really – if you're really – then I don't care. Is it really about me?” I lean in even closer until my nose nearly touches his. Does he want this? Do I want this? I do. So much. For how long have I wanted this?

“Yes,” he chokes out. “Of course it's you. Who else would it be?” “How? How can you -”

I want him to lean forward. I'm so short of grabbing him by his shirt. And then he gives me another one of these sighs, and I know that I have him. Just give me the word. Just give me the word, and you can have it all.

“How do I love thee?” he says and his hand comes up. My nose brushes against his. “Let me count the ways.” He runs his fingers through my hair. It's so good.

“I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach,” he says.

He's reciting poetry at me. Merlin.

“And this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart,” he mutters. “I carry your heart. I carry it in my heart.” His lips are cool against mine. I press into him. I want him to have it all. I want to put my heart on a platter and let him take it.

“I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair,” he says. It's like he's singing. “I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body. I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.” Is that a vampire thing? I don't care, he can have it all. “Our love it was stronger by far than the love of those who were older than we, of many far wiser than we,” he says. He's singing into my mouth. “And neither the angels in heaven above nor the demons down under the sea,” his breath goes heavy, “can ever dissever my soul from the soul of the beautiful Simon Snow.”

His voice is enchanting. I grab him and pull. I want to tie our hearts together. Chamber by chamber.

“What's in a name?” he says. “That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

It's Romeo and Juliet.

“With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls, for stony limits cannot hold love out, and what love can do, that dares love attempt: Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.”

“Do you mean that?” “Yes. I mean it all. The Mage, his men, my family, no one can stop me. No spell can stop me. No sword.”

“You need to stop,” I say, but I'm smiling. “You're going to make me cry.”

That only spurs him on, of course. Baz has always loved making me cry.

“My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.”

I'm addicted to his lips, and to the smell of cedar and bergamot.

“Dost thou love me?” he says then and pulls back a little to look at me. There's a question in his eyes. And I don't know any poetry by heart. (But I want to give him everything.) I make a noise in the back of my throat and try to think of something stupidly romantic to say. He's reciting love poetry at me. He wrote me a sonnet. He's given me every love confession there is. How am I supposed to top that?

Baz' lips turn down at the corners.

“Sorry,” he says, squeezing my hand. “I got carried away. You don't need to answer.”

He goes in for another kiss, but I put my hands to his chest and push him away.

“Sorry,” he says again. “It's just part of the play. I forgot myself.” He swallows and looks down. If I took every single dark thought of his, the merwolves could have a feast. I grab his face and he looks back up at me. His heart is in my hands. He's so eloquent, he knows a thousand ways to say that he loves me. He loves me. He loves me. I can't believe I've never thought of this before. (Maybe I have.) It's the best idea ever.

I only have one word.

“Yes.” “What?

“Yes, I dost love thou.” He smiles.

“That is so not how it works,” he says.

“Then how?” “I can't remember,” he says and giggles. Aleister Crowley. He's my Romeo.

“Do we have to be a tragedy?” I say and pull him in again. “You think?” “No,” he says and laughs. It's the most beautiful sound. “We can be anything you want us to be. I could cast a sonnet right now.”

“You wrote one. You wrote me a sonnet. That's embarrassing.”

I laugh, too.

“Shut up,” he says. I'd cross every line for him. And I embrace him and his hair tickles my neck and I tell him to talk poetry to me and deep into the night he whispers sweet everythings into my ear. I'm a fool for him. I'll take him to the school dance. I'll put him in a costume. I'll keep him safe and sound. I'll hold his hand. I'll run my fingers through his hair.

I refuse to believe we're star-crossed lovers.

This time, I believe, the stars are aligning just right.

#are people still reading fanfiction on tumblr?#carry on fanfiction #snowbaz fanfiction #carry on #snowbaz

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ladyreapermc · 4 years

Text

Fic: This isn’t a rom-com (Keanu x OFC) 3/?

Author’s notes: once again, thank you for the feedback on previous chapters. Onto chapter 3.

Wordcount: 2845

Warnings: fluff and oblivious idiots.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4 Part 5

Lilah bit her thumb as she stared at her phone until Keanu’s name and message on the screen became blurry. She should be reviewing her paper so she could send it to her advisor. Instead, here she was, ignoring her laptop in favor of rereading his text for the tenth time:

I’m glad you like it and I want to know what you thought of it. Coffee today? I’ll be done at five. K.

Lilah didn’t know why she was getting so caught up on it. What else she expected after letting him know she finished reading his book? After all, Keanu had said he would like to get some coffee and talk about it when she was done with it.

And Lilah wanted to do it; she wanted to talk books with him. She wanted to talk about anything with him because he was so nice and cool and funny. But also, he was freaking Keanu Reeves. She was brought back from her musings by a hand snatching her cellphone away before Jean plopped on the chair in front of her.

“You’ve been staring at your phone for the last five minutes,” she said, glancing at the screen, her lips twitching into a smirk. “Ha! I knew he wanted in your pants!”

“One: don’t be crass,” Lilah complained, taking her phone back. “Two: it’s not like that. It’s just coffee.”

Lilah could see that Jean was about to argue, as usual. So, she just sent the other woman a warning look, because this wasn’t up to debate. If Lilah accepted his invitation, she couldn’t think of it as a date.

For one, she was in her final year of grad school. There was a lot at stake and Lilah couldn’t afford distractions. Not even one as amazing as Keanu Reeves. And besides, it would be crazy to think he was even interested. Not that Lilah thought she wasn’t hopeless or anything like that. She did pretty well dating-wise.

She was just being realistic. Keanu probably had people throwing themselves at him all the time and she sure as hell wasn’t going to be one of those people. Despite her stupid no-filter mouth best attempts of making it look otherwise.

“Ok, but you’re gonna go, right? For “just coffee”?” Jean asked, eyebrows raised and Lilah could actually hear the air quotes over the words just coffee.

“Yeah,” Lilah agreed, unlocking her phone screen and typing a quick reply. Her heart did a small acrobatic flip in her chest as she hit send. “There. Done.”

Jean’s face opened into a satisfied, victorious smirk and Lilah couldn’t help but chuckle at her friend.

“So what did you want to talk to me about?” Lilah asked, setting her phone aside and closing her laptop lid. Because who was she kidding? She wasn’t going to get any work done before heading to class. Might as well stop pretending.

“Can’t I just drop by and say hi to my favorite person?” Jean’s smile was wide and bright and so innocent. Lilah didn’t buy it for a second.

“Alright, spill. What do you want?” Lilah asked with an eye-roll.

“Ok,” Jean started with a sigh. “Novelsy isn’t doing all that well financially and if I don’t find a way to attract more customers, I’m gonna have to close doors by the end of the year.”

“Shit!”

Worry settled on the pit of her stomach like lead, because Lilah loved Novelsy. The bookstore was initially owned by Jean’s aunt, but once the older woman passed away, Jean took over, much to her parents’ horror, since they expected her to handle the multimillion family business.

Lilah knew Novelsy started as a way of Jean rebelling against her parents, but it became her pride and dream. The last thing Lilah wanted was to see it closed, but at the same time, Lilah could only imagine how hard must it be for a small place like this to compete with chain stores and internet commerce.

“Any ideas that don’t involve me begging my parents for money?” Jean asked.

“We could start building the store’s media presence? Like a blog, social media, that sort of thing?” Lilah suggested with a shrug. “You’re the one with an MBA.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking too,” Jean drummed her nails on the wooden surface of the table. “I guess I can dust off my camera, working on a few pictures, but we’re gonna need some quality content to go along with them…”

“Ah. Ambush,” Lilah joked, narrowing her eyes at Jean, who just gave her a sheepish smile. “You already considered all that and you’re just buttering me up to ask me to write for it, right?”

“Well, you are always going on and on about everything you read and watch. I just thought…” Jean shrugged, before giving Lilah a look that could only be considered puppy dog eyes. “I know you have a lot of stuff going on, but could you? Please? Just like a weekly thing would be enough.”

“Yeah, sure,” she agreed with an indulgent smile. It wasn’t like she would ever be able to deny Jean anything. “Just give some deadlines so I can fit it in my schedule.”

“Perfect! Thank you!” Jean declared, throwing her arms around Lilah for an awkward hug over the table. “You’re the best, Lih.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she rolled her eyes and started to pack her things. “You still need some short term action, you know? Because social media takes time to build.”

“I know and I decided to get some stage so we could have some bands and poetry soirées, you know, all that artsy crap.” Lilah laughed at Jean’s eye-roll, but couldn’t deny it was a good idea.

“Plus, Halloween is coming. You could host a costume contest,” she suggested standing up and shouldering her satchel bag.

“You’re just looking for an excuse to dress up,” Jean teased with a smile. She wasn’t exactly wrong on that assessment.

“Ok. Gotta go! Bye, hon!” She pressed a quick peck on Jean’s cheek.

“One last thing,” Jean called before Lilah moved too far. “You should totally wear that cute green tartan print dress for your date!”

Lilah just rolled her eyes at Jean’s smirking face and took off, because sometimes, arguing with Jean was the most pointless thing.

She stopped by their apartment above the bookstore long enough to put away the stuff she wouldn’t need for class. And after another moment of deliberation, she exchanged her jeans and t-shirt for the dress, pairing it with dark leggings, a black cardigan, and her favorite scarf. Just because it wasn’t a date, didn’t mean Lilah couldn’t look nice.

She grabbed her bag, Keanu’s book and after a moment of deliberation, Lilah reached on her bookshelf and picked up one of her books. He had lent her one of his. It would be only fair to return the favor, right?

