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#HIS EYES ARE SO SOOTHING
andy-clutterbuck · 11 months
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the green in your eyes (makes me feel warm inside) ; megumi fushiguro
synopsis; in the comfort of a familiar bookstore, you find a boy. a pretty boy, who’s always reading, who doesn’t speak unless he has to. you’d like to get to know him — and maybe you will.
word count; 4.6k
contents; megumi fushiguro/reader, gn!reader, fluffy!!, lots of pining from afar, bookstore au, no curses au, reader is an overworked student bc uni is beating my ass, gumi is kind of awkward but hes cute <3, gojo mentioned twice (stay safe), can u tell im excited for christmas … :'3
a/n; bookstore employee gumi who hates every single customer except for you is so real to me
(@riaki its here …🙇‍♂️)
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he’s there again. 
with a decisive step forward, you drag the door open, and the flutter of a bell resounds throughout the bookstore. a precious little jingle, alerting him of your presence. 
the boy at the counter gives you a glance. his navy eyes settle on your bundled up figure, and a flicker of familiarity blooms in the scope of his iris, a kind of recognition. something that makes your heart feel like a clumped up little ball of snow. 
(oh. it’s you.
you can almost hear the silent words fall past his lips.)
it only lasts for a second, barely even that, your gazes overlapping — then he’s back to reading. 
today, you recognize the book in his hands. the hardcover looks just a tiny bit worn, but still well taken care of. well-loved. and it’s a pretty rendition; a butterfly just above the title, snakes crawling on either side, vines stretching out across the scope of the image. there’s a kind of mystique to it. pretty.
wuthering heights, you read off the cover.
a little odd, in hindsight. you’ve only ever seen him read nonfiction. maybe he decided to broaden his horizons?
after a brief moment’s contemplation, your feet begin to move. taking another small step forward, inching closer, while the door falls shut behind you. blocking out the snowfall and colourful lights illuminating the street. 
mitten-clad hands go to brush stray snowflakes off your shoulders, as you shift from foot to foot, halfheartedly attempting to warm up your numbed toes. wallowing in the atmosphere of the cozy little bookstore; breathing in the smell of peppermint, the hint of freshly brewed coffee. from the boy, you assume — he’s got his usual mug on standby, a cute little black dog etched into the ceramic. steam rises from it, floating up into the air, and a fragrance of espresso wafts throughout the store.
low christmas music plays from the speakers, barely audible. pleasing to your sensitive ears and tired mind. it’s the usual mix of well-loved songs, for the most part, but then some you haven’t heard before. you can only assume he picked them out himself; pretty instrumentals, or low, gravelly voices, adding to that particular atmosphere simmering around you. nostalgic, a little melancholic.
the boy behind the counter looks angelic. 
he always does, when he’s reading — and he usually is. gentle, in the way he turns the pages, awfully delicate, keeping them still between his thumb and forefinger. lips pursed, brows just a tiny bit furrowed. concentrated, immersed. dark eyes trailing over the tiny letters, scanning the ink of the paper, twisting the syllables inside his mind. almost tasting them on his tongue, with the way he wets his lips. they look a little chapped.
for some reason, the sight seems to render you sort of speechless. frozen. like he’s a pretty bluebird seated on your windowsill, chirping softly in the wake of morning, and you’re afraid of scaring him away.
— his eyes meet yours, and you visibly stiffen.
it’s smooth, the motion of his hands. how swiftly he flicks the book shut, placing it face down on the counter with a twitch of his lithe fingers. not before slipping a pretty bookmark in between the pages, lilac-coloured, with flowers embroidered into the silky texture. you wonder if he made it himself. 
his voice spills out into the air, a little raspy. deep, but velvety, sending shivers down your spine. he clears his throat, and you watch his adam’s apple bob. ”do you need anything?”
a second passes. 
it catches you off guard, the mellow sound of his voice. when you’re so unaccustomed to hearing it. excluding the brief words you’ve exchanged paying for your novels, you’ve only heard it a select few times — mostly from afar, not-so-sneakily listening in on his conversations with the pink haired boy and pretty girl who sometimes come in and never look at any of the books. 
(there’s the tall guy with the not-so-seasonal sunglasses, too. but when he enters the store, all you pick up on are usually grumbles and threatening hand gestures.)
but now, that low, low voice is directed at you. 
it can’t be good for your physical health. or mental, for that matter. you’re not sure you remember to properly breathe, and you’re almost certain hearts aren’t supposed to flail the way yours is right now. 
when the boy behind the counter tilts his head, just by a hair, you’re finally snapped out of your little trance. stumbling for something to say, stuttering out a response, your hands grip at the insides of your pockets.
