#halo extended universe

[nekoprankster218]

okay so was anyone gonna tell me that Halo released a short story about a Sangheili telling a little girl the story of Fal 'Chavamee while protecting her only to be like "actually this ending is depressing how about you make one up with your toys"

or was I supposed to just find a random comment, wonder wtf they were talking about and thought they meant Oasis from Halo: Fractures, google "halo story shard", and find out there's a whole part of canon that I've just completely never heard about???

[melrodrigo]

Hey Angel - Tardy Drabble

Tara Carpenter x F!Reader

Summary: You throw a welcome party for the whole university, where you meet a certain someone in an angel costume. Things happen.

Warnings: Underage drinking, parties, fluffy stuff

Word Count: 1.5k (yes this was supposed to be a drabble)

A/N: I wrote this while listening to hey angel, one direction rocks man. The start is a little iffy, but it gets better. This is set before the first chapter btw!

“YN! YN! YN!” The crowd roars your name, cheering you on as you eagerly chug the rest of the beer.

Once you finish the 10 bottles they had filled the keg with, you let go of the tube and raise your hands in victory.

You let out an unintelligible sound, and the adrenaline that rushes through you at the sound of people still cheering your name is like nothing you’ve ever felt before.

You’d arrived to the party, your party, fashionably late. But once you stepped foot downstairs your friends were already ushering you to to the kitchen and challenging you to a drinking game.

That was how you ended up here, damn you and your competitive streak.

But the consequences of your actions had caught up quick, because not 10 minutes later you’re starting to feel a little queasy.

“Um…guys, I’m going to go sit down for a while.” You say to no one in particular, and try to make your way through the sea of teenagers to sit down on your couch.

You feel a little bump at your side.

“Woah- sorry about that.” A girl’s voice squeaks from underneath you. You blink, looking down and realizing that she had probably ran into you. Or you into her, probably the latter.

She was an angel, wait no- she was wearing an angel costume. White feathery wings extended from both sides, and a halo placed on her head.

She was so pretty. Like, so so pretty. What other adjectives are there to describe pretty people again?

“Uh, are you okay?” The girl asks again, and you realize you must’ve been staring at her a little too long.

You try and smile, but the queasiness mixed with the oncoming headache you know is about to hit makes you grimace.

“Sorry. Really….drumk.” You manage, and watch as a small smile makes its way to her face.

She touches your arm gently, and it sends a spike of energy through you.

“Do you wanna go sit somewhere? I have an amazing cure for hangovers.”

Hangover…yeah that might just be what you were having. How did you already have one?

You nod, happily.

She grabs your wrist and leads you to your original destination, the couch.

“Your hand is so soft.” You mumble on the way there, not meaning for her to hear. She perks up, and looks back at you for a moment.

“Thanks?”

You nod seriously, “Soft hands are a major thing. It’s the highest of compliments, I love hands man.”

The girl chuckles, shaking her head slightly.

She sits you down onto the couch, tells you she’ll be right back. When she returns, it’s with a different variety of things in her arms. Bananas, a couple of slices of pizza, a full loaf of bread, and a mint.

You’re struck with the realization that you don’t even know this girls name, and that you should probably ask her if you ever want to see her again.

“My name’s YN, and you m’lady?” You slur, trying your best to put on your smoldering face. You extend your hand to hers, waiting for her to reciprocate the handshake.

She laughs in your face, and you frown.

“A handshake?”

“My mom says when we meet someone new we should always offer them a handshake. It’s good manners.” You say, matter of fact-ly.

She giggles, and nods slightly, indicating she’s listening to you. Then shoves the burger and bread into your hands.

“Eat them. Just trust me.”

It might be the alcohol in your system, or the fact that she’s the prettiest girl you’ve ever laid your eyes on, but you heed her orders immediately.

You’re not really sure how to eat the bread, and she seems to realize your struggle. She smiles sheepishly, and runs over to grab a knife and slices you a couple pieces.

When you finish munching on those, she grabs an advil out her back pocket and extends them to you. You take it happily, wanting to get rid of the headache that’s terrorizing you.

She pops the mint in her mouth as she watches you eat, admiring the sight in front of her.

When you start feeling a little better, you turn to her and say, “That’s all you got?”

She raises an eyebrow, amused.

“If that’s what your magic hangover cure is, I can tell you that’s the most basic set of hangover foods ever.” You continue, tone playful.

“Oh yeah? I’d like to see you try better.” She taunts, kicking her feet up to rest them on the table in front of you.

You grin, send her a wink.

“Next time you get drunk, hit me up. I’ll work wonders in under 5 minutes.”

She purses her lips, pretending to think before nodding.

“Okay. You have a deal.”

You guys sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, watching the party. It’s weird that you feel so relaxed in her presence already, seeing to the fact that it usually takes forever for you to open up to someone.

She looks so good under the party lights, you get the intense urge to kiss her. You decide, fuck it, what’s the harm in trying?

“Hey mystery girl? Can I kiss you?” You shout over the loud music, hoping she can hear you.

You know she does, by the way her eyebrows raise up. She stares at you for longer than you’re comfortable with, and you take that as an answer.

“Okay, that’s- that’s fine. You just look really pretty is all.” You say, somewhat nervous but still flashing a toothy grin at her.

“You know what-“ She starts, moving so that she’s side by side with you. Your eyes widen a bit, obviously taken back that your pickup line actually sort of worked.

When she leans in, your eyes are so wide it’s comical. But once again, your bad luck cuts in, and her phone starts ringing. She jumps a little, seemingly startled by the sound.

You peer at her phone and see the name ‘Sam’ appear.

“Shit.” She mutters, quickly declining and slapping her hand to her forehead.

You frown, could that be her girlfriend?

“Hey I’m really sorry YN, but I gotta go deal with something, i’ll see you around?” She hurries out, already getting up and looking like she’s ready to dart.

You’re stuck in a daze, and way too drunk to remind her that you guys didn’t have any contact. Therefore, it would be extremely hard to ‘see her around’, but you can’t bring yourself to speak.

She leaves your rear of view, and you groan, falling back into the couch.

“Stupid!“ You whisper to yourself, eyebrows furrowed.

It’s not very much fun to watch the party anymore, not without mystery angel at your side. So you decide to call it a night, and walk up the stairs to your room.

You shoo away the couple making out, whining and complaining that they can’t keep it in their pants.

The moment your face hits your pillow, you let out a sigh of relief. It doesn’t take very long for you to fall asleep, mystery girl still fresh in your mind.

You don’t bother to get up when you hear a fight starting downstairs, sure that you’re roommates would be able to take care of it and drift off.

______

Ring. Ring. Ringgg.

You groan loudly, damn alarms having to wake you up from the best sleep you’ve had in ages. You reach over to silence it but catch sight of a calendar notification at the bottom of your phone.

Eng lit test, 8.00 am

You glance up at the time display, only to find out it’s 9.30 and you’re already extremely late to your first exam of the semester.

“Holy shit!” You yell, and shoot up out of your bed. You get dressed in record time, grabbing at anything that’s clean. You swipe a piece of bread that was lying around and sprint out your front door.

You don’t know why it takes you so long to notice that you don’t have a headache, which is strange because you always end up with one after getting shit-faced.

“Guess it’s my lucky day.” You mumble, now in front of the hall room door where you’re having your exam. Wiping your hands on your shirt to try and relieve some of the nervousness, you push open the doors.

In your hurry, you forget that your shoes are untied, and somehow trip over the laces, stumbling into class like a wild animal.

Eyes burn into your head immediately, everyone turning to look at the commotion. You try and smile, signal everyone to look away.

A giggle sounds from somewhere at the back, near where you are.

You lock eyes with the perpetrator, and are struck with someone who looks somehow familiar and not familiar at all.

“Take a seat please YN.” The teacher from across the room booms.

You nod eagerly, and move towards said girl.

When you sit down next to her, still eyeing her, it’s like déjà vu.

Déjà vu for what you can’t seem to remember. You shrug the feeling away, thinking if you ever saw a girl this pretty, you would’ve remembered her right away.

Oh well, you’ll figure it out later. Right now you have a test to ace.

[maxinemaxmayfield]

DOUBLE DRABBLE DAY!? For the @strangerthingswritersguild daily drabble prompts (plural!): chill / give in 700 words, teen & up (pre-relationship steddie, post-s4, recreational drug use)

CHILL

Neither of them likes being alone; Steve’s house is too empty, too big, too cold. Every corner is filled with nothing but the reminder that no one cares enough to be there for him, not even his own parents.

Eddie’s trailer, on the other hand, is too full. Ghosts haunt every corner, reminders of the people he couldn’t save, the ones he almost lost, and the hellmouth to another dimension that cracked through his fucking ceiling and changed his life. Sometimes it feels so crowded he can’t breathe. 

So they drive. They never know where they’ll end up. Sometimes it’s the movies, or the diner, or the quarry. Tonight, the weather’s mild and dry, sky clear enough to see all the stars, and Steve swings into a cornfield. 

Eddie tosses him a look.

“What?” Steve asks, driving far enough that they can’t see the road they left behind them. “I don’t wanna be around people.”

“I’m people,” Eddie points out, cocking an eyebrow.

Steve snorts. “You don’t count.” 

“Maimed!” Eddie crows, grabbing one of Steve’s hands from the wheel and dragging it to his chest, like he’s plunging a knife into Eddie’s very heart. The car swerves. “Wounded! Aggrieved!” 

“You know what I mean,” Steve says, pulling his arm from Eddie’s grasp to plant it back on the steering wheel. “I don’t have to think around you. I can just… chill.” 

Steve eases onto the brake to bring them to a stop, nothing but corn as far as the eye can see. He leaves the radio on, playing some shit he doesn’t actually care enough to listen to, and gets out to lean on the hood. It’s still warm. 

Eddie joins him a moment later, already pulling a joint from his pocket. He pats down his jacket, looking for a lighter. He’s always losing them.

Steve has one out and ready in second, used to it at this point. He extends the flame towards Eddie.

Easy. Routine. Muscle memory. 

GIVE IN

Eddie doesn’t waste any time draping himself across the hood of Steve’s car, hair spreading out like a halo. Stars reflect in his wide eyes as he stares at the sky like he wants to memorize it. 

“Ever wonder if there’s life out there?” Eddie asks around an exhale of smoke. 

“There’s enough weird alien shit here in Hawkins, dude. I don’t need to think about the whole universe.”

“Fair.”

It’s quiet for a while, just the faint sound of wind jostling the stalks around them as they pass the joint back and forth.

At some point, they slide down, sitting on the hard ground with their backs against the front of the Beemer. At some point, Steve realizes that he isn’t watching the night sky anymore. He’s watching Eddie’s tongue poke out from his lips, always moving even when he isn’t talking, like he’s having a silent conversation with himself. 

“Willpower,” Steve says aloud. Eddie turns.

“Huh?”

“Like, as a concept. Do you think people shouldn’t always do what they want cause it might be kinda bad for them?” 

Eddie laughs, a deep sound that quickly gets lost in the miles of corn around them. “You’re asking the town drug dealer if he thinks people shouldn’t partake in things that might be bad?”

“Okay, but what about… other stuff?” 

“Man, life’s too short. We’re goddamn walking evidence of that. If you really want something, crave something, fuck it. Give in.” 

So Steve does. He gives in. He closes the space between him and Eddie, reaches out to cradle his palm against Eddie’s cheek, draws him even closer and kisses him. 

It’s short, just the press of lips together, smokey and dry and chaste. When Steve pulls back, Eddie doesn’t move, eyes wide and jaw slack. 

Steve thinks he might have made a mistake. “You, uh… still stand by that advice?” 

“Advice?” Eddie asks, dumbfounded. 

“To give in…”

Something clicks into place behind Eddie’s shocked eyes. “Oh, shit, that’s what you were talking about?” 

Steve nods; can’t help but feel amused. 

“I’m really fucking glad I didn’t tell you to resist, then,” Eddie says, and captures Steve’s lips once more, with such enthusiasm that they both end up in the dirt.

[yuesya]

“Where is she?”

The injured man stirs faintly and coughs, but does not respond.

Sunday bares his teeth in a vicious snarl, seizing the bastard’s collar in his hands –oh, how he wishes to wring this animal’s neck instead, and he would in a heartbeat if he didn’t still need him to talk. To speak, and reveal his youngest little sister’s location to him.

Halovians are widely adored throughout the universe. Their kind are blessed with beautiful appearances and lovely voices, and many are those who find themselves charmed by such attributes. This knowledge is nothing new.

Slave trafficking is, unfortunately, also nothing new.

… This isn’t Penacony, where the Oak Family’s power stands unshakable. Where protection is extended even to the undesirables of their lineage. But away from the watchful eyes of the other families, this was–!

Sunday shouldn’t have let his guard down.

…

He knows that people talk. He knows about the rumors circulating about his youngest little sister –how she’s nothing like him, or like Robin; how she doesn’t even act Halovian at all. The halos of Halovians allow them to communicate emotions with each other through telepathic means, but no one has ever discerned any emotions emanating from the youngest child at all.

Broken, defective, a shame to her lineage and to her siblings–

Sunday should have ripped out their tongues for daring to say such things, and damn the consequences for such an act. Maybe then, no one would’ve dared to even consider the sacrilegious act of selling one of the family’s children–

“Talk,” Sunday demands, with all the authority that’s been drilled into him from his training. “My patience runs thin. Where is my little sister?”

The slaver has the audacity to laugh. “Ha! You think you can threaten me, little boy? Aside from you, no one will miss a Halovian like that, so you might as well let us make some value out of–”

Sunday punches the man in the face.

It’s uncontrolled, messy rage that guides his actions. Something stings on the back of his knuckles, and Sunday is vaguely aware of blood trickling down his fingertips, but there is something that’s almost euphorically satisfying about the startled cry of pain and flicker of fear that flashes across the slaver’s face.

Sunday raises a fist again.

