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vidavalor · 6 months

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I think you're the fifth blogger I've seen mention Shax's thing for Crowley... I still can't see it even though I really want to 'cause I think it's hilarious... send help... 🤣🥲😔

I can try lol. Chocolate cake? *slices*

More fun with Shax and Crowley under the cut. We're also going to look at part of Gabriel & Sandalphon's visit to the bookshop in S1 for some bonus fun since it fit in here as it's a parallel scene.

TW: Brief mention of Sandalphon and his homophobia.

For the most part, Shax isn't really in love with Crowley... she's just got a Mr. Brown-level pash on the Crowley that Crowley projects. While Aziraphale hides that he's an angel from the human world so Mr. Brown only believes him to be human, Crowley hides the extent to which he's human and living like one from the demons in Hell. As a result, the demon pursuing him has got exactly one thing correct about Crowley-- that he's hot lol-- but Shax's opinions as to why only partially overlap with ours and Aziraphale's because Shax believes Crowley's big reputation. She doesn't know what we know about him or see him the way we do. Like Mr. Brown with Aziraphale, she exists in part to highlight how insular Crowley & Aziraphale's world of their life together is and how much they have to playact in their respective worlds to keep that secret life they have with one another private and intact.

Shax is a demon who loves being a demon. That's what makes her crazy to us. Most of the other demons we've met are just miserable, even if they're playing along, but Shax is a real go-getter. She's ambitious and she lives to serve their master Satan. She wants to be good at being a demon and she's in love with *Crowley* lol. To us, this seems bananas because ain't no demon ever hated being a demon more than Anthony Jemimah Crowley... but it's proof positive of how decent a job Crowley has been doing at projecting an air of general demonicness for the last six thousand years.

Crowley has been a prince of Hell forever. He's gotten the top jobs-- the stuff of Shax's dreams, really-- and was a particular favorite of Satan, whom Shax worships. He was basically Hell's resident rock star, breezing in every few months to give a demonic presentation and shoot the shit in Lord Beezlebub's office for a half-hour before taking off for Earth again. If you were Shax, spending literally *thousands of years* in that overstuffed, dark, actual hell hole, Crowley showing up must have been like a visit from sexy Santa Claus. Shax is one of those Effort-making demons and most of the demons in Hell are more terrifying than attractive, ok?... even if you find terrifying attractive, like Shax sorta does or at least thinks she ought to.

Who's going to light your fire down there? Hastur? He'd *literally* light you on fire....

We've seen Shax have to deal with misogyny in the workplace (ugh Demon Josh) and you know she never got any of that shit from Crowley. She probably mostly got a "Shaaaaax! How's it hangin'?" from Disco Tony, who was thrilled to have remembered her name this time. Shax was playing it evil demon lady cool on the surface but girl just wants to be first string for the finest demon in Hell and she was swooning internally every time Crowley swooped in to grace Hell with his presence for a hot minute.

There has been suggestion in the series that several demons that we know of from Bible lore are, in Good Omens, all actually Crowley, which furthers this idea of Crowley and his big reputation a bit. The show has actually already done this with a Biblical figure, in that Bildad the Shuite is an actual Biblical character that the show just made be actually the demon Crowley under a different name, so it would make sense that the reason why we haven't seen other famous demons from The Bible in the series are because they're actually Crowley.

One is canon, basically, which is Astaroth/Astoreth, since Crowley was Nanny Astoreth in S1 and I doubt he stole the name from another demon who exists in the GO universe. When Crowley tells Aziraphale he changed his name when they are watching Jesus' crucifixion, Aziraphale first posits two other demons' names and neither of them exist in GO universe to date but both are, lore-wise, powerful: Mephistopheles and Asmodeus. A lot of other great meta has been written about these choices-- in particular, how well Mephistopheles fits Crowley to a tee, which I really, really agree with. You could assume then that the reasons why more audience-known demons like Astoreth and Asmodeus have never shown up in GO-- and we've met the highest-ranking demons already-- is because they actually *have* and they're all just really Crowley.

