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venii-vidii-vicii · 5 years ago

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Can we get a fic about Percy and Heartman's first meeting? I'm curious to know how they met. Thank you!

They met under a gay rainbow thank you for writing this ask!

Jk jk

Here's your fic, anon.

Percy hated the mountain. He hated the snow, the cold, how fucking hard it was to walk through it. Every time he closed his eyes he could feel the anger boil up inside him, at least it kept him warm, but his mind was heavy with thoughts, as it usually would be when he was so pissed off that he could feel it in his throat, making him want to collapse and vomit all over the pure white snow. But he swallowed it down and kept marching on.

He checked his cufflinks to take another look at his map, somewhere near a heart shaped lake was his next stop. He should deliver it with a punch. The porter shook his head, the cold and the anger was getting to him, it made the thoughts in his head almost unbearable, when usually he could easily make them nothing but background noise. He needed music... or something. He tapped on the discs on his ears, the sides turning a neon blue as the headphones turned on and music started playing.

After what felt like an eternity and some more, he could finally see his destination. It was what seemed like a luxurious house, actually, it had to be one of the most luxurious places in all of the UCA. Percy rolled his eyes. Great, he thought, some lonely rich snob who lives on top of a mountain.

He climbed the stairs and as he stood by the door he saw the welcoming fire on the other end, he did not hesitate to step in, almost dropping his cargo as he tried to get some warmth from the fire place, some actual heat rather than the fire inside him.

After a few moments he huffed and grumbled as he turned on the terminal to deliver his cargo. To his surprise, he wasn't greeted by someone on the other end, but rather a computer. Nice, a stuck up rich snob who wouldn't even meet him after he came all this way.

The computer seemed frozen for a moment and then came a disembodied robotic voice "administering shock, please stand clear."

Percy almost jumped. What shock?

But nothing came. He turned back to the terminal and the screen faded, only to be replaced by a chrialgram of a man, dressed in a blue suit, leather gloves that looked much like Percy's own(minus the blood) , and some strange device strapped to his chest. Percy stepped closer to take a better look at it. "AED" the letters read.

"Hello. You must be the new Porter. Excellent timing, I've just returned." The man said and Percy followed the voice with his eyes until they met the other person's. His hands suddenly numbed, unable to carry the cargo that was in his hands, and they dropped to the floor with a thud, followed by a few short beeps and red glows.

Percy's mind was unexpectedly made clear upon seeing the man's smile, the friendly look on his face, and how charm seemed to ooze from him and into a puddle that swallowed Percy whole. All the rage in his stomach, all the anger in his head, gone. The boiling in his stomach turned to a garden of butterflies, growing, threatening to break free and rip his body open. His usual stoic and cold expression was now replaced with that of awe. The man... was the most beautiful creature god has made. Percy hated himself for thinking that, but damn it if it wasn't true. It wasn't the way he looked, Percy know. But it was something more powerful than that, something almost inhuman.

"Did I die out in the cold?" He must have. Of course! It made sense now. A warm, cozy, and luxurious home, and what must be God's greatest angel? He must be dead and this is just the gate to heaven!

"I certainly hope not."

Percy shook his head, attempting to wake himself, and wake he did. He saw the cargo on the ground and immediately went to pick it up. "Shit! This is the first time I dropped them. I promise."

The man laughed and Percy could feel it straight in his heart, like little icy daggers, ripping through him, and it felt violent, it felt fucking good!

Fighting the haze, he put the cargo in the locker that popped up from the ground and signed off on his delivery.

"Thank you. Please," the man gestured to the hallway. "Come in. We should have time for some formal introductions."

Percy heard a door open somewhere in the hallway and he turned his head to look at it. To his disappointment, when he turned back, the terminal was already closed and the chrialgram of the man was no longer there.

He stepped into the hallway, looking at the decorations on the wall, made frightening with handprints that resembled the BTs own, and the glass containers that held century old fossils. Must be a collector, he thought, before finding the open door. From the outside he saw pretty much more of what was in the hallway. When he walked in, he was taken aback by the paddeed floor, the pink and blue lights, the giant sculptures of BTs and other such creatures, and a very large collection of music, books, and films.

In the middle of the room stood the man. He was even more beautiful in person, tall, lean, wires poking out of his chest from the opening of his shirt and connected to the device that was strapped onto his him... maybe it was the lighting that added to his charm, who knew. All Percy knew for sure was he held his breath as he approached him, and the closer he got, the weaker his legs became. "My name is Heartman," the man said, pausing to extend his hand. "Or so they call me." He added. Percy reached back to shake Heartman's hand but stopped midway when he noticed the stains of blood on his gloves where he had pummeled a MULE earlier. He quickly withdrew his hand and took off his glove then shook the man's hand. Luckily Heartman didn't press on the matter. Good, he didn't feel like explaining his violent tendencies to a stranger.

"Percy." He finally said when he realized he had forgotten to introduce himself.