”well, um — i’m looking for a book.”
a moment passes. the song coming from the speakers changes into an instrumental, kind of jazzy. it’s nice.
”… a specific book,” you elaborate, under your breath. gnawing at your bottom lip, feeling a bit of heat on your ears. clearing your throat, as you step forward, tearing your mittens off with your teeth.
searching for a certain image, your numbed fingertips begin to tap at the cold screen of your phone. the warm air of the bookstore envelops your chilled knuckles, and a shiver runs through them.
the boy watches, silently, as you get closer. 
you don’t notice him glancing at your reddened hands, and when you look up to see a glimmer of something displeased in his eyes, you only assume it’s because you’re taking too long. speeding up slightly, you hear a low click of his tongue. his back straightens.
when he gets up from his chair, you notice that he's tall. you don’t think you’ve ever seen him do anything but sit behind the counter with a book in hand, either reading his own or scanning a customer’s. 
and, upon closer inspection — he’s maybe just a little bit too pretty for words. smooth, pale skin, a sharp jaw and defined cheekbones, dark eyes that hide a subtle kind of softness. pierced ears, a glimmer of silver on his earlobes, same as the rings on his bony fingers. his nails are painted black, a little chipped. and he’s wearing a big, bright green christmas sweater; one you really can’t imagine him picking out on his own, if his previous all-black turtlenecks and gray sweaters are anything to go by. 
while you fumble with the phone in your grasp, the pads of his fingers go to silently tap at the edge of the counter. a rhythmic motion; forefinger, middle finger, ring finger, over and over again.
it’s a little bit distracting. when he moves his hand a certain way, his big sweater sleeve rides up just a tiny bit, showing off the blue veins of his inner wrist. you think you catch a glimpse of a mole or two on his pale skin, and you swallow down a gulp, feeling a little like a victorian man seeing a girl’s ankle.
and then finally, you locate the image in question. swiftly showing him the cover of the book you were assigned to read. he squints a little, blinking drowsily, a flutter of his pretty eyelashes that has your heart skipping a beat. 
you clear your throat.
”i’m supposed to read it before christmas break, but i couldn’t find it at our library…” you tilt your head, a little sheepish. ”do you have it here?”
he stares at the screen for just a second more. then he’s angling his head to the left, finger pointing towards a corner of the store. ”it should be over there,” he hums. monotone.
a tentative smile forms on your lips. you thank him, and his eyes find yours.
all he does is shake his head, softly, brushing you off — a silent don’t worry about it. maybe a tad gruff, but you sense an acute gentleness to it. something tender, kind of. or maybe you’d just like to believe the kindness you sense in his eyes is real, more than just a delusion. 
but you don’t have time to dwell on it. the boy behind the counter goes back to reading, cradling the spine with his pretty hands. when he tries to grab the handle of his mug, one of the rings on his fingers knock against the ceramic, and he clicks his tongue in annoyance. 
you go to hunt down your own book, still thinking about his voice, how it trickled like honey from out his lips. 
the bookstore is entirely empty, tonight. no loud noises drilling into your groggy brain, no people to chatter amongst themselves and disrupt the illusion of peace you gain when you spend time here. a tiny respite, from your studies, from the stress and fatigue that you’ve come to associate with winter. hunting for christmas gifts, finishing late assignments, trudging through the snow. pretending that you have it all together.
but here, none of that matters. 
a sense of calm washes over you, as your eyes trail over the books by the science fiction section, and a soft sigh tumbles from your throat. gradually, your hands begin to warm up, and you look out the window.
outside, the world is blanketed by a veil of snow and frost, pure whites and murky grays as far as the eye can see. falling down to earth, smothering everything in a bitter chill. a cold, cold embrace. but when looking at it like this, from inside a cozy bookstore, with a pretty boy by the counter…
it's a breathtaking sight. 
little snowflakes descending, dancing in the wind. desaturating your world. if you close your eyes and focus, you think you can almost feel the wind nip at your fingertips, almost taste the fragrance of dried tea leaves and caramel fudge from the tiny shop across the street. almost bask in the green and red of the decorative lights in the skeletal trees, illuminating the city, buzzing with artificial warmth.
