spotted feathers

7

The Birth of the Fifth Sun, the Mexica (Aztec) sacred narrative which tells of the birth of our current sun. The paintings are posted in order, and follow the progress of the narrative told below.

14.1 It is said that when the earth was still dark, when there was yet no warmth, nor day, nor light, the Teteo came together at Teotihuacan to take counsel, and there they lit the Spirit Fires, great blazes set atop the twin pyramids of the sacred city. For four years they burned.  “Come here, oh Teteo! Who shall carry the sun? Who shall bear it? The warming, the dawning? The burning fire? The celestial Light? Who shall leap into the Spirit Fire?” Than forth stepped Four Flint, Tecuciztecatl, Our Lord of Snails, and he cried out, “Oh Teteo! Indeed, it shall be I!” Yoaltecuhtli and Tlaloc stepped forward, “You are one who must keep the sky and the earth.”
14.2 “And yet, another is needed,” said the Teteo. “Who shall be the other?” Yet the Teteo were frightened, and none among them stepped forth. They took counsel with one another, and summoned Nanahuatzin, The Pimpled Lord, the Crippled One, and summoned him to the counsel. Tonacatecuhtli and Xiuhtecuhtli stepped forward and said to him, “You are the one who must keep the sky and the earth.” Many tears did Nanahuatzin shed, for he felt unequal to the task, he, the worthless invalid.
14.3 The Teteo Nanahuatzin and Tecuciztecatl began their fasts, their sacrifices, in preparation for the Spirit Fire, the God Oven. Tecuciztecatl prepared himself with precious things. His fasting-ropes were of quetzal feathers, and his ritual branches of cotinga plumes. His grass heart was of woven gold, his incense of the finest copal. He did not offer his own blood, his own Yollia, but instead offered maguey thorns and  lancets made of coral. Resplendent he looked, shining and beautiful, as he made his sacrifices.
14.4 Nanahuatzin, the Crippled Lord, the Teotl in poverty, formed his fasting-rope of grass and paper. His ritual branches were made of green grass and green reeds, tied in three bundles, bound bundles of nine each. His bloodletting spine was of bone, well reddened with his own blood. His only incense were his scabs, twisted off and cast into the fire.
For four days they fasted, for four days they drew blood and meditated their sacred actions, there upon their respective pyramids. When they had completed their days of sacrifice, they burned their ritual branches, their bloodletting instruments, in the sacred fire. They were become slaves. They were become Gods.
14.5 To Tecuciztecatl, the gathered Teteo gave him his egret headdress, his elegant attire of quetzal and jade.
14.6 But Nanahuatzin was attired only in paper, only in cloth of Maguey. They painted the Teteo in white, they chalked them, and adorned them in eagle-down feathers.
15.1 Tecuciztecatl, as the senior Lord, approached the fire first, to leap into its heart. The fire roared, it crackled, it seared his eyes. He grew faint and afraid. He hesitated. He could not bring himself to leap into the fire.Than Nanahuatzin, the Crippled Lord, seeing the terror of the other, walked forward. Bravely he walked, slowly, so as to feel its heat. And when he reached the Spirit Fire, the God Oven, he leapt into its heart and was consumed.
Tecuciztecatl grew ashamed, and found his spirit, and he too leapt into the Spirit Fire, but lacking the bravery of Nanahuatzin, he fell only into its embers and ashes, where he, too, was consumed.
The Jaguar and the Eagle were among the company of the Teteo, and both leapt over the Spirit Fire. They were singed, they were burned, in its tongues of flame, and thus acquired their spots and dark feathers. For their bravery they were made warriors, ever to serve the sun.