"I see you like music, Percy." To say Percy liked music was an understatement but he nodded regardless. Heartman gestured to his shelves. "Then perhaps we can enjoy some together when you're not busy, and I'm not dead."

Percy nodded again, almost immediately. This had to be heaven! Then it hit him. "Wait what?"

"Myocardial Cordformia" Heartman said simply then moved to the shelves where he kept his music, pulling one at seemingly random and showing it to Percy. "What kind of music do you like to listen to?"

Percy followed Heartman and scanned the shelves. He recognized a few artist and didn't most the others. "Myoc-What?"

"Heart defect. You see, I have an unusual heart shape. It's quiet literally a heart shaped heart." Heartman explained and Percy tried not to get distracted by the way the man moved his hands as he did but it was almost mesmerizing. "Genre?"

"Indie," he shrugged. "Synthwave, rock, psychedelic pop. Whatever I'm in the mood to listen to, I guess." A pause then, "a heart shaped heart? That sounds pretty cool."

"Well yes, if it didn't negatively impact my life, I suppose it would be." Then, "I'm afraid I don't know much about psychedelic music, but perhaps you'll find something from the other genres here. You can listen to it till I come back."

Percy blinked, visibly confused. "Where are you going?"

"The beach. 21 minutes here, 3 minutes there. My life is split between them. You see---" well Percy was looking, that's for sure. There were a lot of big words being said that he had no fucking idea what they meant. But he loved the sound of them. Something, something, life cycle, something, something. The guy was a genius, it didnt take Percy that much brain power to figure out.

His eyes followed Heartman's hands, they never stood in one spot for too long. Too many gestures... But they were elegant in the way they moved, sophisticated, light. Something Percy's own hands can never be. There was something so pure about them, about the man as a whole, spiritually, maybe. Percy couldn't tell.

Then it stopped, and Percy woke from his trance.

"Oh" He said then cleared his throat. "Must be tough."

"It's rather easy to get accustomed to. But it becomes troublesome when it interferes with social occasions."

As if on cue, the disembodied voice spoke "5 minutes till cardiac arrest."

"Such as now. Anyway, psychedelic music, you said? I don't believe I've heard music from that genre before."

Percy grinned. "It's pretty much what the name implies, just really weird trippy music I guess. But it helps me relax"

"Sounds interesting. I'll certainly look into it. Perhaps you can send me some of your favorites? I should be registered in your contact list now."

"Oh..." Percy said softly at first then followed it with a slightly louder. "OH! Yeah! Sure!" Wanting to keep the conversation going (which was a struggle, seeing Percy wasn't really a man of many words. But the man had such a charming voice that Percy just didn't want him to shut up), he asked. "What about you?"

"Well,"

"2 minutes until cardiac arrest. Please proceed to a safe area"

"That's a question for when I return, or perhaps some other time. I understand a porter's job is never done and I don't wish to slow you down."

Right... deliveries to be made. Percy felt disappointed at that. He wanted to stay, to hear more about the man, who he was, his condition, his life. It didn't matter! He just wanted to hear him talk. He could listen to his voice for hours and hours... like music.

Heartman laid down on his chair, he looked peaceful, unafraid of what's to come. Percy wondered how long he's been living like this.

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Percy"

The porter sighed. The way Heartman said his name made him fall in love with it.

Fall in love...

Oh.

Then, there was silence, short lived, as the room was filled with the sound of music, soft, calm, fitting for the departure.

The porter couldn't help but take the time to really look at the other man. Vulnerable in his state, fragile, but so calm. He resisted the urge to press his hand to the side of Heartman's face and trace the outline of it. He didn't often get to see a dead body that wasn't mutilated by him. Their final moments were always so violent, nothing like this. Nothing so peaceful and beautiful. It was breathtaking, so much so, that it made Percy's chest tighten. It hurt like a son of a bitch.

He should get out of here. It was too early for him to do something he'll regret. It was difficult but Percy detached himself from his position, and headed towards the door, and without looking back, he left. But at least he had the comfort of knowing he would end up here again and perhaps, with each visit, he could get to know the other man more and more, and maybe the man could know him as well.

Suddenly, the mountains didn't seem so bad.

#percy porter #heartman #death stranding #AU #postgame

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a-copper-butterfly · 5 years ago

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Title Suggestions Needed!

OK so i posted this before but i have edited it a bit and added a new intro. im still not sure if i should continue this but what the hay, have a look and give us some feed back. :)

here is my re-write of good omens where the ineffable husbands raise Adam.

Monday, five days before the end of the world.

It was sunny, well, as sunny as it every was in the centre of London.

For those you don’t know, London is a vaguely potato shaped blob about ten miles across, with its own weather system which is almost entirely different to that of the rest of the UK.

Warlock was moping along his nose glued to his phone (not literally, thought Crowley sometimes wished he could get close enough with some glue without the little nuisance noticing.) Warlock had perfected the art of nearly completely ignoring the world around him, but remining just aware enough that he could complain at anyone who might distract him. His mother was walking along admiring the sculptures, pausing now and then to read an information sign. She did this much in the same manner as most people the world over when they want to look more intelligent than they are. They don’t actually read what is written on the information board, just frown and nod like you agree with what ever had been said then point to it and repeat a few lines when a friend or family member joins you. Thus, the whole cycle repeats itself.