…

Please let her be alright. Please don’t let it be too late–

By the time that Sunday is finally able to force the slaver’s compliance and rushes to the warehouse on the docks where his youngest little sister was taken, it has already taken far too long for his liking. The smaller strides of a young child are no match for those of grown adults, but it does not stop Sunday from running all the same, praying to Xipe that it’s not too late–

Blood.

Of the multiple warehouses, only one of them has blood seeping out beneath its cracks. Enough to form a veritable lake, and–

Sunday’s mind goes blank, and he immediately throws the door open.

A large hand suddenly reaches out, seizing Sunday by the arms with a death grip. It belongs to a rugged-looking man, who stares at Sunday with wide, bloodshot eyes.

“R… run…”

The man falls, heavy like a mountain. There is a knife embedded in his back –all the way up to the hilt.

Sunday ignores the blood staining his sleeves, and looks into the room.

It… looks less like a warehouse for storage, and more like a slaughterhouse. Blood splatters the walls, covers the ground, and everything is red. Dismembered body parts are littered all over in a mess, like some macabre work of art.

And at the very epicenter of it all, stands his little sister.

… There is another bloody knife in her hands.

Her hair… her blue-white hair is no longer pristine, and neither is the matching dress with Robin that she’d been dressed in this morning. Her clothes are tattered, and she’s drenched in blood just like the rest of her surroundings. There’s no question of what happened here, of what she’d done to keep herself safe.

Yet there’s nothing about her that seems disturbed, or tormented. His little sister looks at him calmly, and… even now, Sunday cannot sense any change in his little sister’s emotions.

But even so, all Sunday can feel is relief.

He instantly crosses the room, uncaring of the blood that he steps through to reach her, and engulfs the girl in a tight hug. The feathery wings behind her ears flutter lightly; the only outward indication of any surprise.

“Thank goodness you’re safe,” Sunday tells her, glad. “I’m sorry that I’m here so late.”

His youngest little sister does not say anything. But after a beat, she slowly raises a hand, mimicking his motions in a clumsy hug of her own, and Sunday feels a corner of his heart melt.

“… You’re not late,” she finally says.

Sunday tightens his hold on his unknowing little sister.

[noneorother]

The secret timeline inside of Good Omens season 2 revealed, *part2*

Part 1 l Part 2

The ineffable cut is explained in part 1. Please read that first. (I’ve burnt a timecode into this ineffable edit to help pick up the rhythm.)

So now that I've shown you XX:X6 is the number of the beast in the last installment, what else can we glean? Well, it turns out angel numbers (sequences of repeated numbers ex: 22:22 or 20:02) are quite important events in the S2 universe! I've cut together every "Angel Number" I could find in the timeline and put them in order. I first noticed this near the end of the ineffable cut, where Beelzebub and Gabriel hold hands, so I've started with that one just to give you an idea how bonkers this whole sequence is. Don't forget, sound on! Breakdown below the cut.

So we start off with this Beez and Gabriel sequence near the end of the cut. They start singing to each other a little out of time, but lo and behold, at 02:03:20 the music comes in right on time with the seconds ticking by to line them up. By the time they reach 03:33 they're gone.

Aziraphale is excited to get his "record"! He's doing something sneaky, and as a result opens the door to go off to said covert activity on 00:02:22.

Crowley asks "Do they know?" on 03:33. Who are they and why does he want to know? This whole scene is on a St-James park bench so spying and double speak is in progress, clearly.

Crowley then asks "Something big?" on 00:04:44. We get the hint for the main action of the entire second season here. Something's up with the up...

Now the real fun begins! I'll come back to the ones I just skipped in a later post because they're more subtle. Here's the first "real" angel number at 11:11. Aziraphale discovers THE box and touches it for the first time.

At 22:22 Nina and Maggie's signs are "mysteriously" ignored by a human passerby.

This is wild. Aziraphale is learning about the Everyday record and something funny happens. 33:31 Aziraphale says, " Do you have a copy?" 33:32 Maggie says, "Mm, too many of them" and at the same time a car horn beeps twice. 33:33 Aziraphale is startled by the fact that a double car horn happened on a XX:X2 and looks out the window in concern. So the question is: does Aziraphale feel or know the rhythm of the timestamps?? And are things that line up with numbers a signal he's paying attention to?

A funny one! At 44:44 Aziraphale seems to be wanting to check if Gabriel is really who he says he is, and is watching him like a hawk. Gabriel does all he can to do nothing at all and look innocent while the angel number passes by.

Another funny one. Nice. 55:55 reveals that the Bentley likes Aziraphale more than Crowley, and does whatever he wants, including not speeding when he puts his foot down.

This next one's a little peculiar. It seems like an exchange about Gabriel's whereabouts, but it's the halfway point of the edit (1:11:10-11:11:11) of the ineffable timeline and we seem to be having two conversations at once. Shax says on 11:11 "He hates you." Does she mean that she thinks Crowley hates Aziraphale, or... that Gabriel hates Aziraphale. Aziraphale looks noticeably shocked at her reply. After the eyebrow raise of "You don't seem like his type at all" I would bet we're not talking about Crowley anymore. How did she get this information?

01:22:22 Gabriel does a little laugh to himself while signalling with the lamp. What the fuck? Does someone know morse code?

01:33:33 Maggie extends her had to Nina at the ball, to invite her to dance. Nina looks pleased, but doesn't move until... a very odd miracle sound on a XX:X6 happens and she jumps up to take Maggie's hand. That miracle sound is not Aziraphale's, and besides, he would never miracle on a 6. Who's the demon making Nina dance...

Aziraphale's halo toss is the flip from ACT II to ACT III of season 2, and as such, get's a special time right before rolling over to the second hour. He decides to throw it down on exactly 01:54:45, and at 01:54:54 gets a giant tubular bell ring in the music to highlight the action. It lands on the ground at 01:55:01, and incinerates the demons at precisely 01:55:10.

01:59:59 Beez and Gabriel hold hands, and a magical chime sounds at 2:00:00. Maggie start her sentence "Aww, that's really sweet" at the same time, and manages to finish it on 2:00:02. (Dagon politely waits to pretend to barf on a XX:X3 after she's done.)

The last one is a big one : 02:02:02 gets "to face CELESTIAL punishment" by Michael. This is what we've been waiting for the entire season, the Checkov's gun of the book of life. But, where is it? We then get an odd cowboy showdown style stare-off between Michael and Shax. I'm predicting that missing chunk of time in the bookshop before we come back to Michael threatening Aziraphale with the book of life is going to be a pretty interesting reveal in season 3. -------------------------------------------

People, this is the short version of this post. There are SO MANY things to unpack. Next up is doubled numbers. If you want an ides of what it takes to break things down, here's my workflow timeline right now. The stuff after the first big space is numbers I haven't shown you yet... This show is insane.

[apod]

2024 March 15

Portrait of NGC 1055 Image Credit & Copyright: Dave Doctor

Explanation: Big, beautiful spiral galaxy NGC 1055 is a dominant member of a small galaxy group a mere 60 million light-years away toward the aquatically intimidating constellation Cetus. Seen edge-on, the island universe spans over 100,000 light-years, a little larger than our own Milky Way galaxy. The colorful, spiky stars decorating this cosmic portrait of NGC 1055 are in the foreground, well within the Milky Way. But the telltale pinkish star forming regions are scattered through winding dust lanes along the distant galaxy's thin disk. With a smattering of even more distant background galaxies, the deep image also reveals a boxy halo that extends far above and below the central bulge and disk of NGC 1055. The halo itself is laced with faint, narrow structures, and could represent the mixed and spread out debris from a satellite galaxy disrupted by the larger spiral some 10 billion years ago.

∞ Source: apod.nasa.gov/apod/ap240315.html

[theycallmemisterbutterfingers]

Somebody To Luuuvvvvvv

so, i wrote this fic a WHILE ago, and promptly forgot abt it lmao. it was something i worked at on and off for a month, so it may be a little disjointed. also, I very much recommend listening to Somebody To Love (Queen) while reading, although depending on how speedy you are with reading, the fic will extend past the song's length. ALSO, I started writing it to mirror the lyrics of Somebody To Love, but I lost track of it a little in the last stretch, since there's a lotta instrumental and I just kinda went off HAH

anyhow

oh also i drew this little animation in like October and i'm sorry and you're welcome? sorry because ACK i swear to god i can draw better but you're welcome in case you like it ,,,,, yeah ,,,,,,, much love!!

Can

Anybody?

Find me

Somebody to…

Love.

…

Crowley launched himself up from his desk, sending a few pieces of glass clattering to the floor, shattered remains of his heart. He wobbled for a moment, the alcohol settling in weird places.  Reality spun. He thought he saw stars. And then worse.

He thought he saw his angel.

His knees buckled, and his hand shot out to brace himself on his desk. His other hand reached up to shakily run a hand down his face. Take a look at this poor sod, he thought bitterly, about to berate himself. Then he caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of his window, and he traced the scars down her cheeks that the tears had left in their wake. Crowley sighed, then chuckled—a small, self-deprecating one. Oh, what he’s doing to me.

He’d spent all his years believing in the bastard, chasing him, wanting him, hoping that they were the same. Thinking that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t fully alone. 

And then the angel took his heart and blasted it away with his halo. With his Heaven-besotted ideals that Crowley thought he had left behind. No such relief.

And all Crowley wanted was to love and be loved by him. Too much to ask, turns out.

…

He was behind the wheel. Again. He didn’t quite know how he got there, really, and he didn’t know where he was going, either. All he knew was that he was driving—driving away. Driving far away from…what? The work he had put in for himself—for his angel—to live a life safely in the corner? Maybe. Driving away from being alone? Hm. As if he could be driving away from the ache in his bones and towards Az—well. He wasn’t, at any rate. Crowley cursed himself under his breath and pulled over.

The sun was setting, colors bleeding out into the sky. Bleeding out. Now that was something that Crowley was familiar with. He looked up at it all, trying in vain to see anything—any sign from the Universe, from God, anything at all—but no. His knees hit the dirt. “God…what’re you doing to me? You listening? This part of your Great Plan, too?”

Nothing. Crowley dug his nails into his palms until he drew blood.

They do say that snakes can’t cry. 

Well. 

They also say snakes don’t fall in love. That they can’t feel it.

But just look at Crowley.

🌟

Aziraphale hurried through the empty space of Heaven, a harried look on his face. He had been working nonstop ever since he returned, trying to prove his worth, trying to do good, trying to be good. But there were stares pricking the back of his neck. Veiled criticism, judgement. They thought him odd, strange, impure. Tainted from Earth. They don’t want me here, he thought, then quickly shook it away. He had to keep faith. Believe in good in others, and the good of God. 

But there’s nobody left to believe in me.

…

Aziraphale blinked. He had been heading towards the higher floors, but his feet had betrayed him. They had led him to the globe. His chest warmed seeing Earth, but there was this terrible, sudden ache in his gut. Aziraphale put a hand to his stomach, breathless for a moment. 

Guilt. 

Horrible, horrible guilt. 

His hands shook. His stomach roiled like there was a nest of snakes, snakes, Crowley, his Crowley, his Crowley that he left behind, the desperation etched into his face as he—

Stop, he told himself. Stop. You can’t. Push it down, push it down, remember? You need to focus on your tasks. You need to forget.

Do you? Part of him whispered.

Quiet, he thought. No thoughts. You must be good. 

It would be good, this traitorous part of him whispered. You would be doing a good thing. Checking up on that nice angel, Muriel. 

Oh, yes, Muriel. Of course. It would only take a moment to pop in, after all. He wrung his hands, thinking hard and thinking fast. His tasks weren’t too urgent—just some paperwork, a few visits to the superiors; yes, it would be fine. Tickety-boo. Besides, he really needed to make sure the bookshop and Muriel were fine. Nothing else. What else would there be, really? For such a quick visit, especially? Aziraphale was still for a moment—save for his hands, which shook like leaves—and then with one decisive motion he tapped the globe, and felt himself dissolve into light. 

🥀

Crowley slumped in his Bentley, cheeks stinging, throat hurting. Queen played over the speakers, but he kept losing track of the song, sliding in and out of white noise. After a few moments, he inhaled sharply and clenched his jaw. He was alright. He was fine. He was a demon. Of course he was alright. In fact, he was so alright, he would go and make sure Muriel hadn’t sold anything. At the bookshop. Because he was alright he was alright he was FINE. He stomped on the gas pedal with a bit more vigor than usual and began to whip through the streets, disregarding anything his mind might mutter to him. Perhaps that—Crowley ignoring himself as much as he possibly could—perhaps that was why he didn’t notice the feeling of his angel returning to Earth. 

…

Crowley slammed the Bentley’s door shut and sauntered across the street to the bookshop, confident as a lioness. The confidence was a sham. He was a right wreck internally. He unlocked the door and swung inside with carefully practiced nonchalance, carefully hidden nerves, everything under the surface, as it should be. But the memories still hit him like a Bentley going 90. Frozen, he could do nothing but boggle at the bookshelves with their alphabetized books all in the right places and the angel wing mug with hot chocolate still steaming, until he heard a cheerful voice from up the stairs, “Be with you in a minute!!”

This managed to jolt Crowley out of his reverie, and he managed to shout back, “It’s me!”

“Oh!! Ah,” and there was quite a bit of shuffling around. Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to take measured breaths. Being back in the same place, the same spot where he—

“Hello, Mr. Crowley!!” Muriel beamed over the banister upstairs before hurrying down the stairs. “Haven’t seen you in a bit!”

Crowley hummed noncommittally. Muriel fidgeted.

“Did you need anything, Mr. Crowley?” They asked, looking at him a little too expectantly. Crowley had a sudden memory of that kid he had encountered as Bilidad, the little one who wanted to be a lizard. 

“Erm…”

It wasn’t to check on the books, really. What did Crowley need?

Well.

Wasn’t it obvious?

He needed him. 

His angel. His Az—hm. 

His A—guh.

His A…He needed Aziraphale. 

There, he said it. Wasn’t so hard.

He needed his somebody to love.