16.1 When, in this way, the two Teteo had thrown themselves into the God Oven, when they had burned to ash, the Teteo sat awaiting to learn from whence they would emerge. Long they waited, meditating in the darkness, when all at once everywhere it became red, everywhere the light of dawn, the reddening of dawn. The Teteo knelt down, facing each of the four directions, to see from whence the sun would emerge at this first dawning of the Fifth Sun. The Teteo fell into confusion; they turned in circles, they faced all directions. The traditional orations, the traditional words, did not bring clarity to the Teteo. Some thought he would emerge from Mictlán, the Place of the Dead, and faced North, to find him there. Some thought The Place of Women, and faced the West, some, The House of Thorns, and faced the South, for the light of the dawning encircled all things, and confusion reigned.
Yet some of the Teteo faced the East, the Place of Light, and cried out, “Already, is he there, already, his light illuminates his Eastern Palace! Behold, he is emerging!” Those who waited there, who pointed there, were Quetzalcoátl and his nagual Xolotl. There too was Our Lord Anahuatl, the Red Tezcatlipoca, and the Mimixcoa without number. And there awaited four women; Tiacapan, Teicu, Tlacoyehua, and Xocoyotl.
And as the sun rose, his light spread like the red Cochineal dye throughout the East, his dazzling brilliance was such that he could not be faced. He shone, he illuminated, and light came into this world. And afterward, Tecciztecatl, too, arose from the Place of Light, also golden and shining, impossible to behold; a second sun.
16.2 And the Teteo said; “How can this be? Shall there be two suns, who both shall follow the same road, who both shall shine in the same way? The brave Nanahuatzin and the unworthy Tecciztecatl?” And so, Tlahuizcalpantecuhtli, The Morning Star, snatched a rabbit from the earth and flung it in the face of Tecciztecatl. Thus, was his face wrecked and his light dimmed, and he fell into the ashes.
17.1 The Teteo declared, “No longer shall he be known as Nanahuatzin, the Pimpled Lord, the Crippled God. He is Tonatiuh, Our Lord the Sun!” And Tonacatecuhtli and Tonacacihuatl, the Lord and Lady of Our Flesh, Our Sustenance, rose to his place at the center of the sky. They bathed and anointed him. They sat him in his Quechol chair. They adorned his head with the butterfly crest, the red-leather thong.
17.2 But he would not move from his place. Four days he remained at the Zenith, at the center of the sky. “Why does he not move?” asked the Teteo, and they sent the Falcon of the Obsidian Blade to ask why he was immobile in the sky.
“I hunger!” replied Tonatiuh. “I need their blood, their precious color, their Yollotl, to find the strength to move across the sky. I need the blood of those who sent me to the Spirit Fire!”
17.3 When the Falcon returned to the gathered Teteo and gave them his message, they were much saddened and afraid. Tlahuizcalpantecuhtli grew angry and cried out, “I will shoot him! He must not stay immobile in the sky!” But his arrows could not reach the sun. Yet the sun, from his lofty perch, shot down his own arrows, his shafts of flame, and they burned the body of The Morning Star, and with the Nine Layers covered up his face, and transformed him into Itztli, the Teótl of the Obsidian Blade, of cold, frost, snow, and judgement.
18.1 Quetzalcoátl raised his eyes sadly to the sky, and spoke to the gods at Teotihuacan. “May he be revived. May we all die!” And the gods mournfully submitted to his will. And so with the Sacred Flint Blade he slit the throats of the gathered Gods; of Titlacahuan, and Huitzilopochtli, and the Goddesses Xochiquetzal, Yapalliicue, and Nochpalliicue. But Xolotl, the god of twins and monstrosities and who is the sprit double of Quetzalcoátl, did not want to die. He fled Quetzalcoátl and his terrible blade. He wept so that his eyes fell from their sockets. “Send me not to the blade, oh Gods! Let me not die!”
18.2 He fled, and Death quickly followed. He followed him to the fields of young corn, were Xolotl transformed himself into the young maize with two stalks in order to hide from Death. He became the Xolotl of the Field. But he was seen by the eyes of Death there among the corn, from whom nothing may be hidden, and so he ran to the Maguey field, and there he turned himself into the double maguey, the Maguey Xolotl. But there too was he seen by the eyes of Death, and so he escaped to the lake, and there turned himself into the Axolotl, the lake-salamander. But there was no more escape, and Death caught him, and Quetzalcoátl slit his throat, amid his tears and lamentations.
19.1 The blood of the Gods rose to the heavens and Tonatiuh drank the sacred strength of their Yollia, on the day Nahui Ollin, Four Movement, the sacred name and destiny of the Fifth Sun. Yet still he could not move, still he could not follow his path.
20.1 But Quetzalcoátl, who had shed the blood of the Gods, who had released the divine force of their Yollia, grew strong and straight. He ran, and blew lightly in the face of the sun, and so pushed him along his path, and than slit his own throat, that his blood and divine Yollia might make the revolutions of the heavens eternal.
Thus it was that as the sun was entering into the earth again, into the open jaws of Our Mother, Tlaltecuhtli, the moon arose from the ashes into which he had fallen, and there at the crossroads met the Tzitzimime, the Star Demons, and the Coleletin, and they detained him a while, and dressed him in rags. He who would have been the sun, who would have been clothed in splendor. And thus it is that on the day Four Movement night and day came into being, and the deaths of the gods established the covenant of sacrifice with men.