A little way from the stroppy pre-teen, representatives of both heaven and hell discussed the fate of the world.

“I mean, he could just disappear,” suggested the Demon. He was slouched on the wooden bench. This was a master level slouch of someone who had trained for years to hold his body in such a position. A normal person if attempting this would pull a muscle if not worse.

The Angel that sat prim and proper next to him frowned,

“I don’t see how hiding him would help?” he said, which earned a glare form his companion. The thick sunglasses that covered the Demons yellow eyes obscure the fond irritation directed at the angel.

“I mean kill him Angel,” he clarified.

The Angel shuffles in his seat uncomfortable about this conversation. He tried to change the subject, but not too much avail.

“Are you going to get him a dog?” Azriaphale looks over at Crowley, know full well that he had been asked to provide the hound and that this was purely a diversion.

“I thought you were going to sort that out.” Crowley responded, rolling his concealed eyes.

“Why are we getting him a dog anyway.”

Crowley gave a side glances at his companion, silently noting the use of “we”.

Azriaphale wasn’t done with his grumbling, “Do remember the hamster?” he continued.

“Sir hamserlot? Yeah.” Crowley cringed at the memory of the tan and white little rodent. The poor thing when through so meant names it was a wonder it didn't have identity issues.

“How meant times did we have to pull that poor creature back from the jaws of death?” Aziraphale says shaking his head. The poor thing had eventual snuffed it permanently when the boy had gotten it into his head that hamsters could swim. They can, much like rats, but being put in a crudely made ship and pushed out on a duck pond in the middle of winter would be terminal for most rodents or any other small mammal.

A dog is a bit bigger. This was the only argument Crowley could come up with at the time.

“Well” Azriaphale relented “he is a bit older now.”

Crowley shuffled further into his slouch.

“It's the end if the world Angel.” He muttered gloomily, “Just give the kid what he wants. And he wants a dog.”

Aziraphale flinched at this painful truth.

“Well you have a point dear. Fine, he can have a dog.”

There was a pause as they watched Warlock ignore the world around him and play on his phone. The cartoonish sounds of games annoying the people around him. Crowley smirked; apps had been one of his ideas. Well, according to hell they were. Humans were always doing his job for him; he just took the credit when the higher ups asked about it. He sighs and slips back into the conversation about the end of the world.

“We’d better be there when the dog arrives” Crowley said darkly.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary. I think he can look after himself and a dog for a few hours. He is old enough now, don’t you think?” Aziraphale smiles nodding in agreement with himself.

Crowley shot the angel a withering look.

“I meant the hellhound and Warlock, not some overly excited puppy with a bladder size of a spoon. This is going to a monster. The biggest they have got, according to downstairs.”

Aziraphale lip touched in a pout. “Oh” was all he said.

“I'm going as waiting staff don't want people recognizing me.” Crowley continued. “Can you bring him?”

“He said he doesn’t want to go. Said warlock isn't fun to hang out with anymore.” Aziraphale said, fumbling with a button on his sleeve cuff.

“Too bad. He is going to seeing a lot more of him whether he likes it or not. That is if there is anything after.” Crowley responded darkly. He still hadn’t figure how they were going to make it through the next few days.

A sudden though shot through Aziraphale mind.

“I could be the entertainment! I’ll brush up on my magic!” he said excitedly, beaming at the idea.

“Oh no, angel, please don’t. Really, it’s humiliating.” Crowley protested, “You can do miracles, why bother doing sleight of hand when you’re not good at it?” Aziraphale bounced in his seat. This was going to be fun.

One late august night just outside the small village of Tadfield,

When a snake regurgitates its food, its normally because it had been grabbed or handle soon after eating or is otherwise subjected to stress.

As Crowley knelt in damp grass on the bank beside the road, he wiped his mouth. The light from the Bentley’s open door revealing the grey sludge that was even now burning the grass. The small part of Crowley’s mind that wasn’t screaming in panic wondered when the last time he had eaten was. Without the help of the rest of his brain, he guessed around six years ago.

Pushing himself up onto wobbly legs, Crowley slid back into the driving seat, switched on the radio as he did so. As he pulled the car back onto the road, Crowley checked the rear-view mirror. The carry cot was still there. This was real.

“Shit, shit, shit, why me, why me?” he muttered to himself. The radio crackle,

“BECAUSE YOU EARNED IT CROWLEY” came the voice of Freddy Mercury.

“Fuck…” though Crowley.

Sister Annabelle Houghton was totally normal, much to the annoyances of her parents. They were traditional occultists who gave her supposedly cursed china dolls and pretty, frilly dresses in attempts to get her possessed. They had even moved at an old house which the nice estate agent had made very clear was the site of quite a few murders and ghost stories. It even had its own graveyard in the garden. Her swing was hung in an old knarred oak tree which legend had it was used as a hangman’s gibbet, but she never used it. When Annabelle eventually grew up, her parents had lamented and had sent her off to the Sisterhood of Chattering Nuns of St Beryl. Not too worried about this, Annabelle went along as she thought it might be interesting.