Lilah put on her headphones and hurried off since and she was already dangerously close to missing her train. Fortunately, the subway station was only a couple of blocks away from Novelsy and Lilah always enjoyed the walk. It gave her a chance of enjoying the city had fallen in love with and had been calling home for the last six years.

It had been the best decision of her life to move away from Florida for grad school. Not only it gave Lilah the freedom of being her own person away from her family, but there was also just something magical about New York that she hadn’t found anywhere else. Then again, Lilah barely ever traveled. She had lived most of her life in Florida and could barely remember her home country anymore.

It was one of the things Lilah wanted the most for her life. To travel the world, visit all the places books and movies had shown her. She always wondered what would be like to work with something that could take you all over the world. It must really be amazing.

After teaching her class, Lilah headed to the psychology Ph.D. offices to concentrate on her paper instead of daydreaming about traveling the world or her not-a-date with Keanu. She managed to do all the alterations her advisor suggested and added a new analysis based on an article she read last week, before sending it to her.

Once she finally left NYU, Lilah fidgeted all the way to Central Park, unable to suppress her nerves, even if she kept mentally chanting to herself that this wasn’t a date. When Lilah stepped out the station and found Keanu was waiting for her on the sidewalk, her heart felt like it was trying to bust out of her chest

He looked so handsome in jeans, a grey tee with a motorcycle company logo and a dark leather jacket. He was holding two cups in a carry tray and waving her over with the other. So as Lilah crossed the street, she willed her heart to slow down, because she could barely breathe as she walked up to him.

“Hi!” he greeted her with a bright smile. “I’m glad you could make it in such short notice.”

“It’s fine. My night was free,” Lilah replied, smiling too. It was technically true, but she was supposed to be writing her dissertation.

“I didn’t know how you took your coffee, so I just got it black and brought everything else aside,” Keanu said, handing her one of the cups before pulled out from his pocket packs of sugar, sweetener, and cream.

That was so thoughtful of him that Lilah couldn’t bring herself to admit that she didn’t drink American coffee. Not even Novelsy. Instead, she took one of the cups and dumped cream and sugar in it and took a sip.

“Thank you,” she said covering her grimace, by turning to the park. “Shall we?”

“Sure,” Keanu nodded as they started on the path. “So, tell me your thoughts on the book.”

As they walked, Lilah told him about how she felt with Neruda’s poetry, a big grin playing on her lips. She always thought fall was the best season to take a walk in Central Park. The foliage had faded from their usual green in warm hues of orange, red and purple, making them look straight out of a painting. And under the late afternoon sun, everything sort of had a soft yellowish glow, as if they had been set on fire.

As she spoke, Lilah kept sneaking a few glances at Keanu, always finding him watching her with a thoughtful expression that quickly shifted into a smile whenever he caught her looking.

When they reached the fountain, Keanu led them away from the rest of the visitors and tourists snapping pictures. Lilah wondered if he noticed a few of them snapping photos of him. Fortunately, no one came over to bother them. She wouldn’t know how to react if they had.

Keanu stopped by this huge oak tree and handed Lilah his cup so he could spread his jacket on the ground, before plopping on it and gesturing her to take a seat. She chuckled and followed, handing back the wrong cup.

“You barely touched it,” he pointed out with an arched eyebrow, looking more amused than offended. “You could’ve just told me you didn’t like coffee.”

“I like coffee,” she replied with a sheepish smile. “But that’s not coffee, that American chafé.”

“Sorry, what?” he asked with a confused frown.

“Chafé,” Lilah repeated chuckling at how adorable he looked mouthing out the word. “It just means it watered down and it tastes more like tea than actual coffee.”

“Ahhh, so you’re a coffee snob,” Keanu teased, making Lilah laugh.

“No!” she shoved him playfully on the shoulder, feeling solid muscle under her hand. “Just used to it been brewed differently. My father always says that there are two things you should never argue about with Latinos: telenovela and coffee.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Keanu chuckled, leaning back on his elbows.

“Seriously, I’ll brew it for you sometime and you’ll see.”

The offer escaped her lips before she could even register it and Lilah wanted to kick herself. Why couldn’t she actually pay attention to what she was saying?

“I’ll hold you to it,” he said with a small smile as he watched her. “And I thought I caught a hint of an accent.”

“Really?” she smiled wide at him. “You got a great ear. Most people don’t notice. I’ve moved here when I was three. My stepdad’s American.”

Lilah told him a little bit about her family, mostly just silly stories of her brother, which he reciprocated with stories about his sisters. It was nice and comfortable and time seemed to fly by. Every once in a while, Lilah caught herself staring at him, admiring how the setting sun behind Keanu gave him an almost supernatural glow or how his smile lit up his face and his brown eyes danced with mirth as he recalled some of his teenage shenanigans.

“What?” he asked, bumping his foot again hers.

“Nothing,” Lilah replied with a small smile, lowering her eyes.

Keanu bumped his foot against hers again and she sneaked a glance his way with a frown, wondering if that was an accident. But then he did it again. And again. Was he playing footsie? She gave him a soft kick in retaliation and Keanu grinned, trapping her foot between his ankles. Lilah laughed, shaking her head.

“You’re such a dork, oh my God!” she commented with a grin, and he chuckled.

“Got you to smile, did I?” he replied with a grin of his own and once again Lilah’s chest felt like was about to burst like several butterflies were trapped inside and trying to scape.

They stayed like that talking and laughing together until the sun set completely and the temperature dropped. Lilah kept rubbing her hands together to keep them warm since she had forgotten her gloves. It helped some, but there wasn’t much she could do about her legs. Her leggings were a flimsy barrier against the cold.

“Do you want to take off?” Keanu offered as he sat up, rubbing his hands together and covering hers, offering his own warmth.

Lilah realized how big his hands were compared to hers. As a matter of fact, Keanu was a very big guy. Not only he was tall, but his broad shoulders and strong frame made him look kind of imposing, but in a good way. She realized he could probably pick her up on his arms very easily and that made her swallow hard and her breath pick up speed.

“No, it’s fine,” Lilah managed to reply after a moment.

She wasn’t ready for this thing to be over just yet, but a gush of wind blew past them again and she couldn’t suppress a shudder, earning a knowing look from Keanu.

“Ok, yes.”

Keanu helped her up and they started to make their way back. Moving usually helped to warm her up a little, but they were walking against the wind and Lilah was shivering.

“Do you want my jacket?” Keanu asked when he noticed.

“Won’t you be cold?” Lilah wondered and Keanu snorted, already unzipping it.

“I’ll be fine, don’t worry.” He held it up so she could put it on.

“Thanks,” she replied, pulling it closer around herself since it was still warm from his body. And if she sneaked a few sniffs at the collar, no one needed to know.

Keanu walked her all the way to the subway station where he had been waiting for her. Lilah handed the jacket back to him and watched as he shrugged on.

“I had fun,” he said with a smile. “I’ve been so focused on this movie, hadn’t been able to go out and just talked about anything except work, so thank you.”

“I know the feeling.” Lilah smiled too and pulled out from her bag his book along with her copy of Life as it is and handing both to him.

“You lent me one, so I thought…” she explained when Keanu gave her a confused look.

“What is it about?” he asked, checking out the blurb on the back cover.

“It’s a collection of short stories, written in the fifties. Rodrigues was really acidic and insightful so they’re really fun,” she said. “If you want to give it a go... we could hang out again and talk about it?” Lilah offered hesitantly.

“Sure,” Keanu replied with a frown and Lilah winced. Did she push too far?

“We don’t have to…” she hurried to say. A second ago Keanu was all smiles and now he almost looked disappointed.

“No, I want to,” he said. “Really.”

“Ok then,” she replied sighing. It wasn’t like she could just grab the book from his hand and run away. “So, give me a call when you’re done?”

“I will. Goodnight.”

After a moment of hesitation, Lilah nodded and headed home, wondering all the way what just happened.

tbc

Go to Part 4

Taglist (give me a shout if you want to added or if you want to be removed)

@poisonedjoinery @ringa-starr @curly-minnie @i-cant-remember-my-old-login

@caryled @beyond-antares @kathorax @krazycags01 @meetmeinthematinee

@red-pill-blue-pill @baphometwolf666 @soarocks @imagine-the-fanfics @moonlit-raven-haven @cumberbatchbaps @coolbreezeinkeanureeves

#keanu reeves fanfic #keanu reeves imagine #keanu reeves x ofc #keanu reeves x original character #keanu reeves #this isn't a rom-com #series #fanfic #fluff #original character

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solstice-snakes · 4 years

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I have a tattoo on each of my limbs! I've got an oak leaf on my right arm, a Pablo neruda quote on my left arm, a tiny leaf on my left ankle, and a blue Easter egg on my right ankle. The ankle ones are stick and pokes I did when I was in high school and they're kinda shitty but I love them!

hell yeah those sound awesome!

#anon

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lovelylogans · 6 years

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Logince headcannons?