It’s You That I Hold Onto (Newt Scamander x Reader)

Originally posted by sweetly87

✩ prompt: a lovely anon message a few posts back :) includes a jelly reader and an overprotective thunderbird

✩ word count: a fair amount idk man

✩ warnings: so sweet u could possibly get a toothache :(

It’s You That I Hold Onto

It’s a typical Saturday evening in the Goldstein residence (plus a few), Queenie and Jacob waltzing to sleepy crackling records, dappled golden mid-winter light on the wallpaper, the smell of something delicious wafting from the kitchen. 

Everything seems perfect to Y/N as she makes her way to the living room, her brilliant crimson skirt swishing rather gracefully about her waist, her hair (for once!) cooperating falling over her shoulders smoothly.

Queenie smiles at her, elegantly breaking away from Jacob to switch which record is playing, new music erupting from the golden phonograph.

“Would ya’ care to dance?” Jacob asks, giving her a rather sloppy grin and holding out his hand.

Y/N nods gleefully, enjoying the time with one of her best friends as the stout man spins her about the room, Queenie clapping to the music.

Newt’s eyes flick to the duo dancing gleefully through the living room, his gaze caught on the pretty woman in his arms. How that skirt shows off her hips-

He looks away immediately, blushing and mentally kicking himself for being “an absolute bloody creep.”

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anonymous asked:

Hey you're princess tutu voltron AU is good and all but does this mean Lance dies?

HELL NO

IMMA FUCKING WRITE UP A DAMN GOOD PLOT, like the ones I’ve seen in some Tutu fanfics.

Read this small fic if you dare:

Originally posted by the-moonlight-witch

SPOILERS FOR THE END OF THE ANIME PRINCESS TUTU:

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anonymous asked:

Have you ever thought about Fakes origin where Geoff kinda was the little brother of the roosters and hey let him do his thing and by the time they thought to look he was already setting up his court in Los SAntos, and by the time they thought to worry he was alreadt setting his sights on something bigger.

What if Gavin was already the golden boy in los santos before Geoff even got there?

When the Roosters branched out everyone was moving with purpose; they were so successful at such a young age that no one even considered getting out of the game, were just expanding to focus on their own specialities, to grow and improve without murdering each other in the process. Gus set up a terrifying web of covert intelligence and stolen secrets, Joel transitioned full time into the absurdly lucrative domain of white collar crime, Matt spent his days schmoozing impossibly high level contacts, Griffon took her roving gang of assassins on the move and Burnie still orchestrates the whole thing from back in Liberty City. Geoff was the odd one out, really, sort of adrift in the world, still playing, getting by on his wealth and reputation, simply chasing entertainment across the country with no real direction or responsibilities.