(your heart feels light.)
it doesn’t take long for you to find the book you need. keeping it safe and warm between your arm and torso, you walk back to the counter, gaze still lingering on the windowpane. the little snowflakes fluttering about, the glimpses you catch of passerby and their knit scarves in the darkness of the winter evening.
the boy behind the counter is as efficient as ever. he takes the book, fingertips resting exactly where yours just were, and scans it in a matter of seconds. you pay, and he puts it in a plastic bag, handing it to you — all while his copy of wuthering heights sits on the counter, pointedly, as if beckoning you to mention it.
before you can think to stop yourself, you’ve parted your lips. 
”is it good?” you ask. finger pointing at his book.
the boy blinks. eyelashes fluttering. once, then twice. he seems a little caught off guard, but still speaks within a split second. almost like he doesn’t even think about the answer. ”yeah.”
a hum buzzes in your throat. you shift a little, from foot to foot, plastic bag in hand. ”i’ve been meaning to read it,” you say, desperate to prolong the conversation, ”but i haven't had much time lately.”
a chuckle slips from your lips. it comes out sounding just a little exhausted. 
(he glances at the dark bags beneath your eyes, but you don’t notice.)
”i think i might buy it in time for christmas break, though…” you lift your gaze to meet his own. showing the briefest glimpse of a smile, polite. 
he doesn’t return it. lips pursed, silent, gazing at you with slightly lidded eyes. a navy blue, little splotches of a murky green blooming in the corners of his iris. they only appear when you’re this close. soothing, somehow. they’re pretty.
he isn’t saying anything, not a single word, and some part of your heart clogs up like a clump of wet snow. subconsciously, you trap your bottom lip between your teeth, digging into the soft flesh before letting go. cowering a little under his intense gaze.
did you annoy him? 
(he probably doesn’t want to talk to you. maybe he thinks you’re hitting on him, or something. are you hitting on him? that doesn’t matter. he must be stressed — it’s holiday season, after all. the last thing he needs is some annoying customer taking up his precious reading time. 
gosh, what were you even thinking?)
you’re just about to excuse yourself, mentally berating yourself for forcibly striking up a conversation with an obvious introvert — 
when the sound of something sliding against wooden material catches your attention.
you blink.
the boy behind the counter does a little cough. under his breath, clearing his throat. he wets his lips, in what you immediately recognize as nervosity — absentmindedly fidgeting with the rings on his fingers. 
”here.”
when you look down, a certain book is placed on the edge of the counter, right in front of you. wuthering heights.
another blink. you look down at the hardcover, and then back up at him, but he’s not meeting your gaze. if you look closely, you think you see a slight flush to his neck, red like a candy cane. 
”you can borrow it,” he says. a pause. then he continues, clearing his throat again, a hint of hesitance in his raspy voice. ”… if you want to, i mean.”
”… ah.” is all you can answer. barely a word, more of a weak little hum. an absent tremble of your voice.
outside the comfort and warmth of the bookstore, the wind whistles, digging its claws into the city. tiny whirlwinds of snowflakes dance from street to street, fluttering about joyously. you vaguely pick up on the song from the speakers changing, into a poppy christmas-themed kpop song.
a moment passes.
your muddled mind finally reacts. on instinct, sending little instructions to your frozen limbs. to your heart, face down on the floor, completely useless.
”oh — no, there’s no need!” you blurt out, putting your hands up hastily. waving him off. ”it’s fine, i can just buy my own copy!” 
but the boy only clicks his tongue, with that signature furrow of his brows. ”you’re a student,” he states, just a little gruff. but then there’s that kindness. ”you shouldn’t waste your money.”
you’re just about to protest, when he continues. ”besides,” he sighs. ”i’ve already read it. you can just bring it back whenever you’re done.”
and again, your instinctual desire is to protest. unsure of what to say, somehow exasperated by his trust. that’s what it is, isn’t it? trust. trusting a stranger, a customer he’s barely even spoken to, not to just take his book and then never return. trusting you to be a decent person. a good person.
isn’t that naive?
something sprouts like a snowdrop in a ridge between your ribs, though, and you know that it’s happiness of some kind. you’re glad, that he has something even vaguely similar to trust in you. 
glad that he’s acknowledging you, in a way. your presence, the sneaky glances shared between you. the comfortable feeling that sleeps inside your veins when it's just you and him, silently passing each other by, in a quiet bookstore that feels a little like heaven on earth. a safe haven, of sorts, with no incompetent professors, tight deadlines or numb fingers.
it’s just him, and cozy christmas music, and a pitter patter rhythm of your heartbeat that sounds a little like jingle bells to your muddled mind.
a lump forms in the back of your throat. you gulp it back down, and part your lips. an unsure question spills into the open air. 