HELL YEAH

realistic: they secretly wrote poems about each other for years, the nerds. roman’s poems tend to be a bit more loose in style; this pablo neruda poem sums him up pretty nicely, whereas logan is a big ol dork about traditional form, so he writes things like this poem by ben johnson. both patton and virgil have stumbled across their respective notebooks while hanging out in their respective rooms, and both were sworn to Utmost Secrecy, but both of them have tried to make Meaningful Eye Contact with logan whenever roman looks longingly at logan and you can practically see him trying to think of a way to describe his honey-trapped eyes, like the finest of amber or whatever

hilarious: listen, i’m a big fan of the theory that roman delights in flustering logan with his flowery nicknames, but i raise you logan saying things to roman completely straight faced like “my sanvitalia procumbens” or “my callistemon” and then roman figures out that he’s being called scientific names for flowers and blushes so bad he could compete with his sash when in actuality logan keeps looking up increasingly absurdly long flower names because. it’s funny. roman only catches on when logan calls him “my celosia agentea var. plumosa”

heartbreaking: logan and roman snipe at each other a lot, as seen in canon, but they snipe at each other a lot because their biggest insecurities about themselves tend to mirror each other. they both think they aren’t good enough, they both overwork themselves, they both wonder why the other one’s stuck with them, and they both find themselves snapping at each other whenever they’re feeling particularly vulnerable, which both makes them afraid that the other one’s going to leave them. it hasn’t exploded into a big fight yet, but they can both feel it coming.

doesn’t fit with canon: i mentioned this in one of the first posts on my blog, but logan’s tie has detailing of patton’s and virgil’s colors, but not roman’s. after they get involved, logan surprises roman with one that he’s made that’s got red striped throughout, along with a gold tie pin. roman tries really hard to pretend like it doesn’t mean a lot to him, like he doesn’t have navy and black detailing on his left arm’s crest now.

#logince #ask #anonymous

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dantediscoversfic · 6 years

Text

Chapter 30: ‘Between the shadow and the soul’

I woke up panicked and drenched in sweat from yet another nightmare. In the dream I’d been walking on a railroad track and got my leg stuck between the wood slats in a sinkhole of pebbles. I saw a train approaching in the distance and tried to pull my leg out but it was like a cement block encased my leg and it wouldn’t budge an inch. Across the tracks, Ari saw me and came running toward me to help, only he didn’t realize the middle rail was deadly. I called his name over and over and screamed at him to stay away from the electric rail but the approaching train’s whistle overpowered my voice. He couldn’t hear me and my warning came too late.

Awake and shivering, I tried to shake off the residual fear coursing through me. I looked down at my legs, which were tingly and numb, but thankfully, still intact. I shook them out and turned over only to see my dad sitting in my comfy reading chair, with a book in his lap, dozing. The small reading light by the chair was still on and the dim blue light in my room told me it was early morning.

“Dad?” I croaked.

He woke up with a twitch and adjusted his glasses, which had fallen skewed across the bridge of his nose while he slept. “Oh, Dante. You’re awake. How are you feeling?”

“Okay. Better I think. You fell asleep in here?”

“I heard you crying out a bit in your sleep. Just wanted to make sure you were okay. Then I got caught up in reading these poems again and must have dozed off.” The book in his lap was the same Pablo Neruda one he’d read aloud to me the day before.

“What was I saying? In my sleep?”

“Just mumbling for the most part. And Ari’s name. You sounded scared.”

“Oh.”

“Do you remember what happened in your dream?”

“No, not really,” I lied. My face was already flushed but I felt it get even hotter. I knew he meant well, looking after me, but it almost felt like he’d been spying on me or like I was a baby he needed to watch over.

“Do you need anything? Tea? Breakfast? You barely ate anything but a few crackers and toast yesterday.”

I was surprised to find I was hungry, ravenous even.

“I’m starving, actually.”

“Good, that’s a good sign.” He touched my forehead. “It feels like your fever broke, thank God. I’ll warm up some oatmeal and take your temperature just to be sure we don’t have to take you to the doctor.”

“What time is it? Is it too early to call Ari?”

“It’s only 6:00am. How about you wait until after breakfast?”

“Sure, of course.”

“You sure you don’t want to talk about your dream? Was it about the accident?”

“Sort of. I’ve been having weird dreams a lot. Sometimes there’s an accident, sometimes not. But I don’t really remember them that well.”

“How’s your throat feeling?”

“Hoarse. But better than yesterday I think. It doesn’t feel like I’m swallowing a fire ball any more each time I take a breath.”

“Well that’s good, too. Here, take some more of this cough syrup.”

“Blech, it tastes so terrible.”

“I know. Just down it fast and drink this water right after.”

“You’d think in this advanced day and age of modern medical technology they’d have come up with something other than disgusting cherry poison flavor. Maybe I should forget astronomy and dedicate my career to inventing cough medicine that doesn’t taste like liquid death.”

My dad chuckled. “Well I can tell you must be feeling better if you’re planning to overthrow the cough medicine establishment. Yesterday you just drank it without a word. Now that got me nervous.”

I pinched my nose, drank the cough medicine as fast as I could and washed it down with a big glass of water. But the artificial flavor still lingered in my mouth.

“Uch, so gross. Can I break the no pop before dinner rule and have some ginger ale?”

“As long as we don’t tell your mother, I think some ginger ale for breakfast would be fine.”

“I’ll go down with you and help with the oatmeal.” I sat up in bed and a wave of dizziness crashed over me. “Oh boy. Maybe I’m not feeling so much better after all.”

“Dizzy?”

“Yeah.”

“Headache?”

“No, not really.”

“Nauseous?”

“No.”

“Okay, it’s probably just a head rush since you’ve been lying down for so long. You just stay in bed and I’ll bring breakfast up to you. K?”

“Okay, thanks, Dad.”

He leaned down to kiss my forehead and I hugged him tighter than I thought I was going to.

“Love you, Dante. I’m glad you’re feeling better today. You gave your mother and I quite a scare.”

“Love you too.”

“You know you can talk to us about anything, right?”

“I know.”

“Okay, good. I’ll be back up in a few.”

After breakfast I called Ari. I knew it was still early, but after my slew of disturbing dreams I couldn’t wait any longer to hear his voice. When he picked up with a groggy “hello?” I couldn’t help the relief that spread through my chest, releasing a tight knot I’d been holding onto for what felt like days.

“Morning,” I said.

“Dante? What’re you, my alarm clock?”

“Yeah, I thought I’d beat the early shift nurses and get the pleasure of your morning crankiness.”

“You sound weird. What’s wrong with your voice? Allergies again?”

“Nah, I got sick after I came to visit you. That’s why I didn’t call or anything yesterday. Got the flu I think.”

“Ugh, I hate the flu. The flu can wither up and die.”

“Agreed.”

“Night sweats?”

“Yeah.”

“Fever?”

“Yup.”

“Nasty sore throat?”

“You betcha.”

“Well you don’t sound like you’re about to keel over and die on the spot, so I’m cautiously optimistic you’ll survive.”

“Gee thanks.”

We both laughed. It felt good.

“How ‘bout you? How’re you feeling today?”

“Is it technically even day yet? It’s practically still dark out!”

“Listen, farmers wake up before dawn all the time. I’m trying to help you build a little character.”

“Yeah, just what I needed, a best friend slash rooster to wake me up at the butt crack of dawn every day.”

We both laughed again and I knew he wasn’t actually annoyed at me for calling so early.

“Did anything happen yesterday while I was in flu hell?”

He sighed. “They let me try out a pair of crutches but it was an epic failure. Looks like me and Fidel are going to get to be really good friends over the next six to eight weeks.”

“Fidel?”

“Oh, that’s what I’m naming my wheelchair.”

“You’re such a weirdo, you know that?”

“But that’s what you like about me.”

“Are you naming your casts too, then?”

“Yeah. Left leg is Che and right leg is Mao.”

“You’re sort of obsessed with communists. I’m a little concerned.”

“I feel like they’re a misunderstood bunch.”

“Just like you?”

“Just like me.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have to name my cast too, then. I christen it Emma Goldman The Anarchist Arm Cast.”

“Excellent choice. And in honor of the books you brought me, I’ll name my arm cast Napolean.”

“Let’s just hope our arms and legs don’t try and overthrow our whole bodies.”

“I already feel like my legs are doing that. I’m about to write the Itch Manifesto. It’s like the Itch-olutionary War over here.”

“Ari’s Tale of Two Leg Casts: It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”

“This is for sure the worst of times. Definitely worst.” We both laughed, but I still felt a stab of guilt and had to bite back another apology that I knew was against his post-op rules.

We chatted until his nurses came in. I felt better after our phone call and thought I might be feeling up to visiting him but my mom didn’t think it would be a good idea in case I gave him my flu germs while he was recuperating and healing. I was secretly relieved when she said this. It’s not that I didn’t want to see him. I did. And didn’t. Because seeing him all laid up was really hard; joking on the phone was easier. And in person I didn’t trust myself to not blurt out the words to him that were bubbling up dangerously inside me. The words that I was afraid would change everything between us.

The thing is, realizing that you are hopelessly in love with your best friend is dizzying and terrifying and makes you feel a little foolish at the same time. Like you’ve reached the end of a Scooby-Doo episode when the big plot twist happens, and what a surprise, the unmasking moment reveals none other than the person who was right in front of your nose the whole time. So you smack your head and say “I knew it!” or “That was so obvious! How did I miss the clues?” and laugh at your ability to let yourself be so thoroughly duped.

Realize is not even the right word, because if you are being really honest with yourself, you knew the whole time but shoved the whole ‘desperately in love thing’ under the rug, couldn’t stare it in the face. Accept is maybe a better word, but it carries with it the weight of concession or contractual formality, such as:

These are the terms and conditions you must accept to move forward with a life spent loving your best friend (who happens to be boy, but that’s a whole other set of clauses and bylaws we’ll just gloss over for now).

Congratulations! You’ve been accepted to the School of Unrequited Love! Tuition may be paid in full heartache and/or fruitless daydreams about your best friend’s lips, eyes, hands, hair and other untouchable body parts.

Please accept me as I am.

Accept feels like such a small word, so full of compromise and acquiescence, when love feels the opposite. True love is boundless. Infinite. Yours for the taking, all you need to do is ask.