So when Geoff first started making noise about getting his own crew together, a proper full time affair, the other Rooster’s thought he was kidding. It’s not that they’d thought he couldn’t, exactly, it’s just that he’d never really had that drive. Never really exhibited any lust for control, for personal power over his own domain. For Geoff, who liked to drink and coast and party, who’d always suggested the most outlandish laughable ideas, who’d always shrugged and gone along with whatever everyone else decided like the little brother happy just to be involved, to run his own crew all alone seemed ridiculous. They weren’t laughing at him, really, not for the most part anyway, it’s just that they never really considered Geoff to be a leader.

Geoff, of course, goes off in a huff, utterly offended, but that’s not terribly alarming. They’ve all been in each other’s pockets for so long they are more than used to weathering the storm of tempers, have all had their share of petty tantrums, and everyone comes back eventually. Worst comes to worst Geoff will play with his idea long enough to tire of it, possibly call for some help if it all goes to shit, then everything will be back to normal. In the meantime everyone’s got too much on their own plates to bother chasing him down.

Burnie keeps track of him, of course, keeps an ear out for any rumours of a Rooster getting into trouble, keeps in contact even if the updates aren’t as regular as they could be. It’s how he knows where Geoff is, finally stationary in the strangest of places, knows something’s caught his eye even if the contrary bastard isn’t ready to share exactly what it is yet. Burnie knows Geoff’s holed himself up in Los Santos, and isn’t that so typically him, finding some kind of hidden treasure in the worst city in the country.

Curiosity gets the best of Burnie and, when a month or two pass and Geoff still hasn’t moved on, he can’t help himself from trying to dig a little, calling on various contacts to send their feelers out and work out what could have possibly captured Geoff’s interest so thoroughly. The results are somewhat unexpected.

There’s a kid, they say, some cocky foreign creature that has Geoff fascinated, captivated, the strangest of anchors tethering him to the city. There is no shortage of rumours about the stranger, he’s apparently a particularly talented fixer, though his age comes through in arrogant bravado, in outrageous displays of wealth and a blatant inability to look before he leaps. He’s the kind of character everyone in Los Santos seems to be aware of, everyone seems willing to bend over backwards to know, and it appears Geoff is no exception.

Which is, honestly, the strangest part of the whole deal; Geoff has loyalty in spades for those who matter, but he’s not the most open of people, is no one’s fool, he’s lived through far too much with the Roosters to be taken in by some pretty face with a sob story. There must be something else going on. Geoff might have made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t want anyone else butting in on his business, that he’s sorting out his plans all on his own thanks very much, but surely this warrants some kind of concern. Burnie settles on sending Jack down to scope it out; she was passing through anyway and Geoff might be keeping his cards close to his chest but he’s always liked Jack, it seemed like a good call at the time.

Jack doesn’t come back. Sends Burnie word that all is well, that he doesn’t need to worry, that she plans to stay and help Geoff out with whatever it is he’s working on, but she won’t say what exactly that is. In other words she piques Burnie’s interest even more then laughs in his face and keeps her mouth shut, which honestly, what was Burnie expecting? Jack’s always been loyal to a fault, but not to him. Jack and Geoff have always had each other’s backs and when you break it down her alliance with the Roosters has always come from that friendship; it stands reason that if Geoff is still cranky about their lack of faith Jack will be no more forgiving.

As far as Jack’s concerned she’s been waiting an age for Geoff to sort himself out, and if finally getting there means flipping Burns the bird and cosigning herself to some ludicrous plot in the depths of hell then so be it. When Geoff asks for her help, eyes lit up with the wild determination she remembers from their mischief back in the day she’s hardly going to say no. Perhaps Los Santos isn’t exactly the ideal location, isn’t where she necessarily wanted to end up let alone start in, but given the chance to explain himself Geoff’s ridiculousness is, as usual, based on pretty sound reasoning.

Because Geoff was, once, just passing through Los Santos, an entertaining pit stop on his journey to scout out a worthy crew, but then he found Gavin. Heard the rumours well before he actually met the kid; the Golden Boy of Los Santos, a shiny novelty amongst the grime of the city. The stories were interesting, entertaining, enough that Geoff decided to stick around for a while, enough that Geoff was perhaps drifting into the territory of a stalker, but oh boy did his curiosity pay off.