In demon lore, Astaroth is part of the "evil trinity" with Beezlebub and Lucifer and is a high-ranking demon in Hell... as well as is basically a genderbent serpent goddess with Crowley traits... so safe to say that's one of Crowley's aliases. Crowley has also had his name of "Crowley" for thousands of years by S1 but when he's rolling up in The Bentley in 1.01, Ligur and Hastur clarify what Crowley's "calling himself up here these days", indicating that he might have gone by more names than we might have realized.

Asmodeus, as we all probably know by now, is the demon of lust. A French novel from the 18th century also popularized the idea of Asmodeus as a sort of Cupid, which also goes along with Crowley, who loves love and got genuine joy out of trying to set up Maggie and Nina. So... from Shax's perspective, why *wouldn't* you want Crowley? He's the fine as fuck, Serpent of Eden, legendary prince of fucking lust here lol.

Shax showed up to reclaim his apartment for Hell and you know she expected a scene the likes of which have not been seen on Earth since a post-concert hotel suite occupied by Led Zeppelin lol. She was expecting (fantasizing lol) about having to wade through a rock music blasting, orgiastic drug den to find Asmodeus in his sex dungeon of a bedroom, somewhere in the black silk sheets beneath three playthings.

You know she actually found Crowley, alone, having just finished vacuuming the most fastidiously clean flat this side of Heaven, fully dressed and watching Barefoot Contessa on his massive plasma screen while the only drugs being mixed were special-blend fertilizer for his houseplants. Ina was making Jeffrey red-wine braised short ribs and Crowley didn't say so to Shax, of course, but he's always on the lookout for something his angel might like for dinner. Hang on a second, Shax, gotta save this recipe to my favorites...

At least the black silk sheets were accurate? lol

What probably confuses Shax a little is that she's been meeting up with Crowley and she still wants him and badly, even as it's becoming increasingly clear that he's a bit more complicated than she thought he was. Technically, she should consider him a traitor because of how he betrayed their Master but he's hot, ok, and maybe it's a little sexy to be so bad that you'd defy Satan? (Aziraphale agrees lol.)

Shax has Mr. Brown-level fantasies about where this could go. Crowley was a favorite of Satan's and she can bring him back into the fold. She can heal him. Yeah, this lady demon has gone and got herself one of those 'I can fix him' disaster scenarios. She hates this for her too but she can't help it. He's so sexy. She's been in Hell for a long time. She's sleeping in the bed and showering in the tropical rainforest paradise dream shower of Asmodeus himself, ok?

She's undoubtedly tried to get him to stay. She's so offered for him to live with her in secret and Crowley nearly choked on the air he doesn't need to breathe trying not to laugh at the irony of that one. It's not Shax's fault that he's just not that into her. She's a bad bitch and everything. That's just not his thing. He's just the lonely GI who basically fell asleep during a performance of The Ladies of Camelot. He has always given off the impression that he's into everything there is to sell the whole 'demon of lust' thing but he's really not. Shax doesn't know that, though, because to know that is to know Crowley well and Shax does not.

Does Crowley know that Shax is into him? Yeah, he does.

Shax's thing for him is basically the same thing as when Crowley tries to make a phone call after having taken out the mobile phone network for miles. It's the oh, shit, right, that thing I did that's now fucking up my day in the present... He didn't lead her on specifically as much as he just gave off the vibe in general that he's this debauched, wild, so very wicked demon and, well... if your name is Aziraphale, that's not terribly inaccurate lol... but if it's not, then it's actually not true at all...

...and this is why Shax cannot for the fucking life of her figure out what the deal is with Crowley and this angel.

Yes, Shax is trying to goad Aziraphale into confirming that he has Gabriel in this scene but this scene also comes off as Shax so incredibly done with how jealous she is over this, in her eyes, ridiculous being, and she's bitchy as all fuck about it. There were other ways to crack at Aziraphale than over his relationship with Crowley and she goes at that hard. She calls The Bentley an old piece of junk when she's really clearly calling Aziraphale that and saying that she doesn't know why Crowley hasn't gotten "an upgrade" since, implying that she considers herself just the upgrade Crowley needs. She brings up 1941 via the rumors that she heard "80, 90 years ago" that Crowley and Aziraphale were "an item", which we know are at least partially derived from what happened with Furfur, who his Shax's closest friend and totally has tried to tell her that this thing she has for Crowley is hopeless because he's doing that angel, Shax. (Poor, pining Furfur lol.)

Shax knows somewhere that Furfur is probably correct but she's decided to pretend that it's Furfur's thing for her that could have caused him to misconstrue at least part of it, right, because the demon of lust only having eyes for one being, let alone that being being this angel, is absurd to her (even if she thinks she can tame him lol.)

Aziraphale is an angel, for one thing. The bastards who did this to The Fallen and who cast their Master to Hell. Their sworn, hereditary enemy. It was one thing when maybe the angel was a dalliance. Asmodeus, lonely and bored on Earth, tired of all the sex with the mortals, and so very bad that he could corrupt an angel. That's a little hot, actually, if you're Shax, but it's the fact that that... does not appear to be what this relationship is... that unsettles her.

During S2, Shax learns that Crowley has a permanent invite into and keys to the bookshop and that Aziraphale can drive Crowley's car to an extent that Shax even has to trick him to allow her to enter it. The angel really seems like he might be Crowley's partner, which would mean that this wasn't Crowley fucking an angel on a whim in 1941 but that Hell's wild prince of lust has actually secretly been in a romantic relationship with Aziraphale for at least, to Shax's knowledge, almost a century.

The purported baddest demon that ever demoned, shy of the literal devil, is apparently mad for this fusty angel and Shax just cannot get it, ok?

Crowley is a a broody, black-clad rock star and Aziraphale is this twee little bookselling angel to her. Shax thinks maybe this was all part of Crowley's breakdown or something and she's Mr. Brown so she hasn't given up hope here, not for most of S2, but she's mostly been trying to figure out how to get Crowley's attention and that's the funniest part of her whole pash, imo.

Shax has no idea what Crowley is into. She can't figure this out to save her life.

She has no idea that it's over before it started because she is just not what primes the engine of Crowley's star factory over here. It's not personal. He just doesn't have a shred of sexual interest in her. Gabriel is getting more action from Crowley this season and he tried to murder him lol. Crowley's spent millennia cultivating a persona of a sex god and now he's got to live with it and he's just praying he never finds out anything she's fantasizing about him because he shudders at the thought of whatever she envisions them getting up to.

Look at what Shax is wearing when she comes to Earth to meet with Crowley, for one of the more hilarious things...

In Hell, Shax wears modern clothes. When she comes to Earth to meet Crowley in the year 2023, she wears a vintage-inspired outfit that is spanning the mid-1930s through WW2 in style (the era she knows he was involved with Aziraphale, who is her main point of reference for what attracts Asmodeus over here lol)... and the dress has the biggest damn bow ever seen. You could see that bow from space. It's like she's trying desperately to figure out what turns Crowley on and so far she's come up with well, he drives an old car and he's rolled that angel so he likes... old things... vintage clothes, like the angel's. She's trying to out-bow-tie Aziraphale.

Now that Shax can spend time with Crowley alone and the possibility of seducing him is ever-present (lolololol), she's spending time trying to figure out what turns on the prince of lust. She's trying to get Crowley's demonically lustful attention and she's reduced to bow ties, okay, take pity on her... she's just like I don't know what his deal with these are, exactly, as it seems kind of specific... but he can unwrap me anytime if that's his thing...

Then, there's that she's sitting too close to him on the park bench and raking her eyes over him while he's sprawling on it. He's not sprawling in a way meant to be enticing. He's actually mid-existential crisis here but that's fine by Shax. She likes 'em a little dark.

My favorite, though, is a scene that actually parallels S1 in a hilarious way and that's from the hot water boiler scene in the other meta that prompted the ask here but isn't a bit that I mentioned in that one.

As Crowley goes back into the bookshop (and he'd never been happier to be on the other side of that threshold in his life lol), Shax is then as physically close to him as she's ever been. If you notice, she actually inhales twice. The first is a regular breath-- which demons don't technically need to take but yeah lol-- and her expression is all oh Satan, he smells amazing and then she straight up sniffs the air as he opens the door. Girl is huffing her fill over here for those shower fantasies for months to come lol. Crowley knows it as his eyebrows are in his hair as he's turning back around like he's all did she seriously just *sniff* me? ugh...

Shax knows Crowley saw her (honestly, probably also *heard* her... Shax, love, a little subtlety wouldn't kill you...) so she covers it up by pretending like she smelled Gabriel in the bookshop. You smelled the archangel in there, huh, Shax? When you can't get through the door? When Gabriel is the same species as Aziraphale, whose bookshop this is, so this can't be some kind of angel-scent you're claiming you noticed here? lol This then parallels and adds to this Sandalphon scene in S1:

I know there's some debate about if there's such thing as an angelic or a demonic smell but I've actually always taken it to be that there isn't. It would seem to me that it would be hard for them to blend in on Earth if there was and if the demonic one was something off-putting to humans, at least. I think most of us, though, do believe that the "evil" Sandalphon is smelling in the backroom is Crowley but considering that the comment comes from Sandalphon, who is introduced to us with reference to his smiting of people in Sodom and Gomorrah, it honestly just comes off that Sandalphon is a raging homophobe and I've actually always taken that as the reason why Gabriel is here in this scene in the first place.

Absolutely nothing happens in this scene. It's a routine checkup. What is the Supreme Archangel of Heaven doing there? Why is he blowing so much smoke up Sandalphon's ass the whole time? It's kind of like he saw that Michael or someone had assigned Sandalphon to do a checkup of sorts on Aziraphale-- or Sandalphon had assigned himself-- and Gabriel pretended that he wanted to see in person how "the great Sandalphon" worked so that he could tag along and make sure that Sandalphon didn't bother Aziraphale. We also learn that Aziraphale hasn't seen Sandalphon in a long time and I'd bet that Gabriel is responsible for that. Gabriel's 'whatever, idgaf' response to Aziraphale's Jeffrey Archer books comment is so... Gabriel hadn't the first clue who Jeffrey Archer is or why his books would be evil lol. He could have easily further encouraged Sandalphon's pursuit of the "evil" scent. He didn't because he could care less what Aziraphale does in the backroom of his bookshop. If anything, he's jealous of him for having found a way to have some freedom and privacy. Gabriel is queer-- he is like Aziraphale. He's just closeted in S1. He's looking out for Aziraphale here by using his power to shut down Sandalphon and then "you can't have a war without war omg wow you are a poet!" him out of there as fast as is possible. If there truly was an 'evil'/'demonic' smell, Gabriel should have been able to smell it, too, and he doesn't. If he did, he wouldn't have been able to subtly shut down Sandalphon the way he did.

So, Sandalphon isn't smelling a demon. He's smelling another man. The "evil" is that Sandalphon can smell remnants of another cologne that isn't Aziraphale's in the backroom of Aziraphale's bookshop and Sandalphon is a homophobe, so he's implying that Aziraphale having sex and with a man is 'evil', even if there's no direct evidence here of that, just the implication of it.

This then would mean that Shax can't actually smell Gabriel in the bookshop in S2. Like Sandalphon, she's pretending to have a supernatural sense of scent but she's really just smelling Crowley. While Sandalphon was repulsed by the idea of Aziraphale's bookshop backroom having the scent of a man, Shax is just inhaling that same being's scent because omfg. so. good....

...something she can't stand that she has in common with that bastard angel, Aziraphale, who is actually allowed to breathe Crowley in anytime he wants... it's just ridiculous to her. Why the fuck does that beige bookseller get to have the sex god of Shax's dreams in his bed and she doesn't? What could Crowley possibly find attractive about him? That she doesn't know and can't really figure it out shows how little she really knows Crowley and also how little imagination she really has.

#ineffable husbands #good omens #crowley #aziraphale #good omens 2 #good omens meta #aziracrow #good omens shax #shax good omens #shax #archangel fucking gabriel #sandalphon #mr brown #of brown's world of carpets

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dwailol · 1 year

Text

My Favorite Pose

ComPOUND Round 3 [Bucky x Fem Reader]

Minors DNI 🔞

Summary: First morning of your week alone in the compound with Bucky. He adds himself to your morning routine. ;) Established relationship. If you’ve been following the plot PLEASE STOP but your powers and vaguely why you stayed behind are revealed.

Warnings ⚠️: smut af, bondage, a lil rough but not too much, oral (m and f), praise kink, p in v, unprotected

WC: 1.7k??

It’s 5:30 AM and there are little to no off days even for low key weeks like this. I get up and walk to get the specially designed breakfast that F.R.I.D.A.Y. planned for me. If there is one thing I miss about my past life it was a big flavorful breakfast… well and my family not being the reason the rest of the Avengers are trying to save a population of innocent people.

Surprise! I’ve got daddy issues. That’s my whole conflict of interest that kept me from the mission. I can’t do it. I told them not to tell me who did it if they are gone by the end of it. No matter how much I’ve been burned by them I’ll still hesitate.

I take my last bite and walk to the training center. I try to quiet my mind with some yoga before I get into the intense workouts. As I move into downward dog, I feel Bucky’s two hands pull my ass to his crotch. He gives it a light squeeze that still hurts because of the marks he left on it last night.

“Downward Dog - my favorite pose. What are you doing up so early Angel?”

“You know that pet name can only stretch so far,” I stand up. He throws his hands up with a cocky grin.

“Sorry, it’s just so fitting. I haven’t seen them in a while. It’s kind of hot when you pop them out. You should give me a quick show,” he says with that grin somehow getting smugger. The lack of sleep I got last night really motivated me to remind him what got me here in the first place.

“Careful what you wish for.”

In less than a second I sprout my wings then clap them hard in front of me which sends him flying across the room. I retract them back in an instant. He gets up laughing and clapping.

“Woo! That is what I’m talking about angel! I would ask to see the other stuff but we don’t want to set the building on fire do we?”

I can’t control myself when my other powers ignite - literally ignite. While he playfully annoys me, I don’t think I could ever release that hell fire. My powers are not “biblical” but they sure are other worldly.

“I need to get back to it. There’s food in the fridge. Just don’t touch my meal prep,” I hate that sentence just left my mouth.

“I don’t want your meal prep,” he walks behind me with our bodies facing the mirrors and his hands snaking up and down my body. “I want you. If you wanna get some training in I can show you somethings,” he says into my ear while tucking my hair back. So unfair.

“I don’t have-“

“You see this?”, he picks up my yoga strap. Out of nowhere he runs in front of me to kick the back of my legs. We both fall to the floor. He has me pinned down and starts tying the strap around my wrists.

“This is called a constrictor knot. In the event you have a disobedient girl giving you attitude, this knot comes in real handy,” he pushes his hand up my shirt to grab my breast. He moves it back down into my leggings and starts rubbing.

“Fuck. I could do whatever I want to do to you right now. You’re so wet. I cannot wait to get my cock inside you.”

I feel his fingers slip in and out. I let out a whimper. The sounds of my wet cunt make him growl. With a loud grunt he rips my leggings off. His fingers are back inside me and moving with fury. His eyes are hungry and he plants his head between my thighs with force.

As his tongue moves around my clit, I let out some “Ah! Ah! AH!”s. I start thrashing my body from the pleasure. He takes his vibranium arm to hold my hips down making me immobile.

“Whatever I want to do to you. Don’t make me repeat myself again. Now what do we say?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good girl.”

He sits up to free himself from his shorts. I am towered over with his cock in my face.

“Get to work doll. Let’s practice some breathing exercises for your training today.”

He puts his cock in my mouth and I start to move my head up and down. His length hits the back of my throat and I cough choking on it.

“Such a good girl for me trying so hard. Now you’re getting that pussy filled.”

He pulls on the strap to lift me up for a sloppy kiss with my taste still on his tongue. He drops me to the floor again to pin me under him. In no time his cock is thrusting into me with a speed so fast it shakes my body back and forth.

“I’m really making you mine this week. I’m gonna fuck you in every room I can. Get ready to drop whatever you’re doing for me whenever I want.”

I need this honestly. Losing my body to him feels more comfortable than I ever thought it would. My helplessness to his pounding excites me with both safety knowing he’s the one doing it and anticipation for what he might pull next.

He pulls the strap up so that I mesh into a seated position with him. He pumps into me with an unmatched passionate kiss. His free hand runs through my hair and gives it a pull in the back. He releases a heavy breath and moan. I’m squealing as he hits my g spot and my clit rubs against his body.

“Fuck Bucky! You’re killing me!”

“Good thing we know you’ll go to heaven then.”

He turns me onto my stomach so that I’m facing the mirrors. I arch up my ass anticipating his next move. I grip onto the strap preparing to take him. He kneels behind me and picks my head up.

“Look at you catching on. Now watch yourself get fucked.”

He slams his cock back inside me and thrusts with power. My high pitched screams are music to his ears. He grabs my ass and slaps it back and forth a few times.

“I thought I was being your good girl?”, I tease.

“Don’t act like you don’t get pleasure from my punishments. You might be my good girl right now but doesn’t mean I won’t give you a reminder of what’s in store for bad girls.”

“Not fair,” I laugh. Wrong choice.

He flips me over swiftly. He pulls tight on the strap to put the end in front of my face. His grip tenses around it.

“You remember this? I decide what’s fair and what’s not. You’re all tied up Angel. You take what you get and believe me you’re gonna get it.”

He throws my arms down then smacks the side of my ass with his vibranium hand. There is pleasure in his punishments. His movements are the hardest and fastest I’ve felt from him since our first time.

“I’m getting close to giving you my next load. I’ve loved filling you up with all my cum and watching it drip out you. Shows you’re all mine. No one else gets this pussy but me.”

My body tingles at his words. I give him an affirming mhm. He grabs my face.

“I wanna hear you say it ‘Bucky this pussy is yours’ if you want this load. Sing me that beautiful song Angel and it’s all yours.”

“Bucky…,” he hits the spot again which throws me off track.

“Bucky this…,” he cues for the rest of what he wants to hear. He lifts my hips up and my eyes roll to the back of my head. I scrunch my face then open my eyes wide as I feel my own cum.

“It’s yours! It’s yours! I promise it’s all yours!”

Mmmmh! I feel his huge burst of cum in me. He pulls out and it was definitely the biggest load of all the rounds so far. My hands are set free with some mild brush burns. He grabs my hands and gives them each light kisses.

“I’ll be more careful next time bunny. You just get me too hot,” he groans. I get a kiss loaded with tongue.

What a wonderful first morning with him back!

#avengers smut #bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky x female reader #bucky x reader #dom bucky barnes #marvel smut #winter solider smut #winter solider x reader #endgame #bucky barns fanfiction #bucky fanfic #bucky barns x you #bucky smut #bucky barns x reader #bucky fic

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petit-etoile · 6 months

Note

Astarion/Tav prompt (or Reformed Durge): "I would have you smile again. You will live to see these days renewed. No more despair." I know it's a Lord of the Rings quote but gosh if it doesn't remind me of them ;-;

this is the end of the world ( a time for something biblical )

pairing: astarion/tav wordcount: 5,219 content warnings: canonical mentions of death, spoilers for the dark urge storyline & astarion's act iii romance, graphic mentions of injuries, references to cann.ibalism as a metaphor for love, mental health issues & physical ramifications from the tadpole + rejecting bhaal, i highly recommend listening to the exogenesis symphony by muse other tags: canon compliant, canon-typical violence, character study, introspection, hurt/comfort, whump, canon temporary character death, the dark urge as player character, codependency, religious imagery & symbolism, p.orn with plot archiveofourown: here.

tag list: @azrielshadows1nger, @pandimoostuff, @faevi, @microskies, @foreverthemaraudersera, @queenofthespacesquids, @claryvoyantfray, @6doodlaang14, @anne-isnotokay, @itshimbotime, @yeeteth-the-raven, @sessils,@8-opossums, @worryknotdear, @abirdaboxandachippedcup, @ghosts-and-ink, @b4um3pfl4um3, @gunslingerorchid, @hypopxia, @m0ssytrees, @erysione, @odette-attackattack, @catching-fire-in-the-wind, @ashrio20, @wills-mental-illness, @queenofcarrotflowers-s, @kirahlene be added to the taglist here

summary: ‘Stay,’ Astarion says weakly. ‘I don’t want to be alone.’

‘Your life is mine,’ he says, cruel eyes gazing at you. ‘Accept your inheritance, or I will reclaim it.’

‘I would rather die,’ you say.

His hateful eyes narrow dangerously. It was never a good idea to betray a god, nonetheless one who had created you so lovingly. His voice is a low growl when he dismisses you — and suddenly, white-hot pain shoots through your veins and threatens to swallow you whole. Bhaal raises his hand and your blood obeys.

‘You were made to conquer,’ he snarls. ‘To devour!’

‘I don’t need any of this,’ you spit out. ‘I don’t need you. The only family — I know are those who fight by my side! I will not be what you made me!’

The sickness in your belly surges until you think it will overcome you. You stagger forward until your knees hit the stone floor. Bhaal is forcing you to submit, to become what he had made Orin. This thing won’t have you, Astarion whispers against the curve of your ear. It won’t win. You’ve got this, darling. And I’ve got you. You want to believe him, but your blood-kin has done damage beyond repair. What were children beyond the sins of their father?

‘You reject my blood?’ Bhaal asks.

‘Yes,’ you whisper.

‘Then I shall reclaim it,’ he says, his promise a growl in his throat.

You were your father’s seed cultivated to perfection by determination and bravery. Now, you were nothing more than a disappointment to be snuffed out root and stem. You choke on the warmth in your throat. Your veins seem to have exploded beneath your skin. You sneeze, red oozing from every orifice.

‘I will make another who is worthy,’ says Bhaal, lifting his hand.

As he raises his hand, you are forced to kneel. Every single one of your muscles contracts in agony. The others might be shouting but you can hardly hear them over the roaring in your ears. Your blood is rejecting you. Festering inside your flesh like a disease. Like the skeleton carved into the wall, you weep blood down your neck. No matter how hard you try to close your eyes to prevent it, your rich ichor abandons you.

No, you want to tell him. The rot of his blood will end with you as it had with Orin. The abomination of murder will never set forth and harm another. You reach for the dagger at your hip and raise it, but the Avatar of Bhaal dissipates before you can strike. The weight of your body collapses forward.

Like a wounded beast, you keen loudly, shaking your head as if that will free your ears from the blood inside of them. You were born from this blood. You were created by this blood to be who you are today. Rejecting it should be like a sin — but if sin is a seed, you have eaten it willingly from the hand of mortality. If Bhaal is to reject you, then you will reject his godhood.

You close your eyes as blood overtakes your sight. You press your forehead into the stone to fight your fever. You shiver and gasp. You gargle on the proof of vitriol and lean into the chilled floor, resigned to your fate. At least you wouldn’t become a mindflayer…

“No!” Astarion wails. Your heart shatters. ‘No, please — Not you!’

I’m sorry, you say. You close your eyes and remember the color of the sun in his hair. I didn’t mean for this to happen. This isn’t what I wanted. Your fingers curl against the stone, and then — There’s nothing. Astarion touches the sleepless bruises beneath your eyes with such tenderness you forget his strength. You lean your cheek into his palm and sigh sleepily, but even as exhaustion overtakes your body, you shudder. You’re afraid to sleep, to dream. You don’t want to hurt anyone else ever again.

‘You have to rest, my love,’ he murmurs. He allows you to lay on his hand as though it were a pillow. ‘When was the last time you slept through the night?’

‘I’m not sure,’ you confess.

‘I might be a sleepless creature of the night,’ Astarion says, ‘but you… You needn’t fear your dreams when I am here. I’ll protect you no matter the cost.’

‘And who will protect you if I sleep?’ you ask.

You must be frowning, because Astarion uses his other hand to soothe the crease between your eyebrows. He sounds so outrageously heartbroken that you want to cry. You don’t want him to think he isn’t a comfort… You haven’t slept beside someone in so long, and the warmth of his body has always lulled you to your dreams peacefully until recently.

Astarion swallows thickly. ‘I’m not afraid of you. I’m not afraid of this. I’m with you forever and always.’

But what if there isn’t an always?

‘There is always a future for you and I,’ Astarion vows. ‘Now sleep. He can’t control you as long as I’m around.’ When you open your eyes again, you’re greeted by the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. His eyes are a soft cerise, and his cheeks are high and sleek, his lips plump and his hair soft and curled. An angel. You’re unable to control the way you reach your hand to touch his cheek, smearing a crystalline tear across his wan skin.

‘Who are you?’ you whisper, voice caught painfully in your throat.

‘Hush now, my love,’ he whispers. He presses a sweet kiss to your mouth, and when he pulls away, his lips are ruddy and wet. ‘Thank the gods… I thought I had lost you.’

Oh, you think. You remember now. This is the man from your dream… You try to recall the details of how you know him, but it’s hard to follow a train of thought. You turn from side to side. It’s so hard to move, to focus. Your limbs