”are… you really sure?”
”yeah.” he doesn’t even skip a beat. fingers tapping at the edge of the counter, over and over again. another slow moment passes. ”we can… talk. about it.” he coughs into his closed fist. ”once you've read it.” 
with a soft furrow of his brows, he averts his gaze. his voice comes out sounding soft, albeit a little rough around the edges. ”if you want,” he adds.
you’re so distracted by the flutter of his long eyelashes that you barely even feel your lips stretch into a smile. your hearts skips around happily within the confines of your ribcage, and you’re worried that you might look a little too excited — but how could you ever hide your joy, when he’s acting so dangerously, uncharacteristically cute?
”yeah!” you blurt, teeth peeking out when you flash him a bright smile. and finally, he meets your gaze. pretty eyes fixed entirely on you.
at your evident enthusiasm, his shoulders seem to relax. the rapid tapping of his fingers ceases, and he opts to simply bite down on his lip — attempting to obscure his own smile. but you see it, anyway; a tiny, tiny smile. the softest little curl of his lips. you’re entirely mesmerized, all the same. 
a hand goes to rub at the back of his neck, and he does that cute little cough again, and you wonder if the warmth sprouting in your chest will be enough to protect you from the snowfall on your way back home.
angelic; that’s the impression he always seems to leave you with. you wonder if he has any idea just how pretty he is. if he has the slightest clue. you wonder if you’ll ever be able to tell him, yourself.
you wonder if you’ll get to know him, someday. if you’ll ever get to know the pretty, quiet boy behind the counter of your go-to bookstore, who radiates a softness so palpable you wish you could stay there until spring blooms beyond the windows and melts the frosted glass. 
with tentative hands, a little shaky — not from the cold, but the anxious and excited tingle of your bloodstream — you reach for the book on the counter. taking it into your arms, cradling it gently, like it’s so fragile the pages could scatter away if you aren’t careful. with a steady hand on its spine, you begin to flip through the pages, until three little words on the first blank page catch your attention. 
without thinking, you repeat the little scribbled down sentence under your breath. hoping for something. more lulls of his voice, maybe, mumbling to yourself but hoping he’ll hear.
”happy birthday, tsumiki…”
the boy stiffens. 
a silent beat. then he clears his throat. ”my sister,” he explains, and you hum.
so he has a sister. a tiny fragment of his existence, now known to you, a little piece of trivia. you want to collect them, want to put them all in your pockets and carry them around, like little precious bells. 
”megumi,” he blurts out, sudden, and you look up from the book to meet his gaze. ”my name,” he elaborates. and then a pause. ”i work here.”
in a matter of seconds, his face reddens. ears and neck slathered over with that sweet cherry hue, blooming across his pale skin. a soft giggle slips from your lips, before you can think to bite it back, and that red hue exacerbates. 
”mm,” you hum, an amused smile on your face. eyes crinkling as you look at him, book safe and secure in your arms. ”i've seen you.”
megumi looks a bit like he wants the ground to swallow him whole. squirming slightly, shifting from foot to foot, tugging a little at the sleeve of his sweater. looking into your eyes, and then back at the counter.
it’s sweet. it makes you feel closer to him, somehow. like you aren’t the only nervous one here. like you aren’t the only person in this city who’s a little bit of a mess. 
(it makes the sludge piling up inside your brain feel just a little more bearable.)
”… thank you.” you smile. ”i’ll take good care of it. and i’ll bring it right back when i finish it.”
a low hum. megumi brings a hand up to fix his bangs, nimble fingers running through dark locks. absentminded — a nervous habit, maybe? ”don’t worry about it,” is all he says. 
again, that sweet dichotomy; a hint of something gruff, hiding an unmistakable softness. a little like snow. cold to the touch, enough to make you want to stay away, but then it melts on the skin of your palm. turns soft and warm beneath your touch.
unable to fully hide the smile still lingering on your lips, you allow yourself one final inhale — letting that scent of peppermint and espresso invade your mind, soothing every frazzled nerve inside your brain. then you put wuthering heights in your bag, protected and snug, and get ready to leave. 
it’s still snowing. if anything, it seems to have gotten worse, enough that all you see when you glance towards the frosted windows are little clumps of snowflakes. obscuring everything else.
just when you’re about to speak, say a little goodbye, a voice spills out into the air.