When Geoff found Gavin he saw far more than he knew he was meant to, far more than he would have if he wasn’t looking, because the kid was good. Was all flash and sparkle,  cheeky jokes and bright laughter, an endearing softness covering the sharpness of his teeth, the blood dripping from his fingers. When Geoff found Gavin he saw everything they could do, everything they could be, saw the broad strokes of the future he’d been toying with falling into place all at once.

Gavin was an interesting conundrum, the criminals of the city completely unsure as to whether or not they like him, whether or not he’s useful, whether or not the kid is a joke or a genius. They say Free is easy, full of all kinds of valuable information and simple enough to buy; offer him some pretty trinket, something pricey or showy or rare and he’ll be eating out of the palm of your hand. And yet they’re all still clamouring to talk to him, still tripping over themselves to work with him, still offering absurd bounties just to catch his fleeting interests. They say he’s controllable, vulnerably alone and far too trusting. Geoff is not convinced.

Because all the information Gavin hoards comes from somewhere, and no one else seems capable of extracting it. Because everyone’s so convinced they’ve got him worked out that they open their doors and let him bypass the usual weapon checks and security protocols. Because Gavin’s reputation of weak-stomached and harmless, useless in a fight, doesn’t add up to the practised way he twirls switchblades between his fingers, deftly flicking them up his sleeves and out of sight. Because for all that the persona of the Golden Boy has captured the city’s unwavering attention no one seems to realise how neatly they’ve been blinded by it.

If you cared to compare the crime scene in America to the one in England you’d realise the game there is played with entirely different rules. Gavin didn’t come into Los Santos swinging, probably wouldn’t have made it two days if he had, but he’s been busy chasing power all the same. Gavin knows every crew of note in Los Santos, knows names and hierarchies, knows base locations and key distribution points. Gavin has integrated himself so neatly, so desirably, that he can get an audience with just about whoever he wants to, can meander across territory lines and police tape with the same unerring charm. Geoff’s seen him play up his age in one meeting, wide eyed and painfully naïve, only to catch him mere hours later leaning into confidence, brisk and clever and entirely untouchable. He’s witnessed Gavin seemingly fall for obvious ruses only to walk out with exactly what he was after, seen him talk his way into deals and out of handcuffs, seen a thousand different ticks and quirks and personalities that shouldn’t all fit comfortably within the same person.

Geoff’s seen more than enough to recognise that familiar air of hungry ruthlessness, of vicious self interest and callous amusement. Maybe Geoff hasn’t got the past experience of being a leader but he’s always known how to help himself by using other people, how to make the most of their particular talents, fit them all together to make a bigger picture. Growing a crew from scratch is harder than it seems, growing one thats loyal from the start, strong enough to stick together and win the uphill battle of taking the most untamable city in the land seems near impossible.

Unless, of course, someone had done all that groundwork already. Unless someone had already wormed into the ecosystem, plotted all the intricacies of power, all the feuds and pressure points, the hidden weapons and unprotected weak spots. Unless someone had already made all the necessary contacts and connections, curried favour with all the best dealers, buttered up the crooked cops, identified all the individuals who might be seduced away from their current gigs into something better, something greater, the ones worth trusting, the ones who would come out on top.

Geoff is no stranger to charm himself, to subtle manipulation, and maybe you can’t kid a kidder but you can certainly enchant a kid, can sell safety in numbers, talk up comfort and protection and organised direction. Geoff might want to outgrow the ever present shadow of the Roosters but a history of royalty is a weighty bargaining chip when your adversary covets nothing more than the appearance of wealth, of power. It’s still not easy by any means, Gavin is cautious, quick witted and wily, running his own game through every conversation, but eventually they come to an understanding. Then Jack turns up and all of a sudden things are in motion, the plan is unfolding, and nothing is going to keep Geoff from forging his own crown.