Now she sat looking out of one of the convent’s window keeping watch for the arrive of Master Crowley and the baby boy he carried with him. The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this world, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness. She was very excited; this was a big day and she, Sister Annabelle, would be part of it. A cup of tea sat on the windowsill beside her. It had gone cold hours ago, No matter.

A car came screaming through the gates of the convert an excitement jolting up her spine. Sister Annabelle leapt from her seat and began to quickly click her way down the hall towards the foyer. She turned the corner expecting to see one of her sisters talking to Master Crowley but broke into a run when she saw which sister it was. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Sister Mary Loquacious, she was a lovely person when you were sat having a chat, it was just that things, important things, tended to go wrong when she was involved.

“Mother Superior! Mater Crowley is here!” she half-yelled, her fists full of her skirt as she leaped down the three little steps leading up to the corridor. Crowley quickly ducked behind a column in responses to the shouting. Shouting mostly lead to pitchforks, torches and a bad time for him.

“Greeting Master Crowley” she said, tried to smile and make her voice sound cheerful but her eyes were screaming at Sister Mary Loquacious. If she wasn’t holding The Anti-Christ, she may have shoved her out of harm’s way (harm’s way meaning any damage Sister Loquacious could cause to others, not the other way around). Sister Annabelle stopped next to her sister, peering at the bundle in her arms. The baby gurgled quietly. She quickly curtsied to Master Crowley who was still looking between the nuns wondering if he could slip out before anyone noticed.

The double doors leading to the hospital rooms flew open and a furious old nun stormed through. This was not part of the plan. She ran her icy gaze over the two nuns, who both know the consequences of that stare. Her eyes found Crowley who was trying not to look like a rabbit in the headlights, he was a demon after all. There was no escape now.

Long hair, sunglasses, modern suit, snakeskin shoes? Not what she though one of hell’s best demons would look like. She raised an eyebrow and forced a smile.

“Master Crowley, you’re just in time.” she walked slowly with an air of control. Crowley drew himself up to his full height. The Mother Superior had the eyes of a school master and they are well known for making even the naughtiest individuals squirm.

“Sister Annabelle, please go and retrieve the child of the ambassador and inform the other sisters that the switch will be taking places presently.” she smiled at the terrified nun who swallowed and nodded, turning to hurrying down the hall. Crowley tried to sidle towards the door. He stopped dead when the older nun eyes dropped on him. He tried to give her a confident smile.

“Master Crowley, if you would just pop over to the desk, we have a few papers for you to sign just to keep everything in order.” she turned and glided over to the foyer desk and began to draw papers out of a file. Crowley reluctantly followed her, dumping the now empty carry cot on the desk before propping himself up on it.

Sister Mary Loquacious frowned. She rocked the Anti-Christ in her arms. He was chewing on his hand. She had checked, it didn’t have claws. She looked up at Master Crowley and frowned again. She walked over to the desk,

“Umm Master Crowley?” she asked and terrifying yellow eyes looked at her over dark sunglasses. Something in the very pit of her soul screamed and told her to run. It was the same part that makes skulls scary, even though they are always smiling. She took a step back,

“Yeah?” he grunted. Mother Superiors levelled her glare at the Sister. She didn’t notice, now over the shock of yellow eyes she felt bolder,

“What is going to happen to the spare baby?” she asked. Crowley rolled his eyes to the Mother superior who was trying to set the younger nun on fire via sheer force of will. Without taking her eyes of her pray the Mother Superior said,

“Yes, that was something I was going to ask you as well Master Crowley. We are willing to go through with the switch, but we want nothing to do with disposing of the baby,” her eyes now turned on Crowley “We may be satanic Nuns, but we are not monsters.” Crowley paused at this juxtaposition. He huffed and turned back to the paperwork, one of hells better inventions,

“Put it in the carry cot, I will deal with it,” Crowley replied absentmindedly. “Sure, why not?” Crowley thought “Not like it will matter in a few years anyway”. Sister Mary Loquacious ginned the kind of grin that would suggest she didn’t quite understand what was going on.

“Sister Mary, please take The Young Lord down to Sister Annabelle.” Mother Superior said as she started pulling out more official looking papers. Crowley slouched at the prospect of more paperwork. Sister Mary Loquacious nodded happily and pushed through the double doors leading to the hospital rooms. Now that The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this world, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness was out of eyesight, Crowley felt a weight off his back. He no longer wanted to vomit.

Sister Mary Loquacious had found a potable cot for the anti-Christ, in which he now rested. his red blanket tucked around him. She pushed him down the hall spotting sister Annabelle pushing a similar cot out of room 4. Sister Mary paused outside room 3 ready to make the swap. A putrid smell began to waft up the hall. Both sisters gaged. A similar smell began to rise form the baby in the cot in front of Sister Mary and the babies began to cry in unison. Sister Annabelle reached Sister Mary, her face pushed into her shoulder and her eyes watering.