”… the snow’s supposed to get worse. apparently.”
his navy eyes carry a gentle hue, as they look into yours. maybe a little worried, like a protective mother wolf towards her cub. you blink, and megumi sees it as his cue to continue.
”you can stay until it gets better.” 
a brief pause. his signature cough reaches your ears, and it’s enough to have you smiling, even before he adds a tiny if you feel like it. nonchalant, or at least you think that’s what he’s going for. he mostly just sounds like an awfully caring person trying awfully hard to appear uncaring.
and again, a little smile slips itself into the curl of your lips. all giddy and nervous, a little flustered. but happy. now you won’t have to walk through the relentless snowfall outside, feel the wind chew at your reddened cheekbones. now you can spend just a bit more time with him, bask in those quiet, drawn out moments of pure peace, browsing through books while he sits and reads behind the counter.
”thanks,” you breathe. adjusting your knitted scarf. ”i think i'll look at the books a little more, then.”
megumi’s eyes soften. relieved, you think. hope. it’s a subtle shift, but still enough to notice, enough to see. little splotches of a mossy green sinking into that sea of ink blue.
you think he must feel a little embarrassed, though. like he’s gotten too close to broaching the line he’s set up between the two of you. because he quickly fixes his gaze entirely on a book in his hands, a new one — was it just waiting beneath the counter? 
you don't think much of it, but you note that he's back to his usual nonfiction. something on astronomy, you think.
and with one final glance at his tousled hair, you begin to stroll through the store. languidly, walking to whatever spine captures your attention. savouring the tiny words on the back of the books, wallowing in the peppermint and espresso that wafts through the air, only growing heavier while you’re busy admiring the white opaque frosting of the windows’ glass. 
at some point, the low whirring of a coffee machine buzzes from afar, and when you turn to the counter megumi isn’t there. 
a little later, when he comes back, he’ll be carrying two mugs — matching dogs etched into the ceramic, one black and one white. he’ll put one of them on the edge of the counter, closest to you, and then meet your eyes. give a vague nod towards it, but nothing else. you’ll notice the red tint to his ears, though.
and when you do, a warmth will blossom in your chest, enough to chase away the phantom ache of the winter chill soon to envelop you.
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when the little bell of the bookstore jingles its jolly tune, and the door shuts itself as you cross the threshold to leave, megumi lets out a barely audible sigh.
he thinks his heart may be beating just a smidge faster than usual, a little out of rhythm. palms against the counter, he allows his eyes to flutter shut — trying not to acknowledge the heat he feels on his face when he finally begins to process your interaction. 
he smooths a hand over his face, skin just a little sweaty. chewing at his bottom lip with two sharp teeth.
god.
really, it was no more than a stupid twist of luck. that you happened to come in just when he started reading it, that you noticed and didn’t question him on any of the contents. that you believed him when he said he’d already finished it.
and, sure, maybe he was secretly really hoping you’d come in. really hoping you’d notice it, that it’d be enough to make you strike up a conversation with him, something, anything. 
he happened to see you eyeing it once, that’s all. twice, and then thrice, each on different occasions. tsumiki’s old collection came in handy, rotting on the dusty shelves of her room — although he has no memory of her ever reading it.
(he remembers some, though. remembers her reading a few of them to him, on nights he couldn’t sleep. remembers the soft lull of her voice, how the whole world seemed blanketed by a wool of safety.
he wonders if he’ll ever get to hear it again.)
megumi’s heart feels warm. despite everything. 
even though he didn’t even get past the first half of wuthering heights, and has no idea what the hell he’s going to be able to talk to you about. even though he thinks heathcliff is a dick and catherine is a brat, and wishes they could save everyone else the trouble and just talk to a psychiatrist.
even with the cold baring its fangs outside, and the cup of espresso sitting right in front of him, still untouched, made with the store’s shitty coffee machine. even in the ugly sweater gojo forced him into. even though he doesn’t even really know you, not even at all, and still somehow feels certain that you’ll come back with tsumiki’s book in tow.
trust. 
megumi thinks it’s a little weird, how just that single overlapping of your gazes when you first stepped in seemed to solidify such an abstract notion. he’s always had a sense of it, though — a sense of goodness. an ability to seek them out, those good people, bubbly and cheerful and so tragically hard not to love. 
no matter where he goes, he ends up finding them. like tiny sunflower seeds persisting beneath the winter snow. blooming when spring comes around, in a burst of golden vermillion.
resting his jaw on the heel of his palm, megumi allows himself to wallow in the solitude of the bookstore. tired eyes soaking up the words on the pages he flips through, slowly, utterly at ease. drinking his shitty coffee, trying to ignore the itchy feeling of the sweater on his skin, unable to forget the memory of your stupidly pretty smile. 
so pretty he thinks it might just keep him warm, all throughout winter, until you return once more. bringing with you the glimmer of snowflakes on soft skin, and a pleasant fragrance of tea leaves from the cozy shop across the street.
a single sunflower, persisting even through the cold. 
megumi smiles. a tiny curl of his chapped lips, while he flips the pages of his book. content in the knowledge that this won’t be the last time he speaks to you.