By the time Geoff thinks about giving Burnie an update his inbox has been flooded by dozens of warnings about the mystery crew taking Los Santos by storm. Increasingly concerned messages telling Geoff it was time to move on, that it wasn’t worth trying mess with such a dangerously effective group all on his own, that he should reach out if he was in trouble. By the time Geoff gets around to giving Burnie a call the old rules of Los Santos have already fallen, the city is running scared and those surrounding it are following suit. Even as the phone rings Geoff knows Gavin’s combining the termination of a problem with teasing the Vagabond away from his current employers, knows Jones and Dooley are having a crashing good time clearing the last of the warehouses down near the docks, knows Tuggey’s pulling some new blood into the support crew and Jack’s off to see a man about a sniper.

By the time Burnie finally hears back from Geoff the writing is well and truly on the wall, the days of being underestimated and overlooked are over, and not even all the grudging apologies in the world will save the Roosters from a lifetime of Geoff’s smug vindication. Geoff isn’t just an ex-Rooster anymore, he isn’t a follower, a drifter, a little brother or a side thought. He is Geoff Ramsey; leader of the FAHC, king of Los Santos, ruler of the worst of the worst, unrelenting and horrifically creative. He is a feared man, he runs an unquestionably dangerous crew, the city shivers in his shadow and they say nothing can stop his reign.

All this over stubborn determination, over hurt feelings, all this in mere months; not even his own crew are ready for what is to come, for the highs and lows of Geoff’s depravity, but he knows they’ll be here with him, will rise to every occasion, and together they’ll set the world alight.

3

Three biiiiig ol’ theropods, Neovenator (Purple Heron) Tyrannosaurus (Bearded Vulture, Golden Eagle, Brown Bear and Spotted Hyena) and Spinosaurus (Australian Heron)


i did them


i dided them

Wings (1)

prologue; part one; part two;


WARNING! THIS SERIES WILL HAVE MATURE THEMES SUCH AS DEATH, SUICIDE AND DEPRESSION! DO NOT READ IF YOU FEEL LIKE THESE THEMES MAY TRIGGER YOU!


Time passed differently when you died. No longer tethered by the mortal string that held your soul in place, you drifted. Life continued without you as did time, you would just never feel it the same. Time was something only mortals experienced. Once you died, your soul would leave your body and transition into its ethereal state where it no longer felt the effects of time. If you lived your life well, your soul would live on and Ascend to the Higher Level.

Unfortunately for Jongin, he had not lived his life well. His past had been a series of bad decisions that ended up having terrible consequences he would regret for the rest of his short life. When he died, his soul did not Ascend. Instead it remained stuck, trapped in the space between worlds known as the Afterworld, and left to drift lost and aimlessly.

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Not a Feather Out of Place

Summary: Wing AU. Shiro needs some help preening his wings, but it’s often times easier said then done.

Notes: @4theroyalty because their tags on my wing au head canons were so enthusiastic.


“You missed a feather.”

“I did not!” Keith huffed.

His wings flared slightly behind him, fluffing up a bit with his annoyance. Shiro shifted his wing to make it easier for Keith to work on, not quite hiding the way the corners of his mouth quirked up as he glanced at Lance. From his perch on the back of the couch behind Shiro, Keith couldn’t see his face anyway.

Lance smiled back slyly.

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Big Cats (Jimin Hybrid!Au) Part 2

You didn’t like Jimin, that much was clear. His obvious hatred towards you, despite you having done nothing to him, made you realize he was a specist.

He discriminated against an entire species, but why? Was he jealous he was a domestic cat and not a big cat? Was he scared of big cats? Did a big cat treat him wrong in the past?


It kept you up at night for days at a time, until you came to the point where you just didn’t care. After years of being discriminated against in Japan for not being a cute bunny or playful puppy, you were going to stop letting people like him treat you like you were beneath them.