And the other problem with accept is that you can un-accept things, too. And imagining a life where I screwed everything up between Ari and I because I couldn’t keep my stupid mouth shut? Where I said the wrong thing and lost my best friend? That was unacceptable. So best to tamp it down, keep it hidden, leave everything unspoken, right? That’s what Ari would do.

The problem was, I wasn’t Ari. And once I got it in my head that I wanted to tell Ari I loved him (not that I was in love with him, mind you—that part was still sealed in the secret vault) it was all I could think about. I wanted so badly to say it because not saying it felt wrong. Stingy. Especially after he’d saved my life for goodness sake! I told my parents I loved them all the time. Saying “I love you” to them was as easy as saying hello or good-bye or what’s for dinner. I wanted it to be that easy with Ari. But I knew I was kidding myself. Nothing about being in love with Ari was going to be easy.

The flu laid me up for a few more days. I lost track of how many. I mostly slept. My dreams were a nightmarish jumble of storms, sadness, dead birds, broken legs, aliens, car accidents. In some dreams Ari would get hit by a car or bus or train and I’d cradle his body in my arms, crying enough tears to cause a flood that swept us both away. In other dreams, I’d be the one who was hit, but I usually woke up right at the moment of impact with a racing pulse and a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Except for the dreams where Ari’s body would find mine and we’d hold hands or press into each other impossibly close. Those dreams weren’t nightmares but I’d wake up with a knot in my gut just the same.

To pass the time when I wasn’t sleeping, my dad and I read poems aloud to each other. We were still working through 100 Love Sonnets by Pablo Neruda. Dad read each one in Spanish and then in English and we talked about how the differences in the two languages affected the rhyme, rhythm, nuance and meaning in each poem.

I was analyzing Sonnet XVII. “This is the part I don’t understand,“ I said. "He says: ‘I love you as certain dark things are to be loved / in secret, between the shadow and the soul.’ But then a few lines later he says: ‘I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride.’ How can you love someone in secret and straightforwardly at the same time?”

“Those two things don’t necessarily cancel each other out. There could be a reason why a love affair has to be kept secret. Safety or societal expectations, for example. It wouldn’t diminish the feelings they have for each other.”

“But you wouldn’t want your love to be kept secret forever, would you?”

“No. But declarations of love don’t have to splashy, written in the sky by an airplane, for them to be meaningful and true. When he says, ‘I love you as the plant that never blooms/ but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers’—it’s going against the convention of traditional love poems like Shakespeare’s ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’, where external virtues are praised, like the color, shape, and smell of a flower and a lover. Here all that is hidden away, the flower has not yet blossomed or might never blossom. But that doesn’t make their love any less real. If anything, it deepens it beyond the artificial.”

“But what about the secret part? Isn’t that like lying? To feel all these things for someone and not be able to share it with them?”

“Well, maybe he’s saying not that their love is kept a secret, but he feels love deeply in a place that is dark and invisible and secret, in the soul. And even if love is hidden deep inside you, you still know it’s there, don’t you?”

“Yes, but who wants to keep all that feeling bottled up inside?”

“Well, not me.”

“Me neither.”

I liked talking with my dad about poetry. It was easier than talking about the accident or Ari or the move to Chicago. Or what would happen if I ever told him and Mom my secret.

“Who said ‘I love you’ first, you or Mom?” I asked.

“I did.”

“I thought so.”

“Did she say she loved you back?”

“She did. But even if she didn’t I would still have known how much she cared for me.”

“How?”

“Well, you know how in grad school we both had study carrels in the library and that’s where we met? Well, I got in the habit of leaving notes and poems for her at her desk. And she would leave an orange or a chocolate bar. In her way, that was her giving me a poem.”

“So you’re saying actions speak louder than words?”

“Sometimes. It depends on the person though. For some people, love is expressed through words and physical touch, for others it’s shown in action and doing kind, caring things. There’s no wrong or right answer.”

Later that day, bolstered by the talk with my dad, I called up Ari at the hospital, determined to tell him three simple words. I just wanted to get it out of my system, just once, and then we wouldn’t ever have to speak about it ever again. My heart was racing as the phone rang and I told myself to stop being a chicken and just blurt it out before we got sidetracked by our typical jokey-chitchat.

“I want to say something to you, Ari.”

“Okay,” he said.

The words lodged themselves in my throat, refusing to budge.

This was a terrible idea. This would ruin everything. I only had one month left with Ari before our move and if I said it, I knew it would just make the rest of the summer more awkward and confusing than it already was since the accident.

“What?” he said again.

“Never mind,” I said. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Okay,” he said.

“I wish we could swim again.”

“Me too,” he said.

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reveriesforyou · 7 years

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A Little Help

Hi guys! I wrote this on my phone and I haven't been to sleep in forever, so I'm pretty positive this is just some rambly words about Tom and the reader wanting to be in a relationship, but being too shy to actually tell the other. So, instead, they just do small things to help each other out. P. S., Harrison ships it. I hope you enjoy!

A Little Help

“You need help, let me grab that for you,” Tom said, reaching up to plunk the novel from the shelf. “Which one do you want?” Tom asked, bringing a hand to rest upon her waist to readjust her position to point out the book she’d been trying to obtain.

She stood up on her tiptoes, eyes desperately seeking to survey the shelf clearer, “I actually don’t have one particular in mind, would it be a bother to just take everything by Pablo Neruda down?”

“Course not,” Tom said and easily picked all the Neruda’s out for her. “Who is he?”

Her eyes widened and she smiled, happy to tell Tom everything she knew about Pablo Neruda. “He’s a famous Chilean poet, I mean, he eventually went into the political field, but I mostly know him from his poetry. When I was in high school, my best friend and I were obsessed with a poem he wrote called, ‘My Ugly Love.’”

She was starting to ramble and she knew that Tom probably couldn’t give two shits about the ugly love spoken about in the poem, but she was so close to him and he smelled good, and his chest was firm when she leaned into him, so it would be a fair statement to say that she was beyond distracted. “It starts out-”

Tom didn’t remove his hand from her waist, figuring that if she didn’t like it, she’d step back from him. His gaze flickered from her lips, to the rosy flush gliding across her cheeks, and then up to her eyes. Tom drank in her words about Pablo Neruda, still not quite registering who he was, but still completely absorbed by her words.

As he listened to her, still holding an assortment of novels in his hands, he accidentally cut her off completely. “Wait, do you have it memorized?”

She was nearly positive that her entire body was tinged pink, “Yeah, I won’t bore you with the details, I just like the poem because it’s different.”

“No, no, tell me. I wanna hear about it. I just got,” Tom searched for an appropriate word. “Excited?” Truly, Tom had cut her off because she looked so endearing that he thought that he would physically blow up if he didn’t kiss her.

He loved it when she talked about stuff like this, he could tell it was one of the few times that she actually felt confident in voicing her opinions.

“My ugly love, you’re a messy chestnut.

My beauty, you are pretty as the wind.

Ugly: your mouth is big enough for two mouths.

Beauty: your kisses are fresh as new melons.

Ugly: where did you hide your breasts?

They’re meager, two little scoops of wheat.

I’d much rather see two moons across your chest,

two huge proud towers.

Ugly: not even the sea contains things like your toenails.

Beauty: flower by flower, star by star, wave by wave,

Love, I’ve made an inventory of your body.

My ugly one, I love you for your waist of gold.

my beauty, for the wrinkle on your forehead.

My Love: I love you for your clarity, your dark.”

She finished and looked up to him with a smile on her face.

“So, what do you think?” She asked him, reaching up to sift through the books that Tom had gotten down for her.

“How do you know the best of everything?” Tom muttered, eyes widened, because, as usual, she was right. The poem was supremely different from any of the traditionally romantic sonnets that he’d read.

She smiled and unwound herself from his grasp and wandered down the next aisle, in search for her friend and Harrison, who’d accompanied them to the bookstore.

Tom, still leaned up against the shelf was slow to notice Harrison’s approaching figure.

“Dude, you need to ask her out. It’s getting ridiculous. Everybody, even strangers, already think you’re together, so why not make it real? Not as if she’s going to say no.” Harrison urged.

Shrugging his shoulders and racking his brain for an adequate response, Tom eventually stuttered out, “you never know, she could just want to be friends, and then if I ask her out, then she won’t even wanna be that.”

Harrison rolled his eyes, “Well then, mate, better wipe that drool off your chin.”

The next morning, in a haste to open the door for her, Tom had accidentally whacked himself in the face with it. Now, he not only sported a bloody nose, but also a split lip. Still, he wasn’t complaining.

She’d freaked out when she saw the blood drip from his nose and the bruises already forming on his jaw and had rushed him home. She stood in between Tom’s legs, while he perched on her kitchen table, and held up towels to stop the bleeding.

“Tom, literally what the hell?” She murmured, gliding her soft palm across his lower lip.

“I told you, I saw a bee and I didn’t want it to sting you,” Tom lied. Obviously, there hadn’t been a bee, but he refused to tell her that he’d nearly broken his face purely to hold the door open for her.

“But I never saw it? I didn’t even hear one, and besides, it wasn’t like there were flowers around. Why would a bee wander over here?” She mused, walking to the fridge to grab a bag of frozen vegetables.

“No, no,” Tom whined, “Those will be too cold, I don’t wanna put that on my face.”

She pouted, “Too bad, let me help you! I don’t want you to be hurt.”

Tom hesitated, and then opened his arms and pulled her close to him, keeping a gentle hand on the small of her back. “Fine, fine. Just do it.”

She smiled and rocked up onto her tippy toes and pressed her make-shift icepack to his face. He didn’t even shiver when the frost-covered package touched his bare skin, because when she was this close to him, he could see the multitude of colors swirling in her eyes.