(now he just needs to read up on some good papers on wuthering heights.)
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puppypeter · 7 months
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I want to read about Jamie courting the hell out of Roy, wining and dining him, bringing him coffee in the morning, leaving him pastries on his desk with a sweet post it note, buying him flowers, making him hella flustered and panicky at the lack of control because that's always been Roy's role when dating someone
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emoreooo · 23 days
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so carry me from these walls, brother of mine
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runespoor7 · 2 months
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this is nieyao to me
NMJ: i could fix him
JGY: you don't have to
NMJ: no i'm gonna
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carnivalcarrion · 8 months
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I had a thought about the welcome home character designs. Is it possible that Wally was made/designed by someone different from the other puppets?
I'm not just talking about the fact he is the only one without a nose (though that is what started me thinking down this line), but everyone else (sans Eddie, but maybe we haven't just been shown) seems to push The boundaries of what a puppet could be: Barnaby and Poppy are Big, Howdy has four arms and four legs, Frank's spinning head, Sally's head needing more than one puppeteer, Julie's hair, heck, Home is a freaking house. Wally compared to this colorful crew seem... Well, I don't want to say plain but he definitely seems to be the vanilla ice cream of the bunch.
oh god YEAH OKAY um my brain's a lil too smooth lately to answer this correctly but there's. oh fuck ok there was a Thing i saw - a theory, im blanking on who was talking about it but it was Top Fucking Tier - about how Wally might be like... not a projection
but a... sort of mirror? an Ideal Self? to the in-canon playfellow creator, Ronald Dorelaine. the theory had a thread (if i remember correctly) of connecting the creator's name to Wally, similarities in sound and meaning and even some of the etymology i think they said...
but that could explain why Wally is a little... different. more... pure? im missing the right word rn but idk, his design is Graceful and Composed in comparison to the others. he Is indeed simpler, but in an "ideal" way. he's very appealing and non-cluttered to look at. he resembles a human, while not being too human-resembling like Eddie.
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kenobion · 1 year
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Andrew Garfield at the GQ Men of the Year Awards
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jils-things · 1 month
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WHEN I TELL YOU @4rachnophilia UNDERSTOOD THE ASSIGNMENT I MEAN IT 💚💚💚💚💚💚💚🥹🥹🥹🥹🥺🥺🥺🥹🥹💚🥹💚🥹💚💚💚🥹🥹🥺🥹🥺🥹💚🥹💚🥹💚💚💚💚💚🥺🥺🥹🥹🥹💚💚🥹🥺🥺🥹💚💚💚💚🥹🥺
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youareunbearable · 1 year
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I swear I wrote this down before, but I cant find it in any of my notes so here's a little fun idea! When the world gets recreated so its no longer Arda Marred, I think the Valar got together and Looked at the Finwe problem and shrugged and decided to make all of Miriel and her descendants Maiar to slove that tricky little problem of Remarriage.
Because the Feanorians are now Maiar, they aren't technically born, meaning they aren't really siblings and part of the same family so there is no real issue in separating them now is there?
Miriel is one of Vaire's weavers of course, and Feanor is one of Aule's most talented smiths, but that is understandable as he is the spirit of Hearth Fire itself. There are others within Aule's Halls, but their knowledge of each other is passing, for Celebrimbor tends to stay with the jewelry makers and Curufin likes creating hunting gear for Orome's hunt
Orome is almost never seen without his most prized hunter, Celegorm, who prefers a form that looks more wolf than Elf.
Vana, Orome's wife, herself has a pair of giggling and twittering songbirds that follow her around as she follows her husband's Hunt. They dance and sing and twirl in sync that many often just call the pair of them by a singular name, Ambarussa.
Irmo within his forest full of Song and Music has a very talented Maia that is so in tune with thr Song that they can play with it however they choose. Maglor only uses this ability to give the Elves good dreams, of course.