But his somebody was gone.

He didn’t say any of this to Muriel, though. Instead, he just shrugged. “Thought I’d stop by, make sure you hadn’t sold anything.”

Muriel shook their head vehemently. “Oh, no, certainly not!! I remember what you were like when I first took over the shop,,” they took on a grumpy, spiky air then, ignoring the dinging of the shop bell, “Now listen here, Muriel, if you sell any one of these books, I will march right up to heaven and tell those higher-ups that you are doing Very, Very Bad Things. So do not, under any circumstances, sell these books!!” Muriel finished their impression attempting a scowl matching Crowley’s, cementing their inability to make any sort of coarse expression.

Crowley scoffed and was about to complain that he did NOT sound like that, not in the slightest, when—

“Oh, Crowley, did you really?”

Fireworks rocketed up Crowley’s spine and exploded in his chest, and he whipped around to see—

To see—

His angel. 

Aziraphale standing in the doorway of the shop, looking like he was already regretting even stepping through the door, but still with that nervous, gentle smile Crowley loved so, and he could do nothing but gape at Aziraphale, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Aziraphale didn’t fare much better, only just managing to stand there, wobbly and woeful. Muriel, slowly becoming more adept at social situations, sidled into the back room, and the sound of the door shutting snapped Crowley out of his stupor—and his wounded heart throbbed.

“Back to forgive me again, then?” Spat Crowley bitterly.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed, teary-eyed, and before Crowley could say anything else, Aziraphale rushed into him, grabbing his lapels and burying his face in Crowley’s chest. 

“I mi-i-issed-d you,” He sobbed, and Crowley wanted to shove him away, wanted to snarl barbed words and sharp jabs, wanted try and make him feel some semblance of the pain he felt—

But he couldn’t bring himself to do so. He couldn’t bring himself to hurt his angel, when he was already so awfully distraught. So he put a tentative, shaky hand on Aziraphale’s back, and said, quietly, “Hi, Angel.”

Aziraphale sniffed loudly at that and looked up at him. Then he stepped back, only slightly, and they simply looked at each other for a moment. Then—

“Why did you leave—?!” They started, simultaneously, then stopped. 

“Well, you were the one leaving, Angel,” Crowley snapped, brows knitted together.

Aziraphale looked at him quizzically and sniffed again. “B-But I asked you to come with me, dear. I wanted you to come with me. I wanted you to come so terribly,” his lip wobbled, “And-and then you got mad, and ki-kissed me, and then—hic—and then you left!”

Crowley scowled, confused. He was quite certain that Aziraphale had been the one to do the leaving.

“But you abandoned me,” he said, voice rough, “After all we’ve gone through! I thought we were a team, Aziraphale. I thought you liked me how I was—not an angel, not a demon, as me.”

Aziraphale whimpered, wringing his hands. “But I do like you, Crowley! I’m so, so s-sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you, I promise, I just—I want to be with you, oh so much! And we could be together, in Heaven, as angels, without messiness, and—and, oh, I thought you’d be happier as an angel. I mean, you used to be, when you were…”

Crowley sighed, his anger beginning to cool. Oh, Angel. “I don’t want Heaven. I don’t want to be who I was. I just want to be me, now, here, with you,” He said, as gently as he could muster, taking his sunglasses off. Aziraphale blinked, another sparkling tear trailing down his cheek. Crowley had to curb the urge to wipe it away by shoving his hands in his pockets.

“B-But…but an angel? A-a demon?? That—”

“Would be alright.” Crowley finished, trying to smile, trying not to hope. “We could do it.” Aziraphale wavered, unsure, worried. He cast a look around him, and then, resolutely, 

“I need to go back.” Crowley’s heart plummeted to the floor and shattered like an empty bottle. Again. 

He made to leave, eyes already stinging, but Aziraphale grabbed at him. “Wait, Crowley!!” But no. Not again. Never again. Crowley wrenched away, looking at the ground, trying to stride past him, a painful crescendo rising in his head, already berating himself for trusting so quickly, hoping so easily, and then, and then he felt a soft hand tilt his face up and take off his glasses and, and, and—and Aziraphale was kissing him. Kissing him. Crowley’s thoughts blinked out of existence completely. All he could focus on was Aziraphale, him against Crowley’s lips, again, finally. Aziraphale’s tears wet Crowley’s cheeks and burned there and Crowley didn’t mind in the slightest. And he kissed back, fiercely, not caring if the rest of him burned up as a result.

Aziraphale gasped at the kiss deepening, and something roared deep inside of Crowley, and then, suddenly—Aziraphale pulled away.

It was as if Crowley had been lit on fire and then doused with cold water, and all he could do was stand there, shivering and overheating at the same time. Aziraphale, though shaking as well, took a deep breath.

“Crowley. I am going, but I’m not leaving,” and he took Crowley’s face in both hands, “I’m not leaving you. I never meant to in the first place. I’m sorry. Please…forgive me.”

Crowley didn’t know how to respond. What could he possibly say? What could he—

A tear slid down his face, and Aziraphale brushed it away with his thumb, tenderly, lovingly. 

And Crowley broke. 

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale murmured, and cradled Crowley close as he crumpled into his arms. He trembled like a leaf, loud sobs wracking his body. 

They sank to the ground together, and stayed that way for a long time. 

Eventually, Crowley could breathe without feeling like he was suffocating. Cheeks burning, he slowly sat up, looking anywhere but at Aziraphale, embarrassed. “Ngk—sorry, Angel.”

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale turned his face back to him with a feather-light touch, “You have nothing to be sorry for.” Crowley damn near started crying again. He nodded and sniffed, rubbing his face. “You’re too nice to me.”

Aziraphale smiled at him, eyes twinkling. “Nice is a four-letter word.”

They gazed at each other adoringly, neither quite believing that they could hope again, hope for a future together, as hope was a four-letter word, too. Then Crowley looked down at the ground. “So…you have to go.”

“I will be back, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and stood up, “I just need to do a few things first.”

“I need you,” Crowley pleaded, on his knees, all defenses forgotten, all barriers down. “Stay. Please.”

“I need you too,” Aziraphale said softly, doe-eyed, and kissed him on the forehead. “I want to stay with you. But I have to keep Earth safe. I can change things, in Heaven. I can stop the Second Coming.”

His face hardened and, for a moment, looked every bit the Archangel he was supposed to be. “Even if it means making a few…executive decisions. In the name of good, of course.”

“Of course,” Crowley echoed, feeling a bit dazed.

Aziraphale smiled at him and then looked up, wings materializing behind him. “I’ll see you soon, dear.”

Crowley, as if struck by a pin, sprung up towards Aziraphale and kissed him once more. Aziraphale, who had already begun to glow with departure, kissed back just as hard, if not harder. Crowley held onto the quickly dissipating angel tightly, as long as he could, until Aziraphale fully disappeared…and then Crowley fell flat on his face. 

Oh, would you look at that, Crowley mused to himself, ass up, face down. I’ve fallen. “Erm,” said a timid voice behind him, “Would you like some hot chocolate, Mr. Crowley?”

thank you for reading!!!!!!!

[mx-metronome]

Meditations on Eden 1

Writing for the sake of writing. Eden spoilers under the cut (also it’s long, oops)

Imagine you are a star in the sky, having only known the indifferent twinkling of your distant siblings and the loud silence of the universe.

Now imagine that you fall from such a comforting nothingness, at a blazing speed, towards a solid something below. You’ve been pushed out of your cradle of Light & Song and into a land of coldness and chaotic noise.

Imagine that you’ve been born. Would you not be angry? Would you not feel betrayed that a caring Mother would do such a thing to you, to remove you from your comfort? Perhaps that is why babies cry. Perhaps that is why many moths so quickly abandon their journey.

You settle into the terrible noise, learning the sound of the waves crashing on a shore and the sensation of wind whistling past your ears, and then out of the senseless noise you hear the tolling of bells and feel the vibrations resonate through you. Imagine that the star at your core trembles in response: it sounds like Her beckoning you back home.

All the while, you think, Why cast me out from the stars if only to call me back home again? What purpose does this serve? And yet She calls; and yet you trust Her.

So you follow.

You are told that all is given breath by starlight. Was I not breathing before?

You continue to follow Her voice.

Imagine that time passes, and existence becomes more bearable.

You find other fallen stars like you, other Children of the Light. Some are much taller, some much shorter, many in all shapes and colors adorning their vessels.

They sing songs of the Eye of Eden, the place of salvation, where Her Warmth proves itself true to those who have fallen to darkness. Have I fallen to darkness? Did she send me into this darkness, or was I dragged down by force?

The children gesture towards the Mountain crowned with a halo that She had been calling you to, an intense light extending from the summit back to the stars. That is where She is, She will save me and bring me home when I get there.

The children urge you to collect winged light, for these are the key to salvation. They caution that the Darkness wishes to reclaim these and that you must keep them safe. I will take these wings to Her to gain her favor.

So you continue to follow Her voice.

You pass through troubled lands devoid of the creatures’ songs, replaced instead by heavy air and the dead ground. Large creatures of not-Light swim through the thick air in endless circles, hunting for Her essences. They seek your winged light, your tickets home. You guard them jealously as you slip past, you refuse to give them up.

You ascend a mighty tower, full of graves and old stories and the dangers of hubris and ambition. The dreamlike void swirling with particles of light make you feel the closest to home you’ve ever been. These wings will surely be enough to get me home.

You continue to follow Her voice.

She leads you to the base of the Mountain, the Holy Site, irradiated with darkness, clouded in ash. Surely this must be a mistake? This doesn’t look like salvation at all!

And yet, in all your doubt, She calls; and yet, in all your apprehension, you trust Her. You continue to follow Her voice.

You scale this peak, cloaked in a storm of stones, patrolled by more of these dark creatures. You make a dash towards the open hallway, where She is calling from. You want to trust Her.

A gust of wind pushes you backward just a few inches, and your foot slips. Enough lost momentum for a torrent of rocks to pelt you, knocking you to your back. Helplessly you watch as the winged light that would surely bring you home scatter to the winds, dwindling and then fading to nothing, like candlelights in a hurricane.

Why? Why did She bring me here? This place is only pain, only anger. She couldn’t possibly dwell in a place like this, a place of absolute darkness. How could I possibly trust Her?

And yet, She calls.

You crawl between flung rocks and dragons’ eyesight towards Her voice, the loudest it’s ever been. You have no choice but to trust Her.

As you enter the hallway littered with winged light, you wonder if this is the salvation the children meant, the ultimate reward for your troubles. But it isn’t home. She beckons you further inward, Her sound is almost deafening now.

You hesitate a moment before continuing to follow Her voice.

You follow the voice into the Eye of Eden, the place of salvation.

~~

A crystal of darkness so intense that it’s poisoned the land for miles around it.

A shattered palace whose tile floors are now strewn with the petrified corpses of children who came before you.

Imagine that She has brought you here to a place reeking of death, dissonant with the scraping of stone against stone.

A place that children sang about.

Now imagine, right then, that you can’t hear Her voice anymore. You call out, just in case you’re missing something, but you feel no response.

Would you not be angry? Would you not feel betrayed that a caring Mother would do such a thing to you, to lead you to the place where you’d die again with no further explanation? Was falling away from the warm stars not enough?? You tried your best, you brought the light here, you did as you were told. Why couldn’t you be saved? Why isn’t She here???

You let out your anger and pain in a fiery scream, but the red crystal screams louder. You feel the darkness begin to slow you down and the threads holding the winged light to you begin to fray. Resigning to your arrogance and greed for answers, you step out into the downpour of rocks and kneel before the nearest stone child.

As you succumb to the intense darkness, you feel your remaining winged light tugging you, as though it were reaching for the fallen child. Reluctantly, you cradle one of your precious light in your hands and place it against the statue. Immediately, a golden light peeks through the cracks in their stone skin as the winged light combines with the child’s soul. You see your winged light count fall by 1.

They sing songs of the Eye of Eden…

You understand.

…the place of salvation…

You cannot save yourself. That is not why She brought you here.

…where Her Warmth proves itself true to those who have fallen to darkness.

The winged light was never yours to keep. Your salvation was never yours to claim. Love was never meant to be taken.

Realizing that time is short and your light is waning, you arise to your feet one final time and trudge through the storm and the sludge, reaching out and touching the damned with the light you had protected all this time. One by one, the winged light shine gold through the cracks in the stone like an ore vein, and the rocks begin to rain harder, as though the Darkness is punishing you for daring to be selfless in this final act.

As you reach out to the furthest sky kids in the darkest places, you feel the polluted water burn the soles of your feet, the pointed stones in your lungs. Your winged light reserves grow emptier and emptier, and the darkness begins to seep into your eyes and your joints and your heart.

As a loose stone clobbers the back of your head, your last winged light violently tears away from you, shattering instantly against the intense radiation. With your core now devoid of light and your soul emptied of all your achievements, you feel the darkness coat your body like a thick skin. The vessel you took on becomes heavy and movements laborious. The searing pain is unbearable.

You feel so hot, like your body is burning away, and as your heartbeat slows to a crawl, you grow cold. Is this the salvation? Will I spend eternity in a void?

What will become of them?

And as you exhale your last breath, the cold dissipates, and you feel nothing.

It is almost like falling asleep.

~~

It is almost like waking up.

Imagine you were a star in the sky, having only known the indifferent twinkling of your distant siblings and the loud silence of the universe.

Except now that twinkling is far gone, and the silence is even louder. You left your nonexistence and fell into existence. You left your cradle, learned to point, learned to charm the butterflies, learned to laugh, learned to cry, learned to dance, learned to fear, learned to pray.

And in your final moments of existence, you learned to love. Truly, wholly, and with wild abandon, even without the guarantee that it would benefit you somehow in the end.

Yes, another child comes along on the same pilgrimage and saves you too. You’re reborn, you get to reenter the world you’ve come to love again. But that’s not necessarily what this story is about.