“I think our lord has made us an offering,” she gaged as she spoke, “and this little man has also given us a gift too”. She pushed open the door to delivery room 3 and hurriedly pushed the cot in. Sister Mary followed with her own charge.

“You change the babies and I will fetch the carry cot from Master Crowley.”. It was clearly just a excuse to getting out of having to be in same room as the stench for any longer but Sister Mary didn’t want to argue. The smell was truly awful.

In the bed, Mrs Young turned over a frown wrinkling her brow, some internal mothering instinct told her that a baby needed changing but something else told her it wasn’t hers so sleep on.

Sister Mary hesitated as she plucked the Anti-Christ from his cot and laid him on the changing table beside the door. She unwrapped the blanket and dropped it back in the cot. The baby whimpered as she removed the dirty nappy and cleaned him. She cooed at him. “Imagine little me changing the Destroyer of worlds’ nappy and powdering his little tush.” Sister Mary thought to herself. The baby in the other cot began to cry.

The mother in the bed yawned but stayed asleep. In an attempted sooth the baby, Sister Mary picked the ambassadors baby up. He was a chunky baby and quite heavy. Sister Mary had to shift him about a bit before they were both comfortable. The white blanket was lost in this juggling. As she bounced the baby the door to the room opened. Expecting sister Annabelle, Sister Mary turned to face the door where a man peering around the door.

“Err Hello. I’m the father, the husband, whatever.” He stammered, walking over to stand by his wife. Looking up he wondered over to the babies looking down at the baby on the changing table.

“Is this him?” he asked in awe. The baby looked up at him and immediately began to cry. Terrified about what he had done he scooped up the baby and began to pat his back.

“Umm no, these two not yours. Your baby is with your wife over there.” She nodded towards Mrs Young and the cot next to her.

Sister Mary was beginning to gag over the smell coming from the baby in her arms, she laid him on the changing table and began to clean him up.

After soothing the baby in his arms, Mr Young laid the baby down in the empty crib. He picked up the white blanket and tucked it around the baby. He walked over to the cot next to his wife and looked down at the baby. A small part of him was hopeful that he would look upon the face of his child and instantly recognized it as his own. But when he looked down at the sleeping baby, he looked identical to the two with the nun. This one was a little smaller but there wasn’t a moment of recognition. Of course, he didn’t say that. He smiled and looked back at the nun who was disposing of the nappy in a small bin next to the table.

“You know he looks like me.” He said proudly. The Nun smiled at him, rewrapping the baby,

“Have you thought of a name?” she asked. There was a nervous air about her. That probably came with having to look after two babies at once. He had new respect for people with twins and triplets.

They had discussed names but not come to any solid concoctions, they had a name if it had been a girl and after twitching the blanket back it couldn’t be used anymore. The baby snuffled in its sleep; Mr. Young jumped back afraid that he would make it cry like he had the other child.

“We haven though of any names for a boy,” he explained as the nun had finished changing the baby in front of her. Then, looking down at the second with a frown, she looked at the baby in her arms. After a moment hesitant, she seemed to come to a conclusion and plopped it in the second cot wrapping it in the red blanket.

“Well, what about the classic like Luke, John, Adam. Bible names and the like?” She rocked the babies in the cots. Mr. Young though about this for a second as he looked back at his son. He didn’t really look like any of those names, but they were good honest names. Suddenly a nun scuttled into the room. She looked a little out of breath. She looked at Mr. Young the way one would look at a velociraptor. She managed to school her features and smile at him.

Sister Annabelle had returned to the front desk and immediate run into Mr. Young who had asked what room his wife was in. Directing the man to the room without a though until she had picked up the carry cot. She had just sent an imposter into the same room as The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this world, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness. Picking up her heels again, she took off down the hall and was now stood with Sister Mary, two babies and the carry cot. She turned her slightly manic smile on Sister Mary. She winked. Sister Mary Winked back. They smiled at each other.

“Baby removal services,” she laughed pushing the baby with the red blanket out of the room. She pointed at the carry cot next to the remaining baby and nodded down the hall. Sister Mary nodded back. She placed the carry cot on the changing surfaces and placed the remaining baby in the white blanket in it. Scooping up baby and carry cot she moved to leave the room,

“Umm,” said Mr. Young using the tone of someone who doesn’t want to be a bother but is no doubts going to be a problem.

“Is there any paperwork I need to fill in,” he asked nervously. Always ready to be helpful, Sister Mary nodded and beckoned for him to follow her. It wasn’t until they entered the hall that she realized this might have been a bad decision. She could see Master Crowley’s back to her when Mr. Young held the door open. Trying to think fast she walked up to him putting the now full carry cot next to him on the desk.

“Here is you son Master Crowley,” she said as way of explanation. The yellow eyes turned on her and the primal urge to run shot up her spine. Mr. Young was too distracted to notice, walking up next to her and leaned against the desk.