Este is forever thankful of her assistant Caranthir, who keeps all her medical necessities and books in order, so she is always prepared to help those in need, even if he himself doesn't have the best beside manner.
Lady Nienna’s Maia, Maedhros is a bit more of a recluse. He is charming when spoken too, but there is something distant, some type of lingering melancholy that clings to him, like a weak dawn in the deepest days of winter. He tends to hide himself away in the forests surrounding Formenos, helping those who are lost find their way back home.
Then there are Finwe and his beautiful wife Indis, their children, and many grandchildren. They are a stunning example of a happy family, and all the citizens of Tirion love having them as their royal family. Nothing is ever wrong, even when Fingolfin’s daughter Aredhel got lost during a hunt, she was lucky enough to be escorted back to her worried brothers' camp.
Fingon, who had never felt the degree of terror that flooded his veins at the thought of his sister lost in the woods, terror that was much stronger than what was called for because what could befell her in their peaceful land of Valinor?
She was being ferried on the back of a behemoth of a horse, pristine and laughing at the antics of the silver wolf-like Maia walking at her side. The horse was being led by a silent Maia, who smiled softly at the pair but made no move to include himself.
Fingon looked up at the tall Maia, and felt something in his fea shatter. He always had felt like something was missing, that he would havr an urge to go looking for someone he could never find, catch himself looking up to share an idea with someone who must have been taller than him only to look up at empty air. His bed felt so cold, but no matter how high he tended the hearth flames he knew it was because it was empty. He would look to the distant mountains and see a dawn peaking over their tops and weep as something in his fea ached.
Everything felt so overwhelming when he looked at this Maia, this being that looked cold, who wore furs and had snow dusting his shoulders even though it was a warm sunny summer day. Fingon was so lost in the sensations swirling within him that he was too slow to act before the Maia helped Aredhel off his horse, swung up himself and was out of the clearing. That wolfish Maia giving his sister a laughing twirl before bounding off into the thicket, chasing after the distant horn call.
Fingon’s knees felt weak, he found himself sinking to the forest floor. This world may be Arda Remade, but he still felt Marred.
#amber rambles#Silmarillion#maedhros#Feanorians#fingon#there was more to this that i thought i wrote down#basically the story is in Arda Remade fingon finds that he is the only one in his family that feels Off#he doesnt knkw why. no one has memories of arda marred but fingon knows he lost something precious to him in the remaking#finwe is worried for his eldest grandson. he doenst know why seeing someone he loves turn so melancholic makes him afraid#it just does. so he urges fingon to visit Lorien to soothe his Fea and heal#here he meets Caranthir and Maglor and he feels a connection to both and spends a lot of his time he#there bothering the both of them and he shares his feelings with maglor who just humms and agrees with him#that the Music within his fea is missing something.maybe someone? maybe hes supposed to go out and find them#maglor tells him to let the Music guide him and Caranthir gives him supplies and then fingon is off#he travels around Valinor by himself. where he meets the other non-Feanorians and feels pieces slot together#his most eye opening experience was meeting with the Maia Feanor and his Elf lover Nerdanel up in Formenos#she agrees with him that what hes feeling is valid as she also lost something in the Remaking#she cannot have children and this aches as she has dreams of a full house and 7 perfect sons that are no longer hers#she shows him her sculptures and as he looks he realizes he has met most of them on his journey! not elves like she has created#but Maiar who under their unnatural differneces look almost identical to these sculptures#he pauses at the last one. the unfamiliar one. Nerdanel sighs and says she feels like this one was her first born#the one she lost even before the Remaking. Fingon feels the same. this face makes him ache.#he wanders the forest that night haunted by these people. these elves he feels like he should know but doesnt. hes so in his thoughts#he doesnt realize hes lost. he calls out into the woods and hears nothing call back but his echos. a chill crawls up his spine#his breath begins to fog and there is a sound behind him and he twirls and there is rhat sculpture. his missing piece#Dont Worry. the figure of Winter and Memory says to him. I Found You#You Found Me. Fingon replies
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cheesebits · 11 months
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more skip and loafer sketches because i’ve been reading the manga and it has touched my soul in so many ways
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couthbbg · 3 months
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happy JT day :) x . x
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andy-clutterbuck · 1 year
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vvanessaives · 10 months
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–what does your heart look like?
i was tagged by @katsigian @halsin @devilbrakers and @nuclearstorms to take this quiz for some of my ocs, thank you soso much everyone!! mwah
i think many already got tagged so feel free to ignore this or jump into it!! tagging: @reaperkiller @aragorngf @morvaris @malefiicarum @faarkas @risingsh0t @florbelles @indorilnerevarine @denerims @cultistbase and you!!