Imagine that She is you. Imagine that you are Her. You are Her Warmth, Her Salvation made manifest, Her Guiding Light. You are the Voice that She led you along, and you are Her Kindness.

When the children sang the songs of the Eye of Eden, they were singing about Her, and they were singing about each other, and they were also singing about You.

[ms0milk]

𝟏 | 𝐀 𝐖𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐖𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐚 𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐩

ー✧ prince!bakugou x royal guard!reader

"The prince meets you with a ferocity that probably stops people’s hearts and with his mother’s halo of silvery hair and decisive eyes, it’s lovely enough to stop yours too."

no cw big time fairytale castle, blunt bkg & silly co. reader's a lil stiff bc character arcs aren't built in a day, let the slowburn begin. i am not immune to aizawa in any universe. author does not attempt to hide how very badly she wants to ******* *** **** bkg's mama. 3.9k

PREV | M.LIST | TAGLIST | NEXT

Waking up is so peaceful this morning. Gentle and warm.

"..…"

That sweet kind of rise between waking and dreaming, where you’re able to say goodbye to your dreams and the people in them with a tip of your hat and wave goodbye. Forgiving and patient.

“..Y/n…”

The queen was in your dreams tonight. And you were back in your hometown– you’re there now. The fields are golden and heavy before autumn harvest and your neighbors have no need for locks on their doors. She is beautiful today, and she is your sister, your mother, your Lady when you try to look past the sun’s rays to her face. Up, up, up into her eyes, why can’t you find what you’re looking for? Higher and higher until it’s the stars you’re on your knees for.

“Y/n.”

You jolt at the sudden sensation of falling with a quick and panicked grip on your pillow but you’re back in your room, stuffed mattress and all. Every part of your body is grounded to woolen blankets and the weight at your feet. Someone laughs at the foot of your bed when you sigh in relief and you jump again, because this time it’s the queen.

“I’m sorry to wake you.”

She smiles behind her hand. You’re staring. And then it’s been a second too long before you gather yourself like a member of the castle with some respect and make a move to stand for formal greetings. But you only get as far as sitting up when she stiffs her palm to your forehead.

“Stay.”

From your spot still tucked in bed you muster a, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

The queen’s hair is wild and silvery by the light of a candle she holds at her chest. The only light in the room. Heavy fur cape clasps fit neatly into the bodice of her nightgown– gown almost wasn’t the right word. You love her. There isn’t a citizen alive that doesn’t love her.

“I have a question for you, Y/n.”

“Anything, Majesty.”

What time is it? Your curtain is drawn, but still there doesn’t seem to be any morning light trying to peek through.

“My son’s been invited east to celebrate a new observatory.” The queen pulls a once-neatly-wrapped envelope from her pocket, “the end of some momentous constructional undertaking or another,” she laughs. She extends her hand to you and smiles at just how dumbstruck you still seem to be by candlelight.

“I’m sorry it’s so early.”

“Not at all.” You move too quickly and too slowly somehow– you curse yourself– while taking it from her, and feel like a silly child the way she has you perched against your pillows. In your nightclothes for gods’ sake,

“I just received word from a Takoba messenger. A letter from their queen.”

You nod to her. Turn the letter over in your hands until it falls open.

“He’s leaving today and I would very much like you to accompany him.”

Dumbstruck doesn’t describe how you look anymore, doesn’t do it justice. Your apartments on Castle Southside feel less like a single modest room and more like the very stables you live above, wholly unfit for royalty. She’s still smiling at you. You’re still goddamned tucked-in.

“Majesty, me?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

You jolt up again and catch yourself in a way that seems amusing to her, “Not at all Your Majesty! But wouldn’t– shouldn’t Master Jeanist go?”

“Jeanist stays with me.”

And you realize in horror– truly too many emotions at this point for one woman to manifest only minutes after waking up– that you implied the queen may have made a mistake.

“Don’t apologize,” she catches you before you can open your sleep-addled mouth again, “Captain of the Guard stays with me. But you’ve trained with Jeanist for years Y/n, you’re going to be my son’s Captain, I know you will.” She’s scooting closer to you and gods, she’s taking your hand, “Can I trust you with this mission?”

It feels fuzzy in the room when she uses your name.

“With anything.”

Queen Mitsuki handed over one more letter before leaving you to prepare for your morning shift. Just a thank you card, she’d said. For you to deliver to the eastern queen, the Queen of Takoba.

As long as it was her asking you’d be able to do anything, although she may have a touch too much confidence in your future. Captain of he Royal Guard? Spending the most time with Jeanist doesn’t mean you have a future as his successor, only the next monarch can decide that. Spending the most time with Jeanist only means that you don’t have any friends.

The click of your heels down the stone hallway line up with another’s as you round the corner to your station. A tree today.

Trees and wildlife grow freely in the Bakugous’ Aldera Castle and make the palace warm even in the dead of winter. Knobbly trunks and grasping vines twist in and out of windows, fruit rolls down the halls in fall. Squirrels and birds get in so regularly that members of the guard each have one shift a week exclusively for helping the creatures get back out.

Fresh air never feels far away. In the springtime you are all tasked with sweeping blossoms off the castle floors before they wither or trip a royal guest, and from the very second the first magnolia blooms in March you’re swimming in flowers til June.

Jeanist stands under the lichen of Castle Southside’s oak tree when you arrive, and the soldier he was speaking to has already strode away. Tall, black hair.

The oak tree is four stories tall to have an arm reaching this far inside and is older than any member of the castle is able to recall accurately. It is precious family. It reaches up and over the banister at the edge of the hallway and dips down into the library like a leafy chandelier, causing much headache in autumn when the tallest ladder ever made is procured for the poor novice whose job it is to clean the books underneath of it.

“Good morning, Y/n.”

“Sir.”

Jeanist only smiles under the high collar of his red uniform. You rarely get the chance to stand beside your mentor anymore, now that the prince is getting older and needs a senior guard on diplomatic errands. You love the way your uniforms look in a line together– feel next to each other. Yours are the only two of their kind and your mentor made these himself. Blood red gambeson and white bone pin clasps. You assume your position beside the tree and stare dead ahead, happy, if only for a second, if only on the inside, to belong once again to this group of two.

“Y/n?”

“Yes, sir?” You don’t break eye contact with the far wall. It’s still relatively dark on the fifth floor of Southside and so all you have to entertain yourself is a tapestry you’ve memorized every stitch of, until another soldier comes to relieve you.

“Did you speak with the Queen?”

“Yes, sir. Early this morning.”

“Earlier than dawn?” Jeanist chuckles and turns to gaze out the window through the ancient knots of the oak tree. The sun crests the mountains somewhere farther than you’ve ever traveled and spills into the folds of his uniform. It warms the back of your head. “What did you tell her?”

“That I would be honored to comply with Her Majesty's request.”

“And how do you feel?”

“Privileged, sir.”

“Y/n,”

Your eyes tug at your periphery, confused by the general chatiness of the old guard this morning.

“I’m proud of you.”

Your head turns fully at this, in surprise and without your permission, and you realize it hasn’t yet struck you to ask why he’s at your post in the first place.

“Master Jeanist?”

“Go on.” He’s looking at you too now, he’s been doing it the whole time, “They’ll leave without you at this rate.”

You stare for another two seconds at this strange mentor of yours. You try to keep your heart from spilling onto the floor is actually what you do; it’s all you can manage.

“Yes, sir.”

If anything you’ll be the first of the entire party to arrive in the Great Hall, but you still let Jeanist assume your position in front of the oak and even turn in surprise again when he rests a hand on your shoulder as you’re making to leave. He taps one of your small golden earrings with a gentle finger and with his other hand unclasps the dragontooth brooch from his breast.

“How long did you stare when the queen spoke with you this morning?”

Your ears go hot immediately under his knowing gaze, but he only smiles. He pulls your hand forward and rests the dragontooth in your palm with an amount of pressure that can only mean, be careful. And so you will, you determine, and turn to make your way to collect your things.

“Word of advice!”

In a neverending morning of spinning, you drag your foot and face him again. Jeanist is nearly laughing and trying very well to hide his worry, “If you stare at the prince the way you have the tendency to do, he might just take your head off.”

He doesn’t get to see you smile often, but it does feel fitting now for you to nod your goodbye to him with that sneaky grin of yours he loves so much.

“He might try, sir."

It didn’t take more than a few months in the castle, at six years old, for the prince to rectify his opinion of you. To clarify his disdain in the event that his mother’s favoritism towards the orphan gave anyone the wrong idea about his personal priorities. Though it hardly mattered. Hundreds of new faces fill the castle every year and he had forgotten yours just as quickly as you had been whisked into Jeanist’s care to begin your training and earn your keep.

Today your satchel is packed, your hair’s braided back, and the prince thinks no more or less of you than he always has. Indifference will make your job easy.

The whole sprawling maze of stone buildings warm in the morning sun as you make your way to Castle Northside, although autumn is close and soon heavy curtains will need to be draped over windows and trees. Soon too, it’ll be time to sweep fallen leaves out of the hallway and collect ripe peaches from the branches of the western stairwell. You’ll need to have your winter uniform cleaned when you return so the white fur of the collar glows, because when the queen happens to see you on duty she always remarks on how well you care for her colors.

Even your earrings– tiny suns, gold and dangling– represent your love for Aldera down to the smallest detail. They were a gift from her, and you swell when her eyes jump from one carefully polished detail on your body to the next. Jeanist always says that she’s the most meticulously crafted person he’s ever met. You know that’s why he loves her. Each giant winter cape in her collection drops her into the background of some priceless painting or ethereal scene and for this reason alone, winter is your favorite season.

Sometimes in the cold weather, when she sneaks to the kitchen in the middle of the night, Her Majesty wears heavy battle gauntlets to stay warm and looks altogether too silly and beautiful in delicate furs and armored gloves. If you’re on duty overnight, she’ll bring you a warm loaf of bread and whisper something to the tune of, “I’ll call another guard to your post, I don’t like you staying up so late.” Or “Hide under my cape and I’ll sneak you to bed.”

It is just at this moment of routine admiration that, out of an auxiliary hallway to the kitchen, pops a tall boy you’ve never seen before wearing white soldier’s greaves. On top he’s in a worn undershirt like you’ve just walked in on his getting changed– well– he just walked in on you– while getting changed– more importantly, he knows your name and he calls to you as he approaches.

“Yes soldier?”

His limbs are knobbly and his mouth hitches uncomfortably upwards when he finally gets close enough to you to speak, “Hanta actually, Sero Hanta.”

Tall and disrespectful.

“What is it, soldier?”

“Master Jeanist sent me to get your halberd from the smithy but when I came back you–”

“I don’t keep my halberd in the smithy.”

He shifts his weight between two legs too long for his greaves like he has somewhere else to be, “Well whoever’s it is, Kirishima has it now and we’ve all been searching Southside like madmen trying to find–”

“Who–” You shake your head and turn to face him fully now, “Stop, why does Master–”

“Sero! Oh my everloving gods you found her!” Another boy, quite blond, scrambles out of a different hallway– oh, he’s tripping on the decorative runner– out of breath to the soldier’s side. “Kirishima–”

“You found her!” Yet another voice shrills over the banister of the hallway above. This one belongs to a lithe pink girl and she hops the last five stairs to land at your side, “Don’t you look nice today Miss Guard.”

“Excuse me?”

She’s already moved on, “Where’s Kirishima?”

You have half a mind to take the closest person by the arm and hold them for questioning. How have they gotten so far into the center of the castle unaccompanied? Who do they belong to?

“Identify yourselves.”

“No time for that,” Soldier Sero snaps and links a hand under each of his companions’ arms, “We’ll parse out introductions once we’re not all about to be hanged.” Without direction or permission, the three of them are down the last stretch of hallway quicker than north wind through bare branches and great iron doors scream open.

You’ve walked the Hall ten thousand times and so the gold trim and the two-story fireplace and the relentless smell of pine and the rows of mismatched wooden tables long enough to seat an extended family of dragons, only bring tears to your eyes sometimes. The floor is cobbled with river stones that catch fruit and nuts in their grooves but glow purple and red like hot glass when the sun comes in through the windows. It gets hotter than a roosted hen when it’s full of staff at mealtimes so you take your dinner elsewhere when it’s time to retire.

It’s too cramped. You’ve never managed large crowds in tight spaces very well, so times like these are precious, when it’s empty before breakfast and still clean from the night's housekeeping. Except it’s not empty now, is it? There are three fools and two brand new strangers loitering in front of the fireplace at the other end of the room, just waiting for you to call for reinforcements. Sero begins to take off his pants–

“Soldier!” You shout down the Hall almost as quickly as you cross it.

“Good morning,” An altogether new voice pools between your exclamations.

Of the five people in the empty room, two of them obviously belong someplace very far away. Somewhere unkind. Blue tunics and windswept hair. You slow your warpath and try to take in the details of the two new men that your three fugitives have approached without an ounce of concern or respect for personal space.

The younger of the pair tries to repel hair ruffles and claps on the shoulder from the three trespassers while the taller man, worn and travel-sallow, peers over the bustle to you.

His eye contact doesn't match the way he holds his exhausted body. It is this one part of him that threatens, surely only in your own tired mind, sudden and practiced violence. You move closer.

“I am Master Aizawa."

When he blinks the threat vanishes and you buckle a bit in the whiplash from danger to gentle authority. You are unarmed for a second– feeling suddenly like a school girl again being pitied by her teacher in a classroom full of people who he knows haven't quite figured out how to talk to the child soldier.

"Your party will be under my protection and instruction beginning today.”

Disarming eye contact aside, Master Aizawa, this fourth stranger of the morning, looks as if he could barely be trusted to remain upright on a sunny day, let alone manage other people.

“This young man is Hitoshi Shinsou,” he tips his chin to the boy trying to stand tall beside him, still speaking only to you over the chittering crowd, “My apprentice and your second in command.”

Windswept, violent, exhausted, trespassers, guests, useful, useless– these people do not matter. You’re supposed to be waiting for the prince and his convoy not chasing strangers in circles around the castle, when quite the terrible thought slips into center focus.

In your rush this morning it hadn’t even presented itself as an option, that this group of people might share your objective. The iron doors grunt open again in your confusion but louder than the doors are the people walking through them.

“Oh amazing, you found her!”

“I could hear you horrible fucks all the way from the courtyard.”

Your blood doesn’t rush properly for a second most likely because your heart has stopped pumping it out. It’s the prince. You square your body to the back wall immediately and bow with fists at your side. Trying to bury the incorrigible urge to stare.

Even from half a Hall away you feel the tremendous confidence that swells to every corner of a room when he enters. He’s in an open-chested vest lined with furs and you know the clasps at his neck are solid gold because the queen wouldn’t settle for less. The red cape they grip sweeps in an arc as he navigates tables, and walking duly tall beside him is the prince's Champion, Kirishima, who holds a polearm in one hand while waving to the group with the other.

The two familiar faces put you at a strange kind of ease. Kirishima is a relatively new addition to the castle but always seems to have a smile for you in passing, and the prince– the prince has gotten taller since– well, actually– you realize it’s been years since you’ve stood near him properly. Unless it’s the queen (and even then you really should), all castle staff bow their heads when a royal walks past. You’re fairly familiar with the details of his boots but not much else.

“Good morning, Highness,” Master Aizawa is the first to reply and his voice simmers just above a growl. You raise your head so that you’re standing tall when the prince finishes his march to the group but you’re too practiced in looking away to keep your eyes up when he trudges past.

“Long time no see old man.”

“Ready?”

“Let’s get this over with.” The prince doesn’t offer you a glance, not even a blink, before he’s tossing a rucksack from the man’s outstretched arm over his shoulder.

Soldier Sero calls after him, “You clean up nice,” and lifts his arm to give the prince a playful swat, but you’re already holding his wrist behind his back and he’s standing on tall tippy toes to keep the pressure in his knobby elbow from breaking it. You have a nasty habit. It’s full of panic. The queen always laughs when you’re too quick to confront so you haven’t tried to stop. It saved her life once. The prince squares himself to the yelping and now he’s looking at you.

“S-sorry Y/n! Friendly fire.”

You drop Sero’s arm and try to speak– it's your only chance for appropriate introduction– but the prince meets you with a ferocity that probably stops people’s hearts and with his mother’s halo of silvery hair and decisive eyes, it’s lovely enough to stop yours too. His red gaze is quick and flickering. Like he hopes to avoid looking at you altogether. You try to speak even less successfully than the last time, to wet your lips, try to make a sound, but he’s already rolling his eyes and ushering the two blue guards towards the door.

“I don’t need a fuckin’ babysitter. The rest of you, hurry up.”

They do. The prince, two escorts, and three unnamed guests, are back out the iron doors without so much as a greeting, explanation, or itinerary. You stand next to the cold fireplace, still half bowed in greeting.

As the Great Hall stills, empty now except for Kirishima, the redhead sidles a bit closer in the quiet. He watches you excitedly, as you exhale and adjust the travel bag at your hip, eager to present you with the weapon he’s been carrying.

“Good mornin’ Y/n. I think this is from Jeanist,” he chirps with a smile and precisely no clue just what exactly it is he’s handing to you. He’s straightforward and confident and warm.

It’s been a long time since a day so new has been so active. Since dawn, nothing but one heart palpitation after the next. One pair of red eyes to the next. The prince’s red burns your vision like a sunspot, Aizawa's turn grapes to wine, but Kirishima’s feels patient. You’re slow to remove your gloves before handling the weapon and take it from the Champion who vibrates in the new quiet. He is not particularly good at standing still.

Shifting up and down in your hands is a halberd. Its balance is unfamiliar and it’s not the cherrywood weapon you’re familiar with, the one that’s hopefully still hanging up in its slot in the Keep. This weapon is a deep blood red from shaft to socket. You nod your head without taking your eyes off the shimmer of the metal polished so fine it's turned white, and you’re sure there are tears in your eyes.

Kirishima is still smiling as you fiddle with the rivets, “You have lovely taste, it’s beautiful.”

“It’s not mine,” you whisper, because it’s Master Jeanist’s.

Outside of the castle gates, a particularly dazzling blue carriage is waiting, pulled by a team of white horses. You squint at the three fools wrestling with each other next to a quilted door of the most delicate vehicle you’ve ever seen in your life. Like something out of a storybook, like something built by fairies. The prince tiffs with a less-than-interested Master Aizawa in the grass a ways off and taps his foot angrily just like his mother.

“Are you the Aldera escort?” Shinsou, the spitting image of apathy, appears between you and Kirishima as you trek the stone path to join the party. He hands you each a sizable knapsack.

You nod, “Y/n, apprentice to Captain Jeanist.”

“The one and only?”

“Captain?”

“No, the only apprentice,” Shinsou corrects and smiling eyes betray his disinterest, “I’ve heard stories. It’s nice to meet you, Y/n.”

“Likewise,” you murmur as he leaves you with a bag in both hands, and strides back to the crowd to help load luggage. The Champion is long gone and mingling with friends too and so you’re alone again, left to fiddle at a distance with your halberd and the leather sling used to carry it on your back.

When you gaze back over the group from afar, it does seem that everyone but you already quite likes one another, and it probably feels that way because it’s true. They know each other somehow and you are the only stranger.

Next to the stack of luggage, you watch Sero open the door for his two friends and then watch them all curtsy dramatically before trying to beat each other inside. Shinsou catches the blond when he trips backwards on the single carriage step, Sero is finally wearing pants that fit him, black and pleated, and the prince is now stamping his foot on the ground in conversation with the most unfazed man you’ve ever met. Master Aizawa, you suppose, from Takoba.

Behind you the warm castle whistles with wind and morning activity. Your home. In front of you the pink-haired girl blows kisses to imaginary admirers and Kirishima hoists the prince into the carriage by force. It hasn’t been more than an hour and you are already sure this group of people will try their absolute hardest to get you all killed.

PREV | M.LIST | TAGLIST | NEXT

tagged angels ✧.* @nnubee @cherrykamado @nonomesupposedto @zombiewarprincess @kotarousproperty @strawberry-mentos69 @sveetnn @eirlysian @lunrai @cherripunch26nch26 @km74744 @arayoflia

could not tag for some reason

(there was an issue with this post the first time, so I wont clog my angel's notifs with a retag on this second try 😅)

[just--space]

Spiral Galaxy NGC 2841 : A mere 46 million light-years distant, spiral galaxy NGC 2841 can be found in the northern constellation of Ursa Major. This deep view of the gorgeous island universe was captured during 32 clear nights in November, December 2021 and January 2022. It shows off a striking yellow nucleus, galactic disk, and faint outer regions. Dust lanes, small star-forming regions, and young star clusters are embedded in the patchy, tightly wound spiral arms. In contrast, many other spirals exhibit grand, sweeping arms with large star-forming regions. NGC 2841 has a diameter of over 150,000 light-years, even larger than our own Milky Way. X-ray images suggest that resulting winds and stellar explosions create plumes of hot gas extending into a halo around NGC 2841. via NASA

[faithforgottens]

𝒅𝒓𝒂𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒚𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆.

from the writer’s desk: i’d tell you i started this a year ago after deciding i needed closure on post - crying on newport beach about how i’m incapable of being loved but that would mean me unloading all over the dash, and nobody needs that. i’m just a girl, out here projecting like tomorrow’s not coming, and thought i’d share. please know that i love carol, i just had to pick a character that i didn’t have strong emotional attachment to in order to play my villain. motivation to continue this would be much appreciated, thnx.  summary: you’ve been stuck in carol’s web for nearly four months now, and you need a distraction before you go postal and commit a capital crime or worse, tell her you love her. fortunately for you, natasha’s willing to offer her services. contains: college!natasha x female reader —— warnings include toxic relationship dynamics that involve infidelity, gaslighting and cheating, marijuana use, alcohol consumption, nsfw content [ fingering, dirty talk ]. →  inbox status: OPEN                                        don’t repost my works anywhere.

INCOMING MESSAGE FROM — SATAN    💬     am i gonna see you tonight?

INCOMING MESSAGE FROM — SATAN    💬     :(

INCOMING MESSAGE FROM — SATAN    💬     hellllllooooooooooo??

INCOMING MESSAGE FROM — SATAN    💬     I WANNA SEE U I MISS UR PRETTY FACE

INCOMING MESSAGE FROM — SATAN    💬     pls come tonight. it would mean everything to me

You’ve never claimed to be smart.

In fact, you’re pretty sure you have to fall on the opposite end of that spectrum in order to bother showing your face tonight at the behest of Carol fuckin’ Danvers. Satan. It’s the work of the goddamn devil pulling you from the clutches of your apartment’s comfortable silence where you’d be much better off riding through the nuanced gut-punching waves of disappointing Carol guilt instead of the hell storm that is being played once again by Carol guilt. You even put on eyeliner for such an occasion, because if you’re going to get fucked over (either physically, emotionally, or both), you might as well look good doing it.

Her name’s still lighting up your phone as the Uber drops you off at the curb, boasting a flood of pictures on Snapchat that illuminate the awaiting scene inside of the frat house through blurry streaks of glass bottles and marijuana smoke and the pale expanse of her neck where a glint of her gold necklace flashes is promised to you to do as you wish, leaving behind bruises or lip prints. It’s an enticing picture painted for you. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think maybe tonight will be the night she tells you she’s free from the clutches of Maria, her perfectly sane girlfriend that you’ve only ever known through Carol’s jilted lens, and that she’ll even let you climb her like a tree in front of her friends.

Lucky you.

Except you do know better. In the pit of your stomach, you know the reality is that you are in closer proximity than Maria, which therefore makes you the most convenient piece of ass at Carol’s disposal, that Carol believes — and is likely right about how — you’re still wound tight enough around her finger to make you drop to your knees like a good little girl, blinded by her golden halo of hair and the whiskey-soaked taste of her lips and ready to excuse her shit treatment of you. That even feeling like you have her for the beat of a butterfly’s wings is worth your sanity. And despite it all, it isn’t enough to keep you away. It’s not enough to exile the parts of a masochistic heart beating in your chest that somehow loves her, even if the only part of you she loves is your willingness to show up for her.

Carol’s fraternity is co-ed, which means that between all of the brothers, their social circle extends to the farthest corners of the university — they consume a fair bit of your own, considering you have at least two classes a semester with Bucky, sit with them at Wanda’s softball games (mostly so you can talk shit about your high school ex that made the team), and rent study rooms at least once a month with Thor, Bruce, and Val to spiral into late night insanity while you all contemplate the meaning of life and attempt to memorize vocabulary words. You slip in through the door, bass thudding into your molars and the heavy blanket of smoke and sweat covers your bare shoulders as you weave your way through the house.

“Look who finally showed up!” Behind the counter in the kitchen is Sam Wilson, running position as makeshift bartender. You detour long enough for a vodka and Diet Coke, stopping next to the barstool that Bucky’s perched on. He tucks you underneath his arm for a side hug, other hand tipping his own solo cup back as he tries to drain the last bit of liquor down his throat.

They’re good friends to you. It’s why you hate doing this dance with Satan — because at some point, you feel that there’s going to be a tectonic shift between the two of you that dredges up a rift in the concrete and you don’t know who will be left on your side. You don’t know who you’ll be able to look in the eye and lie to about Carol, who would pick you over her. You don’t even know if any of them would believe you or would write you off as crazy as you’ve been writing yourself off as of late.

You tell yourself that you’re trying, goddammit, to shove that piece of yourself back into a locked drawer and enjoy the company of your friends.

“Anybody seen Danvers?” you pitch as nonchalantly as you know how, planting your elbows down onto the granite of the counter while you watch Sam mix your drink. He goes heavy on the vodka, which you quietly appreciate.

Bucky snorts. “Yeah, we’ve seen her alright.”

“She’s in the dining room trying to rally everyone into a round of strip beer pong,” Sam explains. “Last we saw, she got her shirt stuck in the chandelier.”

“The face of class, this fraternity,” you tease as Sam hands you your drink. He can’t help but laugh, a jovial, guttural noise that makes you smile, even though your stomach is currently in your throat.

You bid them farewell and snake through the living room, trying to avoid the furniture or the bodies of other people and almost always fail in avoiding both at the same time as you carve out a path to the dining room. It’s densely packed, which forebodes the game of beer pong that the boys mentioned. You try not to cut your elbows into the bones and flesh of others to make your way through, but your adrenaline is humming at the thought of seeing Carol, the thought of her body glowing in the house lights and the cut of her physique out on display for anyone, including you, to openly ogle without abandon.

“Goddamn, Danvers!” someone yells mirthfully. “Keep it in your pants!”

Whistling down to one thought, one track, your mind lasers in and you’re positive that the sharp point of your elbow nails T’Challa directly in the ribs as you finally make it to the inner lip of the circle around the dining room table. It’s desperate. You know it’s desperate. You'll care about it later, you’re sure, but for now, all that’s on your mind is her.

“For the love of fuck, I—” Someone stumbles back into you, dark hair in frizzy waves and the bill of their baseball cap nearly jabbing straight into your nose. Wanda Maximoff spins around, her eyes lightening up at the sight of you as she grabs onto your wrist to stable herself. “Oh! Hey, babe,” she says with a smile. “Didn’t know you were coming.”

“Me either,” you tell her, trying not to be blatant as you scan for Carol. “Carol didn’t tell me until last minute.”

“Boo,” Wanda pouts, before turning to yell over her shoulder, “Danvers! Fuck you!”

“Get in line!” Carol calls back, and your head locks in on where her voice comes from. Your stomach plunges into free fall when you see her: as promised, she’s standing around in her sports bra and jeans, white teeth glinting and blonde hair curling around onto her tanned shoulders, biceps on display and her arms snaked around — her.

Maria Hill, in the flesh, pressed against Carol’s side and her chin balanced on Carol’s shoulder as Carol makes a shot one-handed that successfully lands in a cup on the opposite end of the table. Carol cheers victoriously, and Maria kisses her cheek, and you notice that Carol’s hand on Maria’s side drifts down towards her ass.

All of Carol’s messages swim inside your mind, the ones where she assures you that it’s all real, that she and Hill are done, that Hill’s holding her back, that she’s felt things for you since the moment she laid eyes on you and just knew; the ones where she paints a beautiful picture of a future with you, the same picture she’s just doused in cheap spirits and ruined for the dozenth time. Your drink suddenly tastes like arsenic, heavy and uneven in your stomach, the room shrinking and heat crawling up your neck in an uncomfortable panic. You are going to be sick.

Wanda’s voice comes through in the midst of the ringing in your ears. Fuck you, Danvers.

It takes you a moment to realize that Wanda’s voice isn’t just a reverberation inside your mind, but is right in your ear. “Hey!” She calls your name again, and you finally snap your attention back to her. She scans over your face for a moment, eyebrows folding in the center of her brow. “You alright? Where’d you just go?”

The shock is fresh on your face, salt water from the crashing wave that’s irritating your eyes — you refuse to let yourself cry, here in front of everyone, because all that’s going to do is open the door to a conversation you don’t want to have, incite a fight with Carol that you’ll surely lose, leave you feeling even lower than you do at the moment. You shake your head, trying to shake whatever emotions that aren’t nonchalant off of your face. “Noth—nowhere,” you stammer, voice an octave higher than usual. Wanda’s perplexity only deepens. “More crowded than I thought. Got beer-splashed.”

Wanda breaks into a smile, seemingly buying your excuse. “C’mon, what’d you expect?” she ribs. It’s a loaded question, and if Wanda wasn’t Wanda, you’re sure it’d be enough to light your rapidly shorting fuse. The thin strain in your falsified smile must give something away, because she softens the slightest bit and wraps her arm around yours. “Let’s go downstairs. I’ll kick your ass sideways in pool.”

You appreciatively take Wanda’s out, allowing her to guide you away from the Carol show and the crowd of people you have steeled yourself in order to not cry in front of and head with her towards the basement, which the frat has renovated into a lounge space with a giant television, sectional that is infamous for its hosting of The Threesome, and the pool table. It hasn’t garnered quite the same audience that the beer pong game has, but less people means you feel slightly less suffocated. Carol’s still got her foot on your throat, but down here, it’s easier to maneuver and act as though you haven’t just had yourself made a fool in front of everyone without them knowing.

Relieved for the little things, like elbow room, you sit down on the arm of the sectional and take a long drink from your cup — if you’re going to survive the rest of the night without your tail tucking between your legs (and you’re determined to further your self-sabotage by going the extra mile to ensure Carol knows she fucked up, even though it’s likely she doesn’t care) you’ll have to be drunker than this. Wanda adjusts her hat on her head and picks up a pool cue, glancing back over her shoulder at you. “Want someone to show you how it’s done?” she teases.

You lift your cup in acknowledgment, smile shedding off of your lips. “Go for it.”

As Wanda weasels her way into the current game of pool, you do a quick intake of who all’s downstairs. There’s a few of the brothers, a few of the brother’s dates, people that are otherwise background characters designed to make campus seem at capacity but not so many people that no one would notice if you threw up in the corner or worse, started crying. You purse your lips around the rim of your solo cup, scanning the company around the pool table. Wanda sidles up next to another one of her brothers, poking her with the pool cue. “Nat!” Wanda whines. “Give me room.”

Natasha Romanoff shuffles out of the way with the roll of her eyes. “Poke me with the stick again and it’s gonna go somewhere less than ideal.”

Wanda flicks her middle finger upright before hunching around the shape of the pool cue. “You don’t scare me, Natty.”

“Your funeral.”

Your eyes follow Natasha out of the way, and she feels their weight because the next thing you know, you’re off the cliffs and deep somewhere inside the greenery of her eyes. They’re pretty eyes, you idly note, and you find yourself mulling over Natasha Romanoff, as a person, as a concept, as Natasha. She’s the oldest of the girls in the fraternity, a senior to your junior, and she’s been around for so long that it’s hard to remember a time when she wasn’t there. It’s hard to imagine a room without her in it, a constant fixture on the mantel that you don’t even bother acknowledging it anymore.  

She cocks an eyebrow at you after what’s sure to be a long moment of staring, and Wanda, who is unfortunately more observant than you’d like to believe, begins laughing. “Am I interrupting this little staring contest?”

Natasha smirks. “I could win a staring contest and kick your ass at the same time, Maximoff.”

“Show off,” Wanda grumbles as she passes the pool cue over to Natasha. She then looks at you, and whatever grumpiness dissipates, her shit-eating grin returning. “Now, you on the other hand,” she preludes with a gesture towards you. “There’s no way.”

You drain the rest of your drink and discard the cup off to the side. "You talk a lot, Wan,” you inform her as you walk up to the side of the pool table. Wanda just grins as you turn to Natasha, gesturing for the pool cue. “Let me have a go.”

Natasha acquiesces and passes you the pool cue, giving you the space you need coupled with a low nod of encouragement. There are a few clusters of balls around the table and you’re trying to eye up a shot that’ll give you not only a handful of points, but will get Wanda off your back — even if you are grateful for the timing of her diversions.

Unfortunately, it’s not enough; you can still hear the laughter and music through the walls from upstairs, a raucous noise that scatters your train of thought. Is it Carol? What’s she doing? What’s she whispering into Hill’s ear? Does she know you’re even here? Does she care? 

Probably not.

You take the shot without thinking, balls ricocheting off the sides of the pool table. Wanda barks out a laugh. “Really? That’s the best you’ve got?”

“Just getting warmed up,” you say stiffly, handing the pool cue off.

Wanda’s face is alight with amusement, nodding slowly as she moves around the pool table for her next shot. “Okay.”

You’re too far in your head, and you know it. You’re content to linger on the outskirts of the game while everyone else that Wanda goes about recruiting takes their turn. It’s a few minutes or an hour before the cue ends up back in your hand, like a rickety sort of clockwork that is unexpected but also entirely predictable. You assess the situation and find a decent enough angle now that the game has progressed, significantly so.

You bend over slightly, eyes fixed on a blue ten that’s not too far from the cue. Before you can make the shot, you hear someone behind you muttering. “Do it like this.”

When you glance over your shoulder, it’s Natasha, only a few inches from where you stand, hands hesitating before she reaches out. “Back up,” she guides, her hands stationing on your hips and forcing you to take a half-shuffle of a step backwards. “And lift your elbow like this.” You’re clay and she shapes you how she wishes, her touch feather light. “Okay. Now try.”

You do exactly as she says, pool cue shooting from your hand and colliding with the cue ball. The ten you’ve had your eyes on sails into the pocket without any interference. 

“Nice shot, sweetheart,” Natasha says, her voice ghosting along the back of your spine. As you straighten up, you glance behind you, noticing the faint grin along the curve of her lips.

“Well that wasn’t sexual at all,” Wanda comments with a low whistle as the pool cue returns to her grip. “Do losers get laid still? I wouldn’t know.” With a toothy flash of a grin, she draws the cue back and makes another shot — you’re not entirely focused on her efforts, thanks to the gravity of Natasha’s sights still pressing deep into your skin.  

Wanda talks a big enough game that she recruits nearly everyone standing around the pool shot to give it a go, which provides a window of opportunity for Natasha to brush a hand along your shoulder and steal you away. “Up for a smoke?” she asks, and you nod. You allow her to lead the way out through the basement’s French doors, slipping outside into the backyard where the sky is dotted with stars, the air smells only the slightest bit cleaner, and the music is nothing but a dull pulse from inside the house.

Natasha steers you away from the patio where other fraternity brothers and their guests are sitting around, enjoying their drinks and laughing amongst their idle, stoned conversations around the fire pit. You follow her into the grass, trailing around the side of the house until the two of you don’t have any other company aside from each other and Thor’s knockout rose bushes that he takes great pride in.

She leans up against the wall, hands fishing in the pocket of her jacket for her lighter. For someone who’s devoted the rest of their evening to shooting metaphorical (or even literal) middle fingers in Carol’s direction, you’re still too far on edge to be nonchalant about any of it. The quiet is all consuming, maddening inside of your buzzing mind. Natasha produces a joint, embers burning on the end as she lights it and brings it up to her lips. You’re left to watch as she takes a long, casual drag, a cloud of smoke billowing from her lips on the exhale. Her wrist then extends, offering the joint up; if there is such a thing as too eager, you’d be the poster child for it, the way you pluck it from her fingers and take a hit.

“Something on your mind?” she asks, her voice a low drag of gravel against the muted bass thud inside of the house. You open an eye and glance over at her, her green eyes burning holes through you as she watches. 

“Eh,” you mutter half-heartedly with a shrug. “Not worth it.”

You pass the joint back to her after you take one more drag, your eyes fixed on the steady stream of smoke that you forcibly control the exit from your mouth. It’s nice to have control over something, you think, even if it is, to some degree, just seeing how long you can hold your breath. 

“Seems like you could use a distraction,” Natasha comments, fingers idly rolling the joint between her fingers as smoke still curls from the tip. 

You laugh, a low and guttural noise that’s passive at best. “Yeah, probably.”

Natasha turns so her entire body is facing you, and it doesn’t register, the way that she’s looking at you, until you feel her brush your hair off of your face. Your eyes fully open, somewhat surprised by the action, watching her carefully. Natasha’s a lot of things, but gentle isn’t one you’d readily associate with her. It’s almost like she’s handling you like glass, waiting for the right moment to shatter you. It’s a hiccup in your chest, a strange feeling washing over your body.

“Let me distract you, then.” She says it simply, like it’s the most logical conclusion to arrive at.

“Nat, what...”

“C’mere.” One of her hands encircles your wrist, guiding you closer. You follow wordlessly in her guidance, unsure of what she’s doing or what’s to come. She takes another hit of the joint, her eyes glowing the same way the end of the joint does, a low burning fire that seems to grow hotter the longer your eyes are connected. 

The hand holding your wrist slides up your body until she’s cupping your jaw, her thumb darting across the expanse of your face to swipe across your lips in a prompt to open them. She lowers the joint, bringing her face inches away from your own as her mouth forms a perfect circle and releases smoke. You’ve shotgunned weed before, but never at such a close proximity. Natasha breathes out and you breathe in, eyes fluttering shut at the intimacy of the moment. 

“Gonna let me distract you some more?” she whispers, and you barely register yourself nodding before her lips capture your own. Her mouth is plush and soft but nothing about her is gentle anymore — this is where she forces a spiderwebbing crack across your surface, the deft way in which she manipulates your lips to do exactly as she’d like, her tongue skating across the skin and opening your mouth to allow her access. You can’t help but to sigh into the kiss. She is exactly what she claims she is: a distraction, a welcome reprieve, and the golden halo around Carol’s head seems fuzzy and jilted now.

Natasha kisses you like she’s trying to set you on fire; at some point she has absconded the joint and ground out its remnants into the mulch, both her hands cupping your face as she boxes you in with her legs and adjusts the two of you so your back is now flush against the wall. “How’s this?” she murmurs against your ear, lips starting a descent down your neck that is feather light and the gentle scrape of her teeth.

“Very... very distracting,” you stammer out, fingers curling into fiery red hair. 

“Good,” Natasha hums, her mouth vibrating over a particularly sensitive spot on your collarbone that causes your grip in her hair to tighten. “Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be so far in your head.” 

You nod, thankful for the reward of her body pressing against yours. 

“What d’you say?” Her voice ghosts over your skin, and for a moment, you’re not sure what it is she’s asking. It takes a moment, the weed and the liquor clouding your mind, but the dig of Natasha’s blunt fingernails into your hips and the graze of her teeth along your skin serves as motivation. “Huh? What d’you say, princess?” 

“Thank you,” you gasp, the feeling of her mouth tightening around your skin wet and hot sending a glimmer of electricity down your spinal cord. Natasha chuckles, a dark and melodic noise that buzzes through your body. 

“You’re welcome,” she croons. “’S that all you needed? Or do you need more?”

More. It’s the knee jerk response you have, the way your world has narrowed down to just her and the scent of her heady perfume and each individual curve of muscle is now flush against you. Your eyes open only to see Natasha grinning like she’s the fuckin’ devil. 

Maybe you were misplaced somehow.

Natasha’s hands drag over your sides, up and down roughly as she kisses you and forces your legs farther apart so she’s able to snake one of her thighs in between them. She rucks your top up on the edges, fingers brushing over your skin in a delightful contrast to the cool evening air. Natasha is hot, her touch burning and singeing the skin wherever it moves. She’s painting you out of ashes and making you into something beautiful, something uniquely her own. Her hands slip underneath your shirt and you feel one hand trail upwards, fingers wrapping around your breast before squeezing. It elicits another tiny moan from you, which Natasha swallows down with a kiss. “Shh,” she hisses against your lips. “Be quiet.”

You arch into her touch as her fingers slip beneath the cup of your bra and pinch your nipple tight, another squeak of pleasure groaned into her mouth. It only encourages her further, the other hand of hers moving in the opposite direction. “Want me to touch you?” she whispers in your ear while you press your mouth into her shoulder, breath warm against your ear and her teeth just barely missing your earlobe. “Bet you’re not distracted now; only thing you and that pussy are thinking about is me, huh?”

“Fuck, Nat,” you mumble into her skin.

“Yeah you are,” she replies with a shit eating grin, your head tilting back until it roughly meets the back of the wall as her hand goes up your skirt. 

You’d been meticulous prior to coming over, thinking on whatever lone star trailing in the sky that you’d be seducing Carol tonight; you’d purposefully worn your skimpiest pair of underwear just to show her what she could have if she was with you. It’s only when you see the look on Natasha’s face, the way her pupils dilate and her jaw slackens the slightest bit as her fingers skim in between the folds of your thigh and vulva and feels lace that you feel something resembling satisfaction. “You came ready for a distraction, princess,” she grumbles, moving your underwear to the side and swiping her fingers through what is now sheer want dripping from you. “Fuck, you’re wet.”

“N... Nat,” you whine, squirming around in the pursuit of pressure. “Touch me.”

She places the tip of her finger at your entrance, just barely teasing it in. “Ask nicely, honey.”

The words spill from your lips without thought. “Please, Nat, please touch me, fuck m—” She cuts you off as she slips her finger inside of you and you all but rocket up the side of the wall at the feeling. Her free hand, still underneath your shirt, wrestles out from beneath the fabric and is slapped over your mouth to muffle whatever noise you make.

“Thought I told you to be quiet,” she says between her gritted teeth. “Here.” She presses her index and middle fingers against your lips and you acquiesce, opening them wide enough to allow them to slip in. “Suck.”

You do as you’re told, happy to oblige as she begins to finger you. There’s nothing soft or sweet about the way she fucks you; she adds another finger and finds a steady rhythm, curling each time she’s knuckle deep inside of you just so she can be rewarded with you humming around the fingers in your mouth. It amuses her to some extent, the way her eyes have darkened and her mouth is slightly agape. She knows exactly what she’s doing, and considering how tight you are wound, you’re not going to last long.

"Clench around me, pretty girl,” she hisses amongst the other litany of dirty things she’s whispering in your ear. “Such a sweet pussy, does whatever I ask it to; what if I want this pussy all to myself? You gonna let me have it?”

You nod, Natasha withdrawing her fingers from your mouth before she hauls you in for the filthiest kiss of your life. “Fuck,” you whimper against her lips. “Yours, Nat, your pussy.”

“Yeah, I know. This is my pussy now, all tight and hot and wet and desperate just for me. This was what you needed, wasn’t it? Needed me to fuck you silly until you forget how to put one foot in front of the other.”

“Please, Nat, gonna...” 

“What?” she teases, her thumb flicking across your clit and you know that she’s doomed you, mind and body barreling down a track that there is no return from. “What, baby? Use your words.”

“Gonna come,” you manage to get out, and she fucking laughs.

“‘S right,” she agrees. “Gonna make this little pussy come all over my fingers, since I’m the only one who can. That right?” You nod; her fingers tighten in your hair and pull your head back so your neck is exposed for her. “C’mon, baby, wanna see you make a mess on my hand. Come for me like a good little slut. You know you want to.” You do, you do, and everything is bordering on the edge of too much the way Natasha is sucking your neck and rubbing tight circles on your clit. “Show me who’s pussy this is. Come.”

Another few thrusts and flicks of your clit and you are gone, Natasha bringing her mouth back to yours to swallow the keens and cries of you hitting your climax. The brick wall underneath you scratches at your shirt but it is a heavenly feeling, losing control underneath Natasha. She just smiles when she pulls away and you slump into her, perfectly sated. 

“That was hot,” she says with a wicked grin, pulling her fingers out of you. She doesn’t break eye contact as she brings them up to her lips, sucking your taste off of them. Her eyes alight with pleasure, a contented hum reverberating from her vocal cords. “Thanks, pretty girl.”

Beat that, Danvers.

[run2yoongi]

puppy love | jjk + kth x reader. ch.3

you’d met jeon jungkook and his best friend kim taehyung in your first year at university. it didn’t take long for you to fall for jungkook, however it was clear that he was less than interested in romance. you pushed down the frustration and jealousy when jungkook talks about his weekend exploits and dating app matches, telling yourself that being friends with benefits was better than being nothing at all. you didn’t expect that one of the benefits of your arrangement with jungkook would be his best friend, taehyung.

↳ pairing: fuckboy!jungkook x reader, taehyung x reader

↳ setting: college au

↳ warnings: 18+. explicit sexual content, fr this is pure smut, no plot this chapter lol poor taehyung, pwp, oral (f rec), fingering, penetrative sex, teasing, begging, biting, pet names.

↳ side note: word count is 3.6k. ahh! you all don’t know how happy it makes me that people are liking these chapters :)) thank u to everyone who rb’s, u are the cause of my euphoriaaAAA heyYyeeaahhH. also how good is Indigo!!! lmk ur fav track off the album :*

previous | next

you were chewing on the side of your mouth when your phone buzzed you out of your daze, snapping you back into your place in the university library. you didn’t know how long you’d been daydreaming, but you noted that the sun had just begun to set. 

you glanced over to the instagram notification, catching the username @jungkook.97. you picked up your phone to investigate. he’d replied to your story, an admittedly cute selfie of you completely surrounded by textbooks and revision notes at your desk. 

jungkook.97: nerd. when do you finish?

that was indeed, a good question. recently, you’d been staying at the library with taehyung until it closed at 9pm. however tonight, taehyung had been roped into some dance workshop with jimin. the invite had been extended to you, however, no matter how much you’d love to see those two covered with a thick sheen of sweat under studio lights, you’d declined. you weren’t too enthusiastic to embarrass yourself in front of either of them. 

y/n: about to leave, what’s up? 

you locked your phone and discarded it to the side as you began packing up your notes, cursing yourself for bringing so many study materials when you’d barely gotten through half. you fished through your bag to find your earphones before they became buried under your laptop and textbooks. 

jungkook.97: sent a photo. 

that piqued your interest. after glancing over your shoulder to make sure the coast was clear in case it was an indecent image, you tapped on the message. you smile grew on your lips at the photo of jungkook at the uni gym in a thin oversized tee and basketball shorts. your eyes darted over to the text typed over his torso. 

meet me outside mine in 10? 

with a visual aid like that, how could you refuse? you pressed your earphones into your ears and swiped up to open your playlist, determined to make him wait a little bit for your reply. you ambled over to the elevator, a dumb grin stretching further over your lips. after you picked up a chilled aloe drink from the vending machine on your way out, you finally typed your reply. 

see you then

the summer heat washed over you with a sickly sweet aroma hanging in the thick air. you’d nearly finished your drink by the time you found yourself outside of the male dorms, placing your weighty bag on the gravel between your feet as you waited for jungkook to find you. you’d only been waiting a minute before a tattooed hand swiftly picked up the bag from between your legs with an overdramatic groan at its heft. 

“didn’t realise i was in for another workout.” jungkook grinned at you, the gentle golden sunlight dancing across his warm eyes in a way that made your heart skip a beat as you gazed up at him. a trick of the light made the burnt orange sky in contrast to his dark hair seem like a god given halo. he looked deceptively angelic, you thought. “you should know better than that by now.” you scolded, tucking your earphones away as you followed behind him. he escorted you through the empty common areas and into the elevator. 

he wrapped his arm over your shoulders as the doors closed in front of you, leaning in to taunt you with the closeness of his lips to yours. you could smell the delightful mix of his cologne, body wash and the faint scent of sweat. it was intoxicating in the tiny elevator, clouding your senses in your post-study haze.

too soon, the elevator doors opened to jungkook’s floor. he guided you out, your bag hooked over his shoulder until it hit the hardwood floor of his room. with a soft beep, the air conditioner turned on providing a wash of relief over your warmed skin. “just gonna shower quickly,” he muttered, tossing his shirt over his head and onto the floor as he sauntered into the bathroom. you averted your eyes from his torso, focusing on his neatly made bed in front of you. you’d seen him in worse states of undress, but his immaculate body still made you nervous. 

your head rested on his pillow as you brought your phone up to your face, tapping through instagram stories while you waited to hear the shower turn on. jimin’s story caught your eye, tapping over it to replay it again and again. to your delight, you didn’t need to attend the dance workshop to see what you’d been hoping to. the drumming of the shower drowned out the sound of your surprised hum.

the recording began with jimin darting back from the phone as he placed it against the studio mirror, revealing a lingering taehyung as the familiar beat blared over the speakers. they moved in sync, skin glistening under the warm lighting. it always impressed you how well they moved, how comfortable they were with each other. your eyes fixed onto taehyung, who bit his lip as he gyrated on beat. a charming habit you’d picked up on as you’d religiously watched these weekly stories. your mind drifted back to that night you’d gone out together. his hand on your knee, playful eyes boring into yours as he spoke in the summer heat. he’d always felt so far out of your reach, just a kind senior student who took pity on a struggling friend-of-a-friend. but as you rewatched the minute long video, you began to wonder if that was really the case. after all, jungkook had seemed to think it was plausible when he’d been spanking you over just getting drinks with him. 

you shook the thought of your head, exiting out of the story with a sigh. you couldn’t. he was off-limits. you couldn’t be friends with benefits with your friends with benefits’ best friend. jungkook had clearly been disturbed at the thought as he’d not-so-delicately explained. you scrolled through your phone, switching from app to app as your patience with jungkook grew shorter. the gentle ambience of the shower was cut short as you glanced over to the bathroom door that was left cocked open. from the gap between the door and it’s frame, you saw jungkook’s reflection on the steamed glass, his lightly tanned skin and mass of dark hair catching your eye. 

when he emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam with just a towel wrapped around his broad shoulders soaking up the droplets falling from his hair, you swore you could have died right there on his bed. “try to keep your eyes inside your head, baby.” he chuckled, seeing straight through your feigned collected composure. the fruity vanilla scent of his shampoo drifted over you as he sauntered closer, you tried to keep your eyes on his face and away from his…

he lazily placed his palms on either side of your head, a defined smirk tugging on his lips. “what’s got you all worked up, pup?” he teased cockily, knowing full well the effect he had on you. you had to bite back that jimin and tae’s dance video was working to get you as wound up as much as he was. “cat got your tongue?” he chided, filling the silence that lingered in his small room. “nothing i haven’t seen before, ‘koo.” you replied coyly, staring back into his darkening eyes. his eyes focused on your parted lips, before he began teasing your shirt up to your chest. his lips surrounded yours in a rough kiss, then he lowered himself down to press a trail of softer kisses from your lower stomach up to your breasts. he took a moment to unbutton your thin blouse and revel the way your tits sat round and full in your plain black bra. 

you helped him unbuckle the bra’s clasp, eager to feel his mouth on you once more. “so fucking sweet,” he sighed as his tongue slid across the surface of your skin. he took his mouth over your nipple, flicking it taut with his tongue as his palm teased and toyed with the other. you stared at his veiny, tattooed hand and let out a soft moan at his touch. he kissed his way up your neck, to your jaw and finally licked the shell of your ear, sending a fierce wave of lighting through you to your fingertips. he was too good, too practised. 

you felt the weight of his thick cock bob against your thigh, and cast your gaze down to appreciate the smooth, pink appearance of its tip. “is that what you want?” he whispered, his lips still pressed against your ear, granting a shiver down your spine and agitating your core. “you want it here?” he brushed his fingers against the fabric of your underwear, your skirt doing too little to hide your arousal. you nodded, looking back up to him as his tongue toyed with his lip ring. “tell me what you want, pup.” he smirked again as his mouth drifted from your ear to your jaw. you felt him all over you, the heat of the shower radiating off his skin and on to yours. you felt so dirty by comparison, feeling your essence pool between your legs. 

“i want you,” you whispered, hushed and breathless. jungkook flashed his eyes at you, expectantly. “i need to feel you in me, please jungkook.” you spoke up, batting your eyes at him. if he wanted you to beg, you’d beg. he gave you a satisfied smile and placed another kiss on each of your nipples, licking at them before lowering himself further. “you need to feel what in you?” he teased, spreading your thighs with his palms.”my fingers? my cock? my tongue?” 

you whimpered, his words lighting your insides on fire. you wanted to rub your thighs together in a desperate attempt to create friction, but he held them apart- his cheek resting lazily on the plush inside of your soft thigh.  “please,” you begged, pleading eyes desperately trying to reach his. his fingers looped around the thin fabric that pressed into your hip and dragged your underwear down, excruciatingly slow. “do you deserve it, puppy?” he asked, raising a mocking eyebrow at you. so cruel, you thought. “you been a good girl today?” 

you nodded your head, exasperated. you attempted to buck your hips, unable to stay still under the pressure he was placing on you. “s’ good.” you cried out, desperate for more. as your panties were discarded to the side, he licked his lips, teasing you further. “look at that, i’ve barely even touched you.” he sneered, his finger sliding in a quick stripe across your damp center. you saw the glistening fluid on his finger as he brought it up to his lips and placed it on his tongue. “please, koo’.” you begged again, frustrated by the restraint he had over your thighs. 

“okay, okay.” he sighed, generously placing his finger back on your core. you grinded against his digit, needing much more than that. the cool air of his room made the absence of his warmth on your skin all the more apparent, and you let out another desperate whine. he grinned up at you, a devious glint in his eye. before you could anticipate it, he gave you a hard swat on your clit making your walls pulse at his touch. you cried out, again. he loved teasing you like this, making you beg, watching you crumble. he rubbed the spot that he’d slapped, spreading your essence over your clit and chuckled as you writhed. “so good for me,” he grinned. “what should your reward be, puppy?” 

he brought his tongue to meet his fingers, licking a slow, languid stroke over your arousal, pooling onto his muscle. he withdrew his face and glanced back up at you. “cumming once? maybe twice?” he pretended to think it over. “maybe we’ll just see how many times you’re capable of.” 

you moaned. he wasn’t even touching you, and you still moaned. his sadistic grin turned into a smirk as he placed his tongue and fingers back on you. you grinded against his tongue, needy and desperate for more stimulation. you hitched your skirt up further, the only remaining piece of clothing you had to cover yourself with. his tongue plunged past your folds, searching for something deeper and deeper into you. you felt your coil growing tighter and tighter, ready to snap at a moment's notice. his long fingers circled your clit, spreading your liquid all over your core and trailing down from his lips. 

you tried to fight off your orgasm, eager to make the building sensation last. but it was no use, when his fingers joined his tongue deep inside you- you snapped. you slammed your eyes shut, hips rolling with the waves of your orgasm as you came. jungkook’s tongue on you didn’t stop, he kept licking you as you threw your head back. your toes curled as your uninhibited moan rang through the dorm, certain that half the floor could hear it. when jungkook continued his calculated attack on you, you pressed your palm to his forehead- trying to push him away. he just looked up at you from between your legs innocently, his chin coated with your sheen, lips puffy and glossed. 

“that was a good start, pup.” he spoke through his grin, his fingers still dancing over your clit, causing you to jolt every time they pass your bundle of nerves. his new nickname for you rang inside your head, vacant of all other thoughts. “jungkook, please.” you begged, uncertain what you were even asking for. “you need more?” he asked, wiping the juices on his mouth on the back of his veiny hand as he crawled on top of you. his length twitched against your cunt and you knew he wanted it just as badly as you did, despite his tone. 

he reached over to his bedside table and grabbed a condom from the basket in his drawer. you tried not to break your immersion as he used his teeth to tear the packet open and stuck out his hand, gesturing for you to lean closer. “wet it for me, baby.” he instructed, eyes trained on your mouth. you propped yourself up and licked your hand, saturating it with thick pools your spit before placing it on his hard, throbbing cock. he hissed quietly at your touch, a familiar bead of precum forming as your stroked your spit onto him. 

after he was satisfied, he rolled the condom on and lined himself up with your aching core. he slipped his cock over your clit, poking and rubbing it with his tip sending a bolt of electricity through your legs again. you wrapped them around his hips, pulling him closer to you as strands of his soft, dark hair fell from where they were tucked behind his ears. the familiar scent of his shampoo washed over you once again, and you relished in the sensory comfort it provided you. 

his length pushed past your folds, slowly rubbing against your walls as you fought to adjust. the stretch temporarily blinded you with pleasure, incoherent mumblings falling from your lips as he finally filled you. “let me know when you’re ready.” he whispered, pressing his forehead against your own. you were so full, so blissed out and ready to take whatever he gave you. your legs fell from their grip around him as he pushed your legs up closer to your chest. you took a deep breath and opened your eyes, steadily nodding at him. he placed his palm firmly on your knee and began to push in deeper, taking your breath away from you. as you gasped in for air to fill your lungs, your mind flashed back to taehyung- his warm hand on your knee, his eyes, his lips, that video. 

what the fuck?

you widened your eyes at the revelation, guilt sweeping over you for an unclear reason. jungkook’s eyes were pressed shut as he unsheathed his cock from you before guiding it back in, making you moan in ecstasy. you kept your eyes open and focused on the man on top of you, making sure your mind didn’t wander where it wasn’t allowed. “look at me,” you whined, needing his attention desperately to bring you back to reality. his eyes shot open, and his mouth pressed itsself against yours once again. he broke the kiss and looked your body over. from your lips to where the two of you connected, he was transfixed. 

“roll over, pup.” he instructed, trying to hide the smirk that was forming at the fitting nickname he’d given you. he pulled out of you and helped you onto your stomach, pulling your hips upwards so your ass was presented in front of him, for him. you felt his teeth nip at your flesh as his hand stroked your damp core from his position in between your legs. you heard him adjust on the bed and felt his cock line up with your centre once again. you lifted one of your legs up, flat against the bed, parallel with the wall his bed was set against. 

he breached your walls again, rubbing himself against your velvety insides. “play with yourself, baby.” you obeyed, stretching your hand underneath you to circle around your nerves as he thrust into you. he panted over you, letting out exasperated groans and grabbing at the flesh of your ass as he fucked you dumb. you couldn’t take much more, still sensitive from your first orgasm with your second quickly approaching. 

“fuck i can feel you,” he hissed as you twitched and pulsated around his cock. the sound, scent and feeling of him completely engulfed you, and the rub of the mattress massaging your breasts with his thrusts sent you over the edge. you let out another unrestrained moan, a mixture of your essence and cum leaking onto jungkook’s duvet. he slowed his strokes but couldn’t bring himself to stop completely, rocking his hips as you moaned and gasped immersed in your sudden rapture. “fuck, baby,” he breathed, placing kisses across your back. 

it felt sinfully intimate, something he’d always consciously avoided. in that moment, he was too occupied with the feeling of you around him to care. when he finally pulled out and turned you over, he didn’t look remotely close to done with you. he looked ready to eat you up, a starved man. 

“what brought all this on?” you stammered between urgent breaths. he wasn’t normally so passionate. it was uncharacteristic, even if you were acquainted with his sadistic streak. he just smirked at you, picking you up from your position on your back and slipping in underneath you. “wouldn’t you like to know.” he mused, uninterested in divulging how your cute little puppy dog eyes in your instagram story at the library had got him so worked up while at the gym he had to leave right after seeing it. 

sitting on top of him, you squirmed as he placed more kisses down your neck and gently bit at your shoulders. “wanna show me how good you can be, baby?” he asked between teasing bites on your skin. you nodded, eager to bring him to his release. you lined his solid cock against your core as you lifted yourself above it, sinking down and taking all of him inside you with a relaxed moan. your head lulled back in pleasure, grinding down as you rested on his thighs. 

impatient, he gripped your ass and began lifting your weight up before setting you back down. he really was getting another workout. you bounced on his lap, straining your leg muscles to aid in his efforts. “wanna come in you so bad, fuck” he moaned, eyes locked on your tits as they jiggled in front of him. you clenched around at him at his words, digging your fingernails into his back and riding him with fever. he fell back onto his elbows, stretching his torso for your viewing pleasure. you stroked his abs, elated at the vision of him underneath you, hair a mess, lips parted and eyes glassy. you knew he was close. 

you reached behind you to touch his balls which earned an excited hiss. his eyebrows furrowed and he panted, looking as if he was on the border of pleasure and pain. you continued to ride and grind on his cock, before he laid back completely and held you up by your thighs. he forced his cock into you as deep as it could go and fucked you brutally right from under you. 

you felt another fucking orgasm creeping up on you as he filled you and withdrew at such a rapid pace, all you felt was the building pressure of his cock and the incidental stimulation of his pelvis smacking into your clit. your moan cut through him, seeing droplets of your cum fall onto your skirt, his lap and his cock. in tandem, you came at an unforgiving volume. his cum shot out of his cock, the feeling prolonging your orgasm as you released onto him.

you’d both cleaned up and fell into a shallow sleep, too sticky and exhausted to put your clothes back on. you hadn’t noticed jungkook’s phone buzzing with people from his floor begging you both to keep it down. 

nor had you noticed a text from taehyung, asking if you were still at the library- he’d just got back to his dorm. 

[adracat]

GWitch: As Above, So Below

Hermes Trismegistus is the syncretism of the Greek god Hermes(Roman Mercury) and the Egyptian god Thoth. His name means thrice great, an epithet shared between both figures. Their combined worship was observed in Hermopolis and spawned Hermetic philosophy;  personal ascension from the constraints of physical being.

"As Above, So Below' is paraphrased from a Hermetic text known as the Emerald Tablet and gained great relevance in the occult, astrology, and alchemy-- All domains of Hermes/Mercury

Quod est superius est sicut quod inferius, et quod inferius est sicut quod est superius.

That which is above is like to that which is below, and that which is below is like to that which is above.

"As above, so it is below. That which has been, will return again. As in heaven, so on earth." - Helena Blavatsky

In the occult and witchcraft, it's taken to mean there exists a balance between the cosms. Macrocosm, the universe, and microcosm, the human body. That which happens as above, so it is below. They are one; a perfect union

Symbology

What is happening, has happened, and will happen again. As I've observed in my Cycles of GWitch analysis, this theme is very prevalent. Cycles themselves are a sign of As Above, So Below. The World Serpent and World tree are symbols of this principle, along with the sign for infinity 8, the caduceus, and circles.

One major sign is the Magician from the Rider–Waite tarot deck

The magician is signaling with his hands As Above, So Below and is haloed by the sign for infinity above. A pentagram lies to the left, depicting the tie to the mystic world. It's no accident that we have Prospera referred to as a magician with her gentle words; hinting at her significance through Mercury (god of communication and trickery) and the hermetic principle. She is the Magician. And an argument can be made that Suletta is also a magician (witch) who inadvertently influences rather than manipulates. But that line of thought is for another day

The Sabbatic goat Baphomet is another Symbol of As Above, So Below

They are a sign of a perfect union of opposites; Man/Beast, Female/Male, Dark/Light, etc. All while bearing Mercury's caduceus and mirroring the magician. Note the pentagram and torch pointed to the sky as the Magician does. As Above, So Below. The words on its arms are Solve (dissove) Coagula (coagulate). An alchemical principle that means to create something new, you must dissove what came before. The End must come before the Beginning. The Beginning must come before the End. A connected cycle.

Ragnarok is an obvious use of this concept but it also exists in Greek myth; Cronos who overthrew his father Uranus who was overthrown by his son in return. What has happened will happen again.

Notrette, the Hermetic Alchemist

This is more on the speculation side of things but considering ep23 and soft confirmation she resides in the GUND nexus and even more of a genetic genius than expected; let's assume she's the one who created Suletta, the 12th key.

In Alchemy, there exists something called the philosopher's stone. FMA fans are very familiar but in layman's terms it's the holy grail of alchemy. And one of the boons is the ability to create a clone/homunculus. Considering QZ, the ability to unnaturally extend life is similarly on the nose. The 12 keys of Basil Valentine is an alchemical text by which you can create the philosopher's stone

This is the image for the twelth and final step. Twelfth Key. Inside a laboratory an alchemist stands with tongs in his left hand, while with his right he points to a triangular crucible on a bench behind him, with two rose-like flowers growing out of it and the symbol of Mercury above it. On the left is a barrel-like furnace from the top of which flames emerge. On the right a lion devours a snake. Through an open window behind, the Sun and Moon are seen.

Mercury's symbol and 12th key are undeniably Suletta but the Snake and Lion are Shaddiq and Guel. The Moon is Nott (Notrette) and the Sun is her child Dagr (Miorine)

We are meant to associate both Notrette and Prospera as Hermetic Alchemists, and the pursuit of their craft has led to the events of GWitch and the perpetuation of numerous cycles. As Above, So Below.

I do find it intriguing that the stone is said to be not one, but two. A red stone and a white stone. It's not hard to equate our girls to both. After all, they too are a perfect union of opposites

[elancholia]

There are a number of ways writers go when making up Space Geopolitics, astropolitics, whatever:

United States of Earth vs. Various Alien Race-Empires (Star Trek in practice, 40k, Halo)

United human expansion or hegemony followed by collapse into various states that have no overt relationship to contemporary politics (Battletech, the Foundation books)

Divergent colonies counterposed to Earth (the Expanse, the early Azimoverse with the Spacers and Earth); these settings are more likely to focus on the contrast of culture and character between the frontier people (strong and dynamic) and the core (overpopulated pussies). The vibes are "the American revolution" rather than "the fall of Rome".

Earth nations and coalitions thereof extend themselves into space, creating an interstellar pie chart with scaled-up versions of Earth stuff (Infinity, the godawful Alien extended universe, which inspired this post when I looked up a background detail of the Alien: Isolation story); this is the rarest and most awkward.

[ton-618-ton-618]

2024 March 15

apologies that i was late.

Portrait of NGC 1055

Image Credit & Copyright: Dave Doctor

Explanation: Big, beautiful spiral galaxy NGC 1055 is a dominant member of a small galaxy group a mere 60 million light-years away toward the aquatically intimidating constellation Cetus. Seen edge-on, the island universe spans over 100,000 light-years, a little larger than our own Milky Way galaxy. The colorful, spiky stars decorating this cosmic portrait of NGC 1055 are in the foreground, well within the Milky Way. But the telltale pinkish star forming regions are scattered through winding dust lanes along the distant galaxy's thin disk. With a smattering of even more distant background galaxies, the deep image also reveals a boxy halo that extends far above and below the central bulge and disk of NGC 1055. The halo itself is laced with faint, narrow structures, and could represent the mixed and spread out debris from a satellite galaxy disrupted by the larger spiral some 10 billion years ago

[smallgodseries]

[image description: Two beautiful JC Leyendecker angels – with full haloes, wings, and finery – kneel in adoration. Their focus? A small pile of pale cheeses, swaddled in pleasing red wax. Text reads, “172, SMALL GOD – BABY CHEESES”]

• • • • •

They don’t have names, just yet; they’re still too young and small and defenseless for that, nestled in soft wax shells like proto rinds, snuggled down in mangers lined with cheesecloth and the sweet smells of milk and hay.  They don’t have any sharp edges.  Those will come later, if they’re allowed to age and mature for that long.

They never are.  That’s not why they’re here.

They’re a delicious snack, sweet and creamy and savory, all at the same time, filled with precious fats and delicate sugars.  Each of them lives only as long as a lunch hour, but they nurture the body and the soul, and they consider their short lives well-spent.  They feed us.  we make them, and they feed us, and isn’t that worship, of a kind?  Isn’t that a form of communion?

There are those, even among the pantheon, who say the small cheeses don’t belong.  Who say that if you have no unique identity, no divine origin, and no continuity, you can’t be a god.  And then there are those, like Firm Ent, the small god of cheesemakers, who say that all cheese is divine, regardless of whether or not it chooses to assemble itself a church; all cheese is proof that the

heavens love the earth, for why else would a process meant to bring on souring and decay end with something so flawlessly delicious?

Cheese is a sign of divinity’s love for the mortal, and the small cheeses are a reminder that this love extends even to the smallest and youngest of the humans.

Yes, there are those who are denied this sweet communion, but there are those who are denied every communion.  The bald find little comfort in the hands of Tesla; the hungry yearn for Sandy but are all too often denied his affections.  A thing need not be universal to be divine.

A thing need only be.

And the small cheeses most definitely, and deliciously, are.

• • • • •

Please join Lee Moyer (Icon) and Seanan McGuire (Story) each week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for a guide to the many tiny divinities:

WordPress: https://leemoyer.wordpress.com/

Instagram: https://instagram.com/smallgodseries/

Homepage: http://smallgodseries.com

Mastodon: @SmallGods@mastodon.world