A week later, it was time for Tom and Harrison to, once again, travel for the press tour. Tom was gutted. He couldn’t imagine leaving her without explaining to her that he wanted to be with her so badly, that the mere thought of leaving her made him physically ill.

Little did he know, that she felt the same way. All he knew, was that he was going over to her apartment to give her one last goodbye hug while Harrison waited in the car.

From inside her apartment, she spritzed on Tom’s favorite perfume. Whenever she wore it, he always leaned into her more while they were in conversation, or fiddled with her hair more and didn’t pull away from her when they hugged.

She had done her best to conceal her nighttime tears with makeup and she prayed that Tom wouldn’t notice them as she opened the door.

Tom stepped in quickly and before she even shut the door, Tom surged towards her. Bending down to her height, Tom threw his arms around her, ignoring that his phone had fallen to the floor.

“Are you alright Tom?” She questioned, hands stiff at her sides.

“Just gonna miss you loads and loads and loads.” His voice was muffled by her sweater.

Her arms wound around him, “You know I’ll miss you too.”

“I don’t want to leave you yet.” Tom pulled away and his gaze bore into her floor.

Taking him by the hand, she pulled him to sit down on her sofa. “I made you something to help.��

Tom curled an arm around her frame as she sat a heavy box down in front of him, “Darling, what is it? You shouldn’t have gotten me anything, I didn’t know-”

She cut him off by pressing a hand over his lips. “Promise to look at it on the plane?”

She looked to cute and eager and shy that Tom had agreed, and now, after finally boarding the plane, Tom opened the box.

Inside were all the Pablo Neruda books that she’d bought the day she read him ‘My Ugly Love,’ and a note.

The note read,

Hi Tom,

I’m just going to assume that you followed my directions and now you’re flying safely through the air, but if you’re not, and I find out, may Mother Earth save your soul.

All of these books were mine before yours because I wanted to give you something that would remind you of me. I wrote you little notes on all the pages, so it’ll be like we’re talking about them. I highlighted my favorite ones for you in pink.

Please don’t forget about me.

Tom scoffed, as if he could ever forget her. He opened the first book and quickly spotted the swirls of her delicate handwriting on the bottom corner of the page. It read,

Don’t freak out, some of the poems are in Spanish, but I made sure to help translate them for you in the margins.

Tom smiled and began to leaf through the poems, blown away by not only the words of Pablo Neruda, but also by her tiny love poems for him written so softly in the captivity of the margins that he could barely tell that they were there.

When he landed, he would make sure to send her some of his own.

#tom holland imagine #tom holland fluff #tom holland #tom holland smut #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland x you #tom holland x reader #peter parker imagine #peter parker fluff #peter parker #peter parker smut #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker x you #peter parker x reader #spider man homecoming #spiderman #spiderman imagine #Spider-Man fluff #spider-man smut

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artificialqueens · 7 years

Text

everything carries me to you: part one (thorcid) - featherpluckn

Author’s Note: Hi! I’m new to the fandom and slash writing in general. I just had some feels that had to come out apparently. Any constructive criticism is definitely welcome.

This fic is hopefully the first part of what I plan to be a three part story. There is some language and adult situations but nothing too explicit.

The title of the story comes from “If You Forget Me” by Pablo Neruda.

Happy reading :)

Jamin had always found Shane attractive. This was an undeniable truth.

The first night they met, Shane handed him a fist full of drink tickets outside some hole in the wall dive bar, grabbed his ass, and said “We’re gonna make out in the bathroom later”.

Jamin laughed it off with his friends, “That twink is cute but so not my type. I don’t go for delusional.”

Fate was a fickle bitch however because at 3 AM Jamin was pressed into a grimy bathroom stall wondering how in the hell he ended up with Delusional Twink’s tongue down his throat. After about 10 minutes and making him almost cum in his pants like it was his first time all over again, Delusional Twink produced a pen from god knows where and scribbled his number down Jamin’s forearm. “My name is Shane. Call me if you want to finish this somewhere a little more horizontal.”

The first time the two fucked, they were in full drag and on the couch in the manager’s office of one of the nicer clubs in Brooklyn. Fucking in drag was definitely not something Jamin usually did but the way Shane moaned around his dick and wanted him to go “Harder. Faster. Yes! Fuck me like you mean it. I love your cock! OH!!” Well, Jamin made an exception.

Shane giggled and thanked him afterwards. Jamin’s heart grew three sizes like the god damn Grinch because who the fuck takes a dick like that but has a smile that could make flowers bloom and droughts end and blind men see?

With that same sugar sweet smile on his face he leaves Jamin sitting there with his dick out and a promise to see him again soon. Jamin hopes this leaving when they are getting somewhere is not going to become a pattern. Because he cannot figure out if Shane is afraid of being vulnerable or afraid of being vulnerable with him. Either way this fluttery feeling in his chest is getting super annoying.

The first time he broke Shane’s heart, it nearly destroyed him. They had been hooking up off and on for years. Every time they were within 50 feet of each other the night ended with one of them bent over the nearest available surface.

Over time though, Thorgy was getting more work and Acid Betty was getting less. Jamin began turning his freelance graphic design into an honest to god career. The times their paths crossed dwindled until one night Jamin went to see Thorgy at a gig. Her performance was insanely entertaining as usual. It took quite a while after the number for Jamin to find her and when he did, Thorgy of course was talking animatedly to anyone and everyone. She finally looked up after downing a shot with some guy who Jamin noticed was standing way too close and waved.

“Betty!”

“Hey, Thorg! Great show!”

Thorgy smiled in that adorable eye crinkling way she had. “Thanks, girl. I’m glad you could make it. Let me take my off my face and we can get a couple of drinks.”

Jamin ended up joining Shane at the bar with a couple of mutual friends drinking one too many beers and downing three too many shots. They eventually end up in the alley behind the club, kissing messily with their hands down each others pants.

And as much as he was enjoying making out, he wanted to make Shane scream tonight. It had been too long.

Jamin pulled away “Do you mind if I call us a cab and we take this back to my place?”

“I don’t mind at all.” Shane’s eyes lit up and he dove in for one last kiss while Jamin was digging his phone from his back pocket.

Just as he was pulling up the number and Shane found that one spot right under his chin, the back door of the club slammed open and a guy stumbled out while simultaneously vomiting the contents of the entire bar on every available surface. This included but was not limited to the bottom half of Shane and Jamin. The guy promptly stumbled back into a mountain of trash bags and passed out but the damage was done.

If there is one thing Jamin cannot do, it is listen to someone vomit without losing his lunch as well. In a split second, he has his elbows on his knees and Shane’s hand is rubbing circles between his shoulder blades. His cheeks are burning with embarrassment as he straightens up wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

“Um, on second thought I think I’m going to take that cab by myself.” Jamin laughs self consciously and begins to walks away.

He turns back when he hears an uncharacteristically reserved voice “Why don’t we go get cleaned up together and maybe find something to do after if you’re feeling better? We could even go back to my place. I have some shit TiVo’d that I’ve been meaning to watch for months. I just feel like I haven’t seen much of you lately and I’d like to fix that…”

The look in Shane’s eyes is nervous and hopeful and so fucking raw Jamin has to look away. And in that moment he realizes Shane wants more. Probably wants more pretty badly if he’s willing to cuddle on the couch or whatever after being sprayed with vomit. It’s completely terrifying. He would be responsible for this man’s heart and it is a big wonderful good heart.A heart that he is giving willingly and openly and wants to share with Jamin. It’s too much.

It’s way too fucking much.

That fluttery feeling is back except it is now accompanied by a pounding heart and sweaty palms and a voice in his head saying he is not good enough. He can’t do this.

“You know, I think I just want to take a shower and go to bed.” He gestures down his body. “Tonight has been a lot.”

Shane’s eyes shutter and a smile takes over his face that is definitely forced. And with a little laugh Shane says “Yeah, girl. Sure. I hear you, girl. Um. I guess I’ll see you around.”

With a shaky nod, Jamin walks away throwing that heart back like a goddamn hot potato before it can burn either of them.

The first time Jamin realizes they are honest to god friends it is too late to be anything more. He hasn’t seen Shane in over a year. Jamin has thrown himself into his day job. So much so, that Acid Betty has all but faded into the ether of night life. Nothing but a mythological cunt with looks for your nerves.

Jamin has been okay with that or he thought he was okay with that until he got a wild hair and actually sent a tape in for drag race casting. Nothing will come of it he knows but you never know if you don’t try right?

There is a new coffee spot a few blocks down from Jamin’s apartment. It has amazing espresso and free wifi so on a rainy Saturday afternoon he settles down to catch up on some email.

Somewhere between the third email to his sister and finishing his first coffee he hears it. And fuck, he would know that cackle anywhere. Embarrassingly enough, he hears it in his dreams. He smiles a true smile and turns before he can stop himself.

The smile does not last long. Standing at the counter lit from behind by the sunlight streaming in through the glass storefront like this is some kind of goddamn rom com and not his fucking life, is Shane but he is not alone. He has someone with him. Of course he does. The man is hanging off his arm and looking up at him with literal heart eyes. He is objectively fucking gorgeous. Beautiful caramel skin, meticulously groomed beard, tattoos peeking out from one sleeve of his fitted t-shirt, and when he turns around to grab his drink from the barista of course he has an incredible ass. Jamin hates him already.

Before he can apparate the hell out of there, Shane spots him.

“Jamin? Hey!” Jamin waves awkwardly and Shane shimmies his shoulders and makes his way over leaving Beardy to catch up much to Jamin’s amusement.

“Hey, Shane. How have you been?”