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a bird struggling to get loose
Your heart can never hold still. It pounds against your chest frantically, always turning your sights to one thing after the next. When was the last time you were certain? The last time your life was stable? Maybe this is how you prefer things. On the move constantly, not tied down to one person or place. You chase one goal after the next. Can you ever really feel complete without a place to land? Shouldn’t you build yourself a nest?
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a tangled ball of red strings
Who are you without the company of others? You aren’t sure, but you know that you aren’t fond of whoever it is. You are an actor, a pretty face and a pleasant song. Many idolize you, or love you, but you can never be sure of how sincere it is. Your heart is buried under the letters they leave you, sealed with a kiss. It can’t be untangled from the red strings they’ve attached to you. You deserve to find something, someone, true and faithful to hold your heart in place. You don’t have to be everything to everyone.
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molten lava and charred flesh
Your heart burned so fiercely that it burnt itself out, leaving horrible scars in its wake; scars inside your chest and on the hands of those who touched you, the hearts of anyone who got close enough to connect to yours. The person you are now is no longer recognizable, burnt up by your own anger and passion and love. The injuries can never be fully erased, but they can be soothed with time and trust and forgiveness.
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hypo-critic-al · 2 years
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*<yelling from the back of the crowd>* Give us some Clervalstein content!!!
[comedic pause]
Please!
Thank you!
With pleasure!!
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The boys,,,
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rexscanonwife · 1 year
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Toshi is beyond the help of any kind of healing power that my self insert possesses, but it does ease the chronic pain he's in for a short time! He often visits for 'pick-me-ups' throughout the day, and sometimes she gives him tea enhanced with her magic potion. As a gesture of her friendship and platonic love for him :)
Bonus Izuku and Ochako witnessing this ♡
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He's just as dense as his dad (Toshinori 💖💖💖)
@self-ships-ahoy @jetiimooniverse (I hope it's cool to tag yall ur my mha moots rn)
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crazy-fangirl2524 · 7 months
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Kevin Day listens to classical music to fall asleep when he can’t (or to chase away nightmares)
#yes Nora mentioned in the EC Kevin listens to classical music and I believe it calms him#indulgent hc by me because I can’t fall asleep rn and I’m listening to some music on repeat and I’m just thinking#which foxes will do it#Andrew and Neil won’t cuz it will cover footstep sounds and it will make them paranoid that they will miss out important sounds so not them#I mean I can see any other foxes doing it but like do they need it?#cant see any foxes having serious insomnia (except for Andrew and Neil)#but just imagine Kevin day needing to hear classical music to be able to fall asleep#becaus even when he closes his eyes he will still be able to hear the music and that will tell him how he’s no longer in the nest#because ofc riko and the master won’t let him listen to classical music to fall asleep#okay but all the foxes are so sleep deprived and tired there’s no way they can’t sleep#BUT let me be indulgent okay maybe Kevin has a hard time to fall asleep (but he’s a deep sleeper lucky him) so that’s why he’s so hard to wa#wake up#but just okay imagije sometimes Kevin cant sleep but exy videos and history will wake him up so he just play some classical music#and boom he can relax and slowly fall asleep#since then he listen to it to fall asleep (whenever he doesn’t feel too sleepy and tired or when he can feel it’s a bad day and there will b#be nightmares)#or who knows maybe Kevin day will branch out and listen to like um idk music type but those chill soothing (NOT LOFI I HATE USING MUSIC WITH#BEATS TO SLEEP) maybe just those soothing calm music and then wow he loves it and boom he listen to those to fall asleep#this is me completely projecting on Kevin day rn#btw I’m listening to snowfall on loop to try to fall asleep but it’s already 4:30am lmao#also I’m so weird I need to play just one song the entire night to fall asleep like the soothing repetitive pattern helps me fall asleep#I’ve told my frds about it and apparently I’m the ONLY one that does this none of my frds like playing a song on repeat so ig I’m weird#or it’s my insomnia but anyways#therefore I also believe Kevin day will play this one song on repeat the entire night to try to fall asleep#also I have a playlist just for sleeping and every night I choose one song to put on loop to sleep to it (there’s only a handful of songs I#I can fall asleep to so yeah I beleiev this is the exact same case with Kevin Idc#aftg#all for the game#tfc#the foxhole court
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