“Umm, does the birth certificate need signing?” he asked looking over the desk at all the papers. The Mother Superior who had been overseeing Crowley filling out all the correct papers in the right places. It wouldn’t do to have buggered up the paperwork on such a big job. She pulled a file over the papers and put on her best plastic smile. She flicked through the relevant files and produced a birth certificate for Mr. Young. She also pulled one out and handed it to Crowley. Conscious of the presents of Mr. Young, Crowley took the offered page. Mr. Young peeked into cot at the baby.

“He’s a cute one,” he says trying to rope Crowley into a conversation so he can talk about his own kid. Crowley doesn’t acknowledge him. Not deterred, Mr. Young filled in the birth certificate leaving the name till last. He still needed to talk to his wife about it.

“Though of a name yet?” he asked. Again, this was met by silenced. Mr. Young looked over at Crowley, he was well dressed and very out of places here. He didn’t have the look of expectant father. He looked worried.

“We were thinking about Adam,” he continued. This conversation was going to happen even if he had to do it himself. However, this got a reaction out of the other man. He laughed. He snorted then laughed out loud.

“Something wrong with Adam?” Mr. Young questioned, getting slightly defensive over a possible name for his son. The man pushed his long hair back away from his face. He was handsome, even Mr. Young had to admit that.

“No, it’s a fine name. But I knew an Adam once, he was a complete bastard,”.

Sister Mary giggled under her breath. But then frowned at the thought of how a demon knew the original Adam. She puzzled over this for the rest of the conversation.

Mr. Young let his shoulders drop,

“What would you suggest then?” he asked sheepishly. Crowley turned on him and Mr. Young had to squash a sudden urge to back away and make himself small. Crowley looks him up and down before speaking. His emotionless sunglasses making it feel like he wasn’t blinking. He wasn’t but behind the glasses no one could tell.

“Something royal may be. Henry, James, William?” he suggested. Mr. Young felt better about these names.

Crowley looked back at the almost complete page in front of him.

“It doesn’t matter, it will all be over in eleven years anyway.” Crowley mumbled glumly as he looked at the last section of the certificate

FIRST NAME:

It was blank. He stared at it. Did he have to name it?

“Oh,” Mr. Young said confused. In an effort to change the typic he looked into the cot again, “You know, he looks like an Adam.” he added.

Crowley huffed but he couldn’t think of anything better. Plus, it made sense in an ironic way. Crowley scribbled the name down on the final dotted line on the page pushing it towards the nun. He snatched the carry cot of the desk and strode out the lobby. Mr. Young tried to wave goodbye, but Crowley was long gone.

Sister Annabelle handed the baby to the ambassador’s wife who looked down at him with the love of a first-time mother,

“Sorry that took so long Your Ladyship, he is such a scrumptious little man. Every nun in the convent had to coo at him,” Sister Annabelle sighed as she stood back, her job was done. She really needs a cup of tea now.

Mother Superior quietly pushed open the door and came in.

“Oh what a little lord,” she said causing all nuns in the room to smile. “Have you thought of a name?”

The convent burnt down that night. However, the only paperwork that was destroyed was form that night. Apart from the birth certificate of one James Henry Young

Crowley pulled the Bentley into a short dead-end road that was the entrances to a farmer’s field. He cut the engine and the lights of the snarling beast of a car disappeared, leaving only the dark hedgerow in front of him.

The silence enveloped the car, seeming to seep in through all the gaps in the doors and poured out of the vents. Soon Crowley was engulfed in it. He paused, appreciating the moment. The sound of the engine cooling was the only noise that could be heard inside the car. The carry cot next to him cooed. He looked over at his new acquisition and pulled it closer to him. He carefully pulled the small and oh so delicate baby out and laid him across his knees looking up at him. The baby yawned but seemed very much awake. The white blanket that was bundled around him stopping his arms from moving.

Crowley huffed and rubbed his faces pushing his glasses off slightly. He squeezed his eyes shut and began to mutter at the baby,

“Okay first test,”

He pulled his glasses off completely and crouched over the baby sticking his tough out. Letting the glamor over it drop so the tips flicked over the babies scrunched up little nose. His eyes almost glowed yellow in the darkness he didn’t show his true, true form just these small parts. The Baby screeched and Crowley jerked back worried, but unsurprised, that he had terrified the poor thing. When the screech turned into a gurgling laugh, he looked back at the baby who had wiggled free an arm and was grabbing at Crowley with a gummy grin. Slight confused Crowley rewrapped the baby in his white blanket and shifted it to be cradled in his arms,

“Okay so you passed the first test. Now we need to go other some ground rules if this arrangement is going to work out.”.

The baby babbled at him trying to wiggle free of his confines. He seemed fine with the whole yellow eyes and snake toung though. Probably knew no different, Crowley wondered leaning back in the driver’s seat.

“So I will house you, feed you and take care of you until you have worked out how to use a toilet after that we can look into the walking, talking, reading, writing business but there are some conditions that you have to uphold,”.