“In-credible! How have you been? It’s been a long time.” By this time, Beardy has made his way over and is standing beside Shane looking at him like he hung the moon and he may not like the guy but he does know how he feels.

“I’m great. Working like crazy on a few design projects but good, good. Who’s your friend?”

“Oh! This is Sam. Sam, this is Jamin. An old friend, who crossed over into the land of the living.”

“Hi, Jamin. I’m sorry Shane but I really do have to run. I’ll give you a call later. Nice to meet you.”

Jamin found something extremely interesting in his email when Shane goes to kiss Sam goodbye. When he looks up Shane is watching him with a look he cannot or does not want to decipher at the moment.

“He seems nice.” Jamin tries to sound casual and interested and not at all like he is remembering that Shane always kisses like it is the first and last time he will ever get to do it.

Shane smirks and shakes his head and Jamin is 80% sure he sees straight through his bullshit.

“He is nice. He is very nice. Knows what he wants and goes for it.” Well that cut right to the fucking quick or not at all. It’s hard to tell with Shane because he goes right into the next subject with no pause and a smile on his face. “Are you expecting someone? Can I sit for a minute? It feels like it has been forever since we had the chance to catch up.”

“No. No, it’s fine. I’d like that.”

They talk about gigs gone right and wrong, this new greasy diner Jamin discovered and knows Shane will like because they offer about a dozen different types of pancakes at all hours of the day and night, the up and down weather lately and how it killed the plants Shane decided to buy on that one nice day last week, and the whole conversation Jamin aches to already know these things. To be the one that helped him pick out that plant. The one that convinced him to try those Breakfast in Bed pancakes with the bacon in the batter. But he is not and it is his fault it’s like this. So now he has to live with it.

“Shit!”

Jamin is jerked back to the present by the expletive. “What is it?”

“I have a thing tonight and I really should already be home getting ready.”

“Oh. Well, I guess you need to get going then.”

Shane bends down to retrieve his bag. Then Jamin has a thought.

“What did you do for your video this year?”

“What video?”

“Your drag race audition.”

“Ah. Well, I’m not doing one this year. It’s been seven years. I think it’s time to stop bugging them.” Shane laughs and looks for Jamin’s agreement but if there’s one thing he knows is true and will not bend on, it is that Thorgy is a fucking force of nature and the world needs to see it.

“Seriously? Do what you want but I think you should send one every season until they get their heads out of their asses and cast you.”

Shane looks genuinely shocked as Jamin continues. “I’m serious, Thorg. There hasn’t been anyone else like you on that shitshow because there is no one else like you. You are talented and fun and you can turn a fucking show. You belong there. Tell them why.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then, Shane launches himself at Jamin pulling him into an awkward hug because of course the only hug that has not ended in sex for them includes a laptop and a table between them

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

“No need to thank me. Just send that tape, bitch.”

“I might do just that. I really do need to get going.” Shane look sincerely disappointed when he stands up. “Let’s not wait another 18 months to speak to each other. I miss your face, girl.”

“I miss you too, Shane. Let’s meet up for some drinks soon.”

Of course they don’t.

The next time Jamin sees Shane it is three months later surrounded by fake pink bricks, five cameras, and ten other queens out for their blood.

#thorgy thor #acid betty #thorcid #slight smut #fluff #angst #featherpluckn #rpdr fanfiction #canon compliant #everything carries me to you

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ssugawarakoshii · 7 years

Text

Random stuff no one cares about (fuck u jo)

@mysmoldarkfictionalsons told me to do this so it here it is 1: when you have cereal, do you have more milk than cereal or more cereal than milk? Milk than cereal

2: do you like the feeling of cold air on your cheeks on a wintery day? Yes

3: what random objects do you use to bookmark your books? Pages of homework, pens, tickets, earphones

4: how do you take your coffee/tea? Alone or with really little milk

5: are you self-conscious of your smile? Yup

6: do you keep plants? Two cactus

7: do you name your plants? Nope

8: what artistic medium do you use to express your feelings? Does editing count?

9: do you like singing/humming to yourself? Yes

10: do you sleep on your back, side, or stomach? All three? But I’ll say side?

11: what’s an inner joke you have with your friends? “Stitch”

12: what’s your favorite planet? Uranus

13: what’s something that made you smile today? Talking about 80s voltron with Ce

14: if you were to live with your best friend in an old flat in a big city, what would it look like? It’d be small, full of our stuff and a comfy sofa for us to cuddle

15: go google a weird space fact and tell us what it is! There is a planet that may be made entirely out of diamonds

16: what’s your favorite pasta dish? Spaghetti carbonara

17: what color do you really want to dye your hair? Rose gold/purple/blue

18: tell us about something dumb/funny you did that has since gone down in history between you and your friends and is always brought up. When they got drunk in the village party and they tried jumping to the river from the bridge and I had to take care of them all (I am the one to bring this up btw)

19: do you keep a journal? what do you write/draw/ in it? Kind of? And just random ideas and stuff (ok and also dates and shit)

20: what’s your favorite eye color? Green

21: talk about your favorite bag, the one that’s been to hell and back with you and that you love to pieces. It’s blue with starts on it and it’s completely destroyed by now, the zip doesn’t even work anymore and it’s all full of scratches rip

22: are you a morning person? Depends tbh

23: what’s your favorite thing to do on lazy days where you have 0 obligations? Watch a movie/show/anime, read or edit

24: is there someone out there you would trust with every single one of your secrets? I think yes?

25: what’s the weirdest place you’ve ever broken into? An old house… I don’t usually break into places

26: what are the shoes you’ve had for forever and wear with every single outfit? My Panama jack shoes rip

27: what’s your favorite bubblegum flavor? Berries

28: sunrise or sunset? Sunset

29: what’s something really cute that one of your friends does and is totally endearing? When she’s nervous, Eva is always trying to grab someone’s hand without realising AND IT’S SO CUTE

30: think of it: have you ever been truly scared? Yup

31: what is your opinion of socks? do you like wearing weird socks? do you sleep with socks? do you confine yourself to white sock hell? really, just talk about socks. I like socks, but not that much? In winter and all they’re great but in summer I prefer my feet to be free

32: tell us a story of something that happened to you after 3AM when you were with friends. A guy in the village party (again) kept following us around, so Angel went and asked him what happened. The guy then just turned around like half pouting and handed us his empty hand and was like “I wanted to give you cookies”. And we ran. The lesson is, kids, never drink or do drugs if you don’t want to end up like that man

33: what’s your fave pastry? Orejas de carnaval con chocolate

34: tell us about the stuffed animal you kept as a kid. what is it called? what does it look like? do you still keep it? It was called Eric and it was a white dog with brown spots and it’s somewhere in my room, im pretty sure

35: do you like stationary and pretty pens and so on? do you use them often? Yeah but in the end I always end up using the most normal stuff

36: which band’s sound would fit your mood right now? Oh wonder

37: do you like keeping your room messy or clean? Clean

38: tell us about your pet peeves! I hate it when people like crack their knuckles? Nope don’t do that in front of me I beg you. Also people that walk slow… move dammit

39: what color do you wear the most? Black

40: think of a piece of jewelry you own: what’s it’s story? does it have any meaning to you? The chain my grandmother gave me for my communion. It has an image of virgin Maria as a child and my name engraved and she told me my grandfather had always wanted to give me a chain like that one

41: what’s the last book you remember really, really loving? El laberinto de los espíritus

42: do you have a favorite coffee shop? describe it! Not really

43: who was the last person you gazed at the stars with? Silvia…

44: when was the last time you remember feeling completely serene and at peace with everything? Like a week ago? Lmao it didn’t last long

45: do you trust your instincts a lot? Yup.. doesn’t mean they work

46: tell us the worst pun you can think of. Are you a son of Poseidon? Cause you got me all wet (I’m gonna go bury myself now)

47: what food do you think should be banned from the universe? Cauliflower. Take it away

48: what was your biggest fear as a kid? is it the same today? My biggest fear was the world suddenly ending… yep…. I was weird. Maybe it isn’t the same but yoU CAN’T TELL ME THAT ISN’T SCARY

49: do you like buying CDs and records? what was the last one you bought? Yes but I usually cant buy them which leads to the part where I can’t remember which one was the last I bought

50: what’s an odd thing you collect? Do snow globes count? I have some of them and I love them

51: think of a person. what song do you associate with them? I’m not mentioning the person but photograph

52: what are your favorite memes of the year so far? The glasses one? Is that from this year or last? Ah fuck it

53: have you ever watched the rocky horror picture show? heathers? beetlejuice? pulp fiction? what do you think of them? No, yes, no, yes Weird af but strangely great

54: who’s the last person you saw with a true look of sadness on their face? Grandma

55: what’s the most dramatic thing you’ve ever done to prove a point? Breaking a pencil (the thing we were discussing was that I didn’t have enough strength to break it okay so I got all hulk mode and broke it)

56: what are some things you find endearing in people? people that do a lot of hand gestures (they remind me of myself tho)

57: go listen to bohemian rhapsody. how did it make you feel? did you dramatically reenact the lyrics? It makes me feel like a psycho murdered :’) nah kidding it makes me feel nostalgic AND WHO DOESN’T RE-ENACT THE LYRICS SMH

58: who’s the wine mom and who’s the vodka aunt in your group of friends? why? Jandro is the Vodka aunt and Jo is the wine mom (although she is Vodka but she is way more mom so fuck it)

59: what’s your favorite myth? Persephone’s myth or Icarus one

60: do you like poetry? what are some of your faves? I love it and my fave authors (cause I can’t choose poems) are Bécquer, Góngora, Rubén Darío and Pablo Neruda

61: what’s the stupidest gift you’ve ever given? the stupidest one you’ve ever received? I’ve never given really stupid gifts? My gifts are good *gasps* and my cousin gave me a clown nose once

62: do you drink juice in the morning? which kind? Sometimes I drink orange juice

63: are you fussy about your books and music? do you keep them meticulously organized or kinda leave them be? I am very fussy and it’s the one thing I’ll always have tidy af

64: what color is the sky where you are right now? Ugly grey ugh

65: is there anyone you haven’t seen in a long time who you’d love to hang out with? Do my online friends count? Maybe?