With that thought in mind, you made yourself breakfast and ate in silence, enjoying the early Saturday morning. The weekend was the only time you ever had free and considering you work four nights out of the week to pay for everything you needed, you were grateful for the time off.


Thanks to your scholarship, your studies, apartment rent, and bills were being paid for, but everything else was paid out of your own pocket. Due to your upbringing, you were grateful for everything you owned, especially the silence your apartment granted you.


Jimin was surprisingly early when he arrived in the studio that morning and ended up walking in on you dancing, scaring you enough to make your whiskers pop out and hiss in anger. “Calm down” He rolls his eyes, averting his eyes from your whiskers and instead glancing at your feet.

You were still standing on your toes, arms poised neatly. You roll your eyes as well and take your Ballet shoes off, pulling a hoodie on over your tank top. You didn’t speak much as you worked, only enough to add comments on your roughly planned out choreography and change portions of it.

“I’ll see you on Tuesday” You mutter as you pack your things and prepare to walk the twenty minutes it takes you to get to the grocery store before you head home. “Whatever” Jimin replies, plugging his phone into the speakers to dance on his own.

You shut the door roughly on your way out and start making your way down the street, ignoring any odd looks you received. It’s like no one has ever seen a girl in tights and dance shorts with a huge hoodie before. Did you look as sweaty and gross as you felt?

“Y/N! Yah!” You turn your head to spot feathers and chuckle at the sight of one of your close friends making his way over to you. Namjoon was a business major with you, but his second major was philosophy and not dance, unlike you.

“Hey, Joonie” You smile, letting him hug you tightly despite how in-need-of-a-shower you felt. You hardly ever see Namjoon outside of school and even then, each of your interactions is school-related.

“We haven’t done anything besides study in ages! Yoongi and I are having some friends over later, you should come” You glance at the amount of snacks and drinks in his shopping cart and chuckle. “Sure, why not?” You smile and nod, happy to have something to do instead of streaming Netflix all night. “I’ll see you later, kitty”


-


Jimin did not expect you to walk into the apartment of his friends. His roommates Taehyung and Jungkook tag along whenever he hangs out with Hoseok and the ray of sunshine is actually the reason they all met Jin, Yoongi, and Namjoon. This acquired friendship managed to land him here, glaring at your form.


You were wearing black skinny jeans and a blood red sweater, a change from the usual dance attire he saw you in. Your hair was left down and it was then he realized how long your hair actually was, reaching just above your elbow. Jimin quickly shifts back before you can spot the fluffy cat ears and tail he sported moments prior. He glances back at you.


Objectively speaking, you looked pretty. Objectively speaking.

Originally posted by bangtan-oppa

Respite (Jeller fic of pure fluff.)

Jane is in his bed.

He’s already fallen asleep, but in all fairness to him, it’s three in the morning and he only fell asleep a half hour ago. His room is dark now, lit only by the lights of the city through his window and it’s enough to see the way his chest rises and falls slowly, the way his lips part just a little. He snores but not loudly; it’s just an exhale with a soft sound attached to the end, really.

And he loves her.

She can’t say she’s surprised by his love; she isn’t, not now. Maybe she would have been months ago, but ever since the escape room, she’s known. What she’s surprised by is that he said it out loud. She remembers pretending to be married to him, remembers him declaring he’s too choosy for something serious, so she wonders quietly where this puts them. Those walls she’d managed to crumble; are they down forever at her feet? More than anything, she wants them to be. As she contemplates him sleeping, she reaches out to drag her thumb lightly across his forehead. He looks more peaceful asleep, like the weight of the world isn’t on his shoulders. Now, maybe it isn’t. With Shepherd out of play, the world saved, maybe he can look more like this all the time; loved and peaceful. She can at least help with one of those things.