The baby sneezed, looked shocked at this strange turn of events, blinked a few times before looking back up at the demon. Now that he had the baby’s attention again Crowley continued,

“Firstly, the family you came from, the one that has the antichrist.” The baby watched him with uncanny eyes that seemed to understand what he was saying. That or more worryingly for Crowley he was ranting at a newborn infant that had no idea what was going on and was just watching him make noises in the dark car.

“Warlock, they called him Warlock.”

The baby gave him a half smile, hoping that the smile was from recognizing the name.

“You’re gonna have to be friends with that brat. secondly you will not get in my way or interfere with my work.”

The baby yawned at him. It seemed that all the excitement was getting the better of him its eyes began to slip closed. Crowley rocked him slightly trying not to enjoy holding the child, a small part of him that was thought to be long dead, started to thaw. He placed the baby back in the carry cot in the passenger’s seat. The baby whimpered at the movement but settled back in the crib snuggling into the blanket.

Crowley backed out and onto the road, where was the nearest mother care?

Azriaphale had just got back to the book shop when the phone rang. He paused hanging his coat up on its peg, before picking it up, he suspected who it might be but wasn’t sure. He plucked the phone from the handle and held it daintily to his ear,

“I’m dreadfully sorry but I’m afraid we are closed at the...,” his polite but discouraging scripted was cut by a very familiar voice,

“It’s me Angel.”

It sounded although Crowley was making this call from a phone box. Oh dear, what trouble had he gotten himself into now.

“Crowley? Is that you?” he asked anyway knowing the answer,

“Yes. We need to talk.” He said matter of factly.

“Yes, I rather think we do.” Azriaphale thought of the conversation he had had with Gabriel earlier that day.

Crowley looked through the window of the Bentley at the sleeping baby inside. He hung up the phone and got back into the car. He looked over at the child. He was so small. Crowley stroked his cheek with a black nailed finger.

“You have no idea what is going on. I envy you Adam,” the baby sighed in his sleep.

#good omens #good omens fic #Ineffable Husbands #crowley x aziraphale #crowley good omens #aziraphale good omens #adam young good omens #fanfic

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md3artjournal · 6 years ago

Text

venting angst productivity failure time sleep practice progression

12:10 AM 3/25/2019

My daily figure photo series "Waiting for Ryuji" plus the daily/monthly drawing challenges I keep doing, are both destroying my days. ��x____x; It's been more than a week, and I haven't even finished the 23 paopu halves plushies I was supposed to do within 1-2 days! I have so many projects to do for artist alley in early July! ;O; So many new products I want to make, but I have no energy! It's becoming clearer that I only have energy for 1 (maybe 2) projects per day! ;O; That's just the 2 daily art projects/challenges to keep my art muscle in shape! ;~; Aughhhhh! ;o;!

Thank goodness I take notes for how long it takes me to draw different stages of a drawing, or else I would never have noticed I've been taking 3 hours per sketch. O~o?!!!! How is that?! I'm not trying to be polished with those! That was supposed to save time! I mean, I'm not doing all-nighters anymore, like I did for Inktober 2017, so that's an improvement. But 3 hours?!????????? It takes me 10 minutes to do the primary sketch. I know I can have problems designing a costume or conceptualizing a monster design, but 2 hours and 50 minutes?!?!?!?????? Omg... I'm so hopeless. Is this worth keeping my illustration muscles/skills in shape? I've already accepted that I'm not an illustrator. I suck too much. I usually call myself a crafter, a jewelery, or a clay sculptor...Even though I've been drawing more frequently than ANY of those in a LONG time. x~x;;;; Is all this time really worth just TRYING to become better at drawing? ;~; I wanted to be able to nurture this skill so I could express myself with drawings, whenever I needed to express something. But today was "Kiss Ryuji Day" and I was still too intimidated to draw anything for it, because I'm too afraid of how bad my attempts always turn out. I couldn't even draw a good hug between Ryuji and Akira during OTPtember2018! (It was such a bad drawing...That I tried SO hard on! ;_; ) I mean, I have to admit that I could turn some of my Magical March and MerMay challenge drawings into merch for artist alley, but objectively, none of it is good. It's good *for me*, but compared to the competition in artist alley...What am I even doing there?!? Looking at my sales data, the answer is I'm selling polymer clay sculptures, so again the question becomes, why am I using so much time to learn to draw, just so I can express myself, when it eats all my time away from making more clay sculptures that actually sell? Is being able to express myself such a hang-up for me? ...Yeah. ~.~;

So what about the figure photography? I'll admit that those answers are simple. It's a good way to practice an "eye" for composition, lighting, posing, etc. I suck at it, and I don't put much effort into my lighting to mean anything against such greats as Kixkillradio, Love Pink Cheeks, Nendo Stories, etc. When I look at their stuff, I can recognize how little I'm trying, and I have to ask myself "why am I even trying?". Considering my self-expression fixation, figure photography is a good fill-in medium until I can better develop my drawing skills. And I did originally start collecting figures to use as drawing models, which unavoidably funnels me into figure photography, so it's not like it's something I'll fully stop doing even if I stop setting up photoshoots and dioramas. But I also really like making miniatures, figure accessories, diorama props, etc. My sister said something like that if something makes me happy I shouldn't feel guilty about it and I should pursue it. Whether I vent about how terrible I am for spending so much money on Nendoroids or when I refrain from buying supplies that could make my life less irritating out of frugality. Maybe just feeling happy from doing figure photography is enough to justify it. So maybe I shouldn't stop. ...But I need to stop spending hours on Photoshop elements for figure comics. That needs to seriously cut down, especially for a daily photo project.