66: what would your ideal flower crown look like? It’d have blue and white that’s all I know

67: how do gloomy days where the sky is dark and the world is misty make you feel? Sleepy. That’s it.

68: what’s winter like where you live? Cold and grey but with snow tho

69: what are your favorite board games? To be honest I don’t know?

70: have you ever used a ouija board? Nah (I was going to, then backed down you see)

71: what’s your favorite kind of tea? I don’t know, I’m more of a coffee girl

72: are you a person who needs to note everything down or else you’ll forget it? Yep

73: what are some of your worst habits? Biting my cheeks/lip until it bleeds and scratching my scalp and ears until it bleeds too (que sanguinolenta por favor)

74: describe a good friend of yours without using their name or gendered pronouns. Love

75: tell us about your pets! A bird, his name is Winnie and he’s a little shit but I love him

76: is there anything you should be doing right now but aren’t? Studying history

77: pink or yellow lemonade? Yellow (I’ve never had pink lol)

78: are you in the minion hateclub or fanclub? I’m neutral ground

79: what’s one of the cutest things someone has ever done for you? Joana’s video for my birthday

80: what color are your bedroom walls? did you choose that color? if so, why? Violet and white and yes I chose it because they’re two of my faves colours there’s nothing feel about it

81: describe one of your friend’s eyes using the most abstract imagery you can think of. Beer bottle

82: are/were you good in school? I am good thanks very much

83: what’s some of your favorite album art? Idk

84: are you planning on getting tattoos? which ones? Idk

85: do you read comics? what are your faves? Yes and here’s a thing about me I cannot by the sake of my life choose favorites in anything don’t make me do it

86: do you like concept albums? which ones? Depends?

87: what are some movies you think everyone should watch at least once in their lives? Tbh I’d say the Godfather (can’t really think of any other rn rip why do you put me in such compromises?)

88: are there any artistic movements you particularly enjoy? No??

89: are you close to your parents? Meh

90: talk about your one of you favorite cities. All I have to say is it has history, culture and it’s beautiful sorry I don’t want to make this long

91: where do you plan on traveling this year? Dublin lololol

92: are you a person who drowns their pasta in cheese or a person who barely sprinkles a pinch? Drown it in cheese bitch give me all of it

93: what’s the hairstyle you wear the most? Ponytail/bun

94: who was the last person you know to have a birthday? A classmate on the 28th

95: what are your plans for this weekend? Doing my Spanish project and editing

96: do you install your computer updates really quickly or do you procrastinate on them a lot? Procrastination my dear

97: myer briggs type, zodiac sign, and hogwarts house? INFP, cancer, Ravenclaw

98: when’s the last time you went hiking? did you enjoy it? I’m not sure? Sometime in December with my father and yes

99: list some songs that resonate to your soul whenever you hear them. Light by sleeping at last100: if you were presented with two buttons, one that allows you to go 5 years into the past, the other 5 years into the future, which one would you press? why? 5 years into the future, I don’t want to relive my past thanks

I don’t have anyone to tag (my only friends are the tagger (fuck you) and the other person she tagged ( @nekolance why) So bye bye do it if you want to

#non fandom #damn jo this was so fucking long #the song question... i bet my ass no one knows who i was thinking of #nah ofc not #random

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omegarising · 7 years

Text

alcoholocaust

Four cans of beer later, I am still in a condition to type properly. I don't need to look at the keyboard even. I am good at this shit. Well, I got a beer because I still don't feel like it's an occasion to drink something hard and heavy. And, it's been, what, almost 3 years since something with a proper alcohol content. And beer is like a soft drink. Bleh. I drank the fourth because I didn't want to keep it in the fridge. If I kept it there, it'd keep calling me and drinking a single can at any time is neither here nor there. You don't get enough kick and well, there isn't any more to drink. You're stuck in one beer limbo. That is never good. This is the only thing I've learned in all my years of drinking, always get a few cans more than what you think you will drink. If you're in the mood to drink 3, get four. And so on. The extra is the magic.

I am rambling. Yeah. But what of it. I can't really get black out drunk now and it really kills my vibe. Some day, maybe.

I've been trying to avoid thoughts that threaten to drown my mood in dark places. One should stay positive and one should keep working is what I believe in and if I believe in it, I'd rather work towards it instead of moping and crying about it. I mean, sure, I complain a lot, but it's never too serious where I am crippled by inactivity.

I've got friends who are in a rut and when I ask them what do they want to do, they say, 'i don't know.' Are you fucking serious man? How can you not know? You ask me and I can give you a ten-year road map of shit I want to do. I don't have enough time to do all the things that I want to do and I am working to scrape out every single fucking second of time to get to that level where I don't need to fish for minutes and seconds from my day. But some people, fucking no ambition. I fucking hate that. Your excuse can't ever be that "I don't know" it's 2017, for the love of all things holy, if you don't know anything, you just have to google it. Hell, at least have the inclination to find things out. God, it infuriates me.

What I am trying to say is that even if you don't want to do something right now, you should at least have a plan for later. If you're looking at lives of others and complaining how they have it better but now doing shit for your own life, only you are to blame. I am so going to kick J's ass when I see him next. For all I know, he might be heading for divorce number 2. Some people can't handle people. The rant was about him, basically. I asked him something and he hit me with an "I don't know". That's fucking offensive.

And why are my relatives such assholes? What sins did I commit to deserve them?

Fuck that. Let me tell you about the nice and awesome things.

* I don't wanna be me by type o negative is a kickass track with a funny as fuck video * I am reading Liza of Lambeth and liking the dialect most of all. It makes more sense when you speak it in your head instead of just reading it. It's such a nice story a few chapters in, I don't know if something dark and disturbing will happen later. And the swear words, GARN! * I've been reading up on story structures and the hero's journey. I read all this stuff long ago, but it always helps to get a refresher. * More poems. I think I should do one daily. * I've been reading some poems by Pablo Neruda. Have an old book "Twenty Love Poems and A Song of Despair." * More Carnivore. Re-loving this band's noise. Finding new mixes of songs and old songs that I never found. Ex-ex bands that did some limited pressings. The internet is just great for this kind of things. The rare and the fabulous. * Going to look up a journal from my stack of notebooks and start writing regularly with hand once again. * It's 1:16 and I am feeling sappy. * I heard a really nasty solo in one song and now i can't remember which one it was. * that's too many bullet points. * I should sleep. * G'night love.

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seansaboutacity · 5 years

Text

#2 collaboration - Eileen

It’s a great pleasure for me to collaborate with Eileen Gbagbo. Eileen’s been a wonderful friend that I’ve got to know since first year, and ever since she’s inspired me to be creative and write poetry, whilst maintaining a close interest in social justice issues.

I asked Eileen to collaborate with me and write a poem about the theme of ‘desire’.

So without further ado, here is Eileen’s poem followed by discussion:

East London nights

Last night the Thames flooded And the underground broke The sky looked like an iPhone on power saving mode My room, an influencer’s Friday night. We drank sangria and sung fuck Boris Two times and louder for the people at the back - Ha, we were going to hell.

Buttons flung off in iambs Our tongues danced in trochees And thus began our descent. One thousand and one nights of seven sensual sins Feeding on insatiable desire, uncontrollable explosion, excessive pursuit of the erogenous with sloth like strokes your personal became my prerogative shea butter breasts for your indulgence we came to the flames like Icarus – pray for us, that was devilish.

Comments

My first impression of the poem is a hedonistic, pleasure-seeking vibe. How do you relate this with your ideas of desire?

Desire is such a primal thing and it manifests itself in lust, jealousy etc. So when I was thinking about this poem, it reminded me of Dante’s seven steps to hell and so just took it to the extreme.

Straight off the bat, you use the imagery of the Thames. It’s a funny coincidence that I also mention the Thames in my poem - before I even saw yours. What did you intend by using the Thames as imagery?

Haha yeah, when I read yours, I got so excited by the Thames imagery! There are many iconic things about London to tourists, but for the locals, we’ve got the Thames - which is great. It’s a source of regional pride even though its quite possibly one of the most unstable rivers in the UK. And so, using the Thames was to root down the sense of place but also set the feel of the poem as quite messy.

I feel like I’m in the scene when I read your poem - the rowdiness, drunkenness, chaos. What do you think poetry can do to capture the experience of being somewhere? Are there limits to this?

This is quite an interesting question. Because my favourite poems through history have been used as a form of resistance, and they have endured and are still relevant today because of the intricate ability to abstract individuality and create consonance between the subject(s) and reader of the poems. For example, Pablo Neruda in his later political poetry does this so well. But there are also limits. Language does have boundaries unfortunately and so it can never be truly universal.

I love the juxtaposition between swearing and drawing on ‘high culture’ like Icarus - it’s rude, in your face but flows. It’s like your breaking down distinctions between high and low culture - anyone’s welcome in poetry. What do you think about that?

There’s something seductive about ‘high culture’ which I think is quite interesting. It’s almost like in Hollywood movies when everyone’s attracted to the British guy that speaks like the queen and uses unnecessary posh lexicon. But it’s funny that London actually invites you to both simultaneously. Take LSE for example, you have some of the world’s most brilliant minds interacting with each other, dissecting complex theories, but on a Wednesday night, we go to Zoo. And so, poetry that doesn’t encompass all of that is quite reductive.