He’s currently using her shoulder as a pillow, and Jane can feel her arm going numb, but she won’t dare displace him. The weight of him is warm and solid; it makes her feel safe somehow and she can feel his breath on her skin. His arm is across her bare stomach, two of their legs tangled, and she leans in, softly dragging her lips across his shoulder. Right then, she decides she’d rather walk around all day tomorrow with a sore arm than ever nudge him to move. The longer Jane watches him, the better he looks; well, he always looks good to her. More than good. Silently, she thinks she should tell him that sometime, and she smiles to herself, already imagining the look on his face in response, not saying anything in return before kissing the compliment from her lips. She’s always allowed herself glimpses of him in the office when he’s at his desk and she’s at the workstation she claimed as her own. But that’s all she allowed herself until now. Unassuming glances, committing him to memory because she never thought she’d get to this

Right now, she takes him in, all of him, the sheet low around his hips and giving her a view she’s taking in like a painting. His eyelashes are long and light, and it’s such a ridiculous, small thing to notice, but she counts them like other people count sheep. He has freckles; not many, but up close she can see them, hiding in the line between smooth skin and scruff. They’re all over his back and shoulders, and when he’s awake, she’s going to kiss each one. She’s wanted to kiss one that’s on his neck for so long, but it felt too soon back then, or the timing was fraught with tension and threats. Now, though, with nothing between them but love, she leans in and kisses that spot softly, lips feather light so she won’t wake him. That kiss, in that spot, means more to her than he knows, a wish fulfilled even while he sleeps. 

When he shifts, Jane freezes, hoping she didn’t wake him, not wanting to have actually disturbed him. She sighs in relief when she realizes he’s only changing positions, though he rolls onto his side, back to her, and she knows his thigh must be aching, needing to relieve some of the pressure on it from his previous position. Carefully, she aligns herself to this new angle, curving her body behind his so she doesn’t have to miss the warmth of him. Without trying to wake him, her hand curves around his hip, her knees find his shins, and she curls up, forehead against his back and tucked perfectly against him. Her lips find more freckles exposed to her now, nose softly grazing across his skin. Even as she does this, she feels as if she needs to express her love for him more, in some better way than physically. She isn’t sure how, but the words are there, burning in her chest. He saved her life, not just literally, and she wonders if he knows it.

When he moves again, Jane’s hand drifts from his hip to his stomach, holding him close against her, not wanting him to move. And then, she hears a low, quiet chuckle, his hand moving to cover hers.

“I’m not going anywhere, Jane.”

She smiles softly against his skin, and slowly, she presses kisses across his back. They’re soft, tender and warm, and she feels his sigh of pleasure which emboldens her, makes her shift until he’s on his back and she’s straddling him, looking down at his face. When he smiles up at her, Jane feels like she can do anything, so she continues to kiss him.

And he continues to sigh.

Imagine Warren in the morning, and his hair is just a mess. Sort of like a blond halo of curls on his head. His blue eyes barely peep open for a minute before he shuts them again because it’s just too early for sunlight. He sits up, groggy, stretches and groans. His wings stretch with him, twitching at the end, a few feathers out of place as he tossed and turned during the night.

He lifts his arms up above his head and continues stretching, rolling his shoulders and bringing his wings back towards his body.

Then suddenly, Warren pauses. Looking to the right, he spots you, under his feathers, and the blanket curled up tightly. Warren swallows, the muscles in his neck contracting as he does. He scans your face for a few seconds, a small smile breaking onto his cheeks as he remembered what had happened last night.

He didn’t toss and turn like he usually did, and he could still feel your fingers rustling his feathers idly as he craned his head down to give you kisses along your sternum, collarbone, jugular and jawline.

If he focused, he could almost taste your skin on his tongue still.

Warren lays back, expanding his right wing so it’s not bothering you. 

He’s still looking down at you, and you start waking up. He stifles a small laugh, letting his hand push back your hair so he could get a clearer view.

Warren takes a deep breath in, letting it linger in his lungs for a few seconds before exhaling.

This was peaceful, perhaps, the most peaceful he had ever been. And the moment you’re awake enough to understand what he’s saying, you hear him whisper to you, in a voice that’s almost vague enough to be a ghost, “I want to wake up like this every morning.”