I know it never works when I resolve to stick to a schedule, but I really need to cut down how much time I use for these daily art projects, when artist alley is in a few months. I don't outsource my products. I have to make each and every one by hand. That's the curse of the crafter. I need to use more time for these crafts. Jewelry, sculpting, designing, problem solving fabrication, etc...It's all stuff I love to do and once I start I don't want to stop... But at this rate, I'm never going to get to it. And then it'll just be a repeat of my horrible history. Sure, last year I was able to finally make enough polymer clay Wayfinders to not sell-out my entire stock, half-way through Anime Expo---for once! But it was still a situation of crunch time focused only towards my essential products and past best sellers, vs the thing I really wanted to do, which is making new products as well. I waste so much time watching productivity videos, trying gameified motivation apps, and so much time wasted trying bullet journal techniques, thinking that if I just use this tracker or try this analog gameification technique, I'll finally stick to a schedule and thus be able to do everything I need and want to do.... But it always fails. I really can't do more than 1 thing reliably per day. And I have to practice daily to keep my skills up---my skills are too low to keep it to a once-per-week practice session.

And it's started to wear down on me how much all these attempts and failures at a schedule are ruining my sleep cycle. Everyday, there's a midnight I don't manage to get into bed on time, or a midnight in which I don't manage to be truly productive before midnight, so I have to stay up to get something done so I can go to bed, feeling good about myself as a person. It's not as bad as school, but it is still a daily sense of failure, like school. I recall the months (years?) that I resolved to no longer try to have a normal person's sleep schedule and just simply work on my projects as long as I have the will for, and than collapse into bed whenever. I worked hard to have no social life, to have no one in my life vying for my time, so I should have no need to live in the same Time as anyone else. But I had a breakdown last year, where I had to accept that I wanted the revive the good relationship I used to have with my mom, and I had to resolve to put some effort towards that. So now I guess I have to live in the same Time as other people. So I can't just be noctural and asleep while everyone else in my life is awake. Yesterday, I think they tried to wake me to go to my uncle's birthday party/luncheon/dinner, but I sleep during the day and wake at night now. I don't have FOMO for parties, being an introvert, but the next time---or rather how many times has my mom wanted to spend time together and I'm just in a different Time than her? They go to movies every Tuesday sometimes invite me, haven't mentioned it in a long while, and for the past 2 weeks, I haven't even been able to be awake enough to go to two movies I've wanted to watch during the Tuesday-discounts. Even right now, I'm staying up late again because I got sleepy during the day, and had to nap (and quite frankly I get better quality and more productive recuperation during daytime naps) so now I'm all rested to be awake...and it's past midnight. Last week I finally got to a place where my sleep cycle more resembled a normal person's pattern, after 2+ weeks of work towards that. And then one or 2 projects that went into the night, and all that progress was gone. Sleeping like a normal person wouldn't be such an issue for me if I would actually be rested enough to be awake for when I want to get to work. But I can't sleep even when I'm trying to sleep. I'm amazed how spectacularly my attempts to sleep fail whenever I get to bed early ("early" as in a normal person's sleep pattern). Is this all a lost cause? Just like the rest of my life?

Ugh. I need to eat and sleep.

2:13 AM 3/25/2019 Earlier today, my mom seemed to imply we could watch a movie on cable together, but I was in the moddle of a project. I was fixated on a project instead, since sleep/fatigue had taken all my time, so the rare moments of productive will I have, I don't like to let go of it whenever I happen to have it. It may ruin me, but in the end, I'd rather pay the cost of an all-nighter to get a good piece done, and have something as proof that I can be proud of myself (as well as use for artist alley for years to come), vs getting sleep on a normal person's pattern and have done nothing that stretched me beyond the limitations I thought I had. I like that proof of worth. (I've been seeing posts lately about "your productivity/skill is not your self worth" but I can't completely buy into that for myself anyway.) With my lack of memory and sense of self disappearing along with it, having artwork left along the way, as proof of who I was, what I'm capable of, and as concrete encouragement, proving that I can do great things, I have that inside me, even if those "great" things are just stretching beyond my subjective limitations by only milimeters...those are memories and senses of myself that I want and value. ...And having new pieces in stock, ready to be turned into new artist alley products at the last minute, while I'm feeling bad that I hadn't had time to make anything new, is also great.

#please ignore my idiocy

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