My poem on the theme of ‘desire’:

waterloo bridge, after sunset

I think I'm going to fly why else do my legs feel like wings better yet birds unfurling flapping in the gusts of wind in the afternoon we played with the plain ignorance of friends under the table the same legs had whispered secrets told stories folded flipped over like chopsticks dividing dishes into bites of food

look at the Thames at dusk the water looks oily and slick like the collar of your leather jacket but you are more slick my oil that greases wheels no abandons them like stabilisers on a child's bicycle

do you know how I’ve longed for this for longer nights my days spent chasing faraway sights or snatches of air now my wind you could take me away roll me into tumbleweed but one cleansed of dust swept up from the past

so take me away dark waters you fill me as we cross into Waterloo the sun replaced by the twilight blue

let strange things come out to play at night

Comments

First of all, I love your poem! I love the use of both natural and quite industrial imagery. What did you intend with this?

Thank you! I like to use both natural and industrial imagery because I think London is made up of both - you can see big skyscrapers right next to residential areas or green space, which makes London so unique as a mix of influences.

I think ultimately London’s messy that way - London’s really a big town which swallowed up surrounding areas in an unplanned way, so different parts of London still retain their original character.

Your poem on desire is so different from mine, what was your interpretation of the theme, and what inspired this reaction? And also, the imagery of Waterloo bridge… I don't think I've ever seen it that calm before, but you also transported me into that world. Why did you use perhaps a not so popular image of Waterloo bridge?

I think desire is a very personal experience for me. But I wanted to explore the contradiction of having such intimate and sensitive feelings shared with someone else, and it removes the distance and detachment we sometimes feel from others.

Waterloo bridge served firstly as a physical reminder that the narrator in the poem is crossing boundaries, and for him it’s an exhilarating experience. I think I’m trying to reclaim some personal identity from how anonymising living in London can feel. Waterloo bridge is crossed by hundreds if not thousands of commuters everyday who stay strangers to us living their own lives. Being able to narrate a personal story means resisting that anonymity, and how it can whitewash our experiences into something dull and functional. But there’s also some vulnerability, because the anonymity can feel overwhelming and drowning.

I didn’t notice the calmness actually - that wasn’t intended. But thinking about it that way, I think I wanted the poem to be centred on the narrator’s experiences - so perhaps the exterior calmness contrasted with how wild his inner emotions were.

General comments

Sean asking questions for Eileen:

We first met each other, I think, in our political theory class. There’s an idea generally in social sciences that we can’t be subjective, but Plato and other theorists regularly use metaphoric analogies like Plato’s cave. What do you think about the distinction between objective and subjective?

I think trying to achieve objectivity is so hard and not worth it. The human experience is too varied to try and form some order to truth or justice etc. This really goes back to the production of knowledge which is hierarchical and colonial and so even with something that we claim to be universally true like ‘Shakespeare is the greatest English writer of all time’, is actually enforced by the powerful. So personally, I think we must do more to celebrate the individual rather than seeking this optimal collective objectiveness. Because by doing so, we don’t run the risk of erasing histories and identities in favour of one which is no more universal than the other. I guess that’s why I like poetry as a medium because it gives you the freedom to do both in such an intricate way.

I’ve also written a piece for Black History Month for the Beaver - which you did an amazing job editing. I wrote about the intersection between race and sexuality, using the film Moonlight to help illuminate my ideas. What are your thoughts on the intersection between gender, race and sexuality?

I absolutely loved your piece! It was one of the best reviews and commentary on the film I've read. I think I should ask you this question, because nothing I could say would be as nuanced as what you wrote.

I had a discussion with friends about ‘when do become a man/woman’. I had initially thought that it was a combination of physical and societal factors, ie you go through puberty and you are now considered a woman, or you have certain mannerisms which are gendered as feminine. But actually, that's still quite binary and not universal at all. So, I’m still learning more about these intersections.

Sometimes I’ve found it hard to connect my cultural interests with my political interests - I could watch a really interesting movie which comments on society like Moonlight, but find it hard to make a difference in the real world afterwards. What do you think about doing social activism in cultural interests?

Me too! Social activism is quite fulfilling personally. Especially if it is an issue that is close to home, but you find yourself in the privileged position to offer help. And this can take various forms including protesting, writing think pieces, mentoring, to name a few. But I think we need to tread carefully and evaluate the sentiments behind our convictions to go ahead with social activism in cultural interests. Or else, we run the risk of becoming compassion fatigued, in which we are outraged by an issue because its close to home or we can empathise, and then we pursue activism only to pat ourselves on the back or to make us feel better. I think that is quite dangerous and unsustainable really.

You write poetry yourself, and you showed me through your work that you can be creative, but also passionate and political about what you write. What’s the next step for you with poetry or creative writing?

Thank you! Your poetry is incredible too. For me, I want to perform more. But in terms of writing, I am experimenting with poetry from the Ghana & the Volta region. So using more Ewe and incorporating more historical knowledge into poetry. I’m really excited!

Eileen’s questions for Sean:

When we first spoke about this project, you mentioned ‘sense of place’. What do you love about London and why did you want to capture that?

My first answer is a cynical one. I love London because I don’t know anything else. I’ve grown up in London from a really small age and I’ve studied at uni here for two years. Now I’m leaving London to study abroad, even though I know I’m coming back, I feel emotional and feel like this is the end of a chapter for me.

My friends have really helped to make my experience in London. The crucial thing is that they chose to be my friends, and so stay there with me through thick and thin. I’ve been through difficult times at uni, navigating and generally trying to ‘adult’. But it’s been so comforting to know that my friends are there - and I could never express sufficiently enough how grateful I am for that.

Maybe this poetry project is a nice leaving gift for London, and for my friends. It’s really my way of saying goodbye. I hope you enjoy!

In the creative field, there is a lot of talk about representation. What are your thoughts on this, and where do you think poetry can fit in?

I think representation is so important. I think there has to be representation everywhere - on screen, but also decision-makers and people at the top. I think there has to be a whole cultural shift where we have everyone’s stories being told and represented, so audiences can see themselves and feel included in the things they see.

With that said, I think there’s a limit. I think discussion about representation can make us ignore wider structural change that we should see in society. If we limit discussion of social change to cultural issues, then we could construct an us v them dynamic, which is counter-intuitive to the cause of social diversity if we imagine our differences as rooted in fixed or essential characteristics. When I think about social problems, I try to find a common-denominator solution - what would make everyone happy? And I think the case for representation is that it would help to lift up under-represented social groups onto an equitable level with traditionally over-represented groups. I recognise this approach might seem reductive and smooth over historic social divisions which continue to disadvantage minority groups. But we should agree on one thing - diversity is the future, so the challenge and the opportunity now is to figure out how to harness it, so that everyone feels like they belong in society.

Poetry’s seeing a revival. I’m excited about getting more involved in it. I think friends like you and who I’ve collaborated with have really helped to boost my confidence and make me think seriously about doing poetry more in the future. I don’t think my story’s been told before, and that’s really sad if people from similar ethnic or cultural backgrounds as me are funnelled into careers their parents want them to do without really exploring alternative creative stuff. So I’m happy to just show up and speak up. And things happen if they will. It reminds me of a quote from my favourite book called ‘The Alchemist’ by Paulo Coelho - if you want something, the world conspires to help you get it.

I would love to hear more about your thoughts on the intersection between race, gender and sexuality?

That’s a really big question!

I think conversations about it relate with intersectionality. It’s so important to keep highlighting intersectionality, how inter-connected disadvantages or social groups can be.

But I think there’s a chance to restore agency to individuals who share minority status in multiple categories. I think sometimes social categories can be reductive, like figuring out how oppressed you are becomes this social arithmetic.

But we should remind ourselves that these terms are nominal anyway - they’re socially constructed, to sound like a broken record. So while we should be aware of different ways we can socially relate with others, we shouldn’t feel held back by these terms either from stopping us from doing what we want to do in life. The danger is that if we define ourselves solely by these labels, we put ourselves in boxes and fix ourselves, allowing these labels to become a self-fulfilling prophecy if we perform to their expectations.

I think we should feel empowered by our social identities. We should balance two needs fulfilled by them - to feel solidarity with people with similar grievances, but to build the emotional resilience to be ourselves and resist conforming with others.

But specifically about sexuality? I think I’ve been interested in sexuality because it crosses the public/private dichotomy, the interior/exterior dichotomy which many of our social institutions are built on. Sexuality is subversive, radical and it can be transformative - it has the potential to be a creative and productive force in society if we relaxed our attitudes towards it.

For me, sexuality is like a Mobius strip. You walk along it long enough and you eventually talk about other issues, like politics, family or the economy. Sex is constructive of many discourses of power. And power runs through everything.

I’m so excited about your writing journey! Where did it begin and where are you hoping to take it to next?

Thank you!

It began really when I was a small child in primary school. I was really shy growing up and I would read a lot of books. As a child, I even wanted to grow up and become an author. I didn’t write poems but I wrote short stories and even a novel which wasn’t any good but was nice trying to write.

I don’t know where I’ll go with my writing! The most challenging but most exciting part of writing is that I pull a lot of it from my life experiences. I feel like the more I test myself with life experiences and learn who I am from them, the more I have to say in my writing. And that annoys me because I get bored of writing and feel like I run out of things to say, but it excites me because it tells me to get out in the world more and explore.

Put it this way - life is a journey, and writing is just a way of putting my experiences on the road on paper. I’ve got a long way to go, but it definitely feels like I’m getting there.

#collaboration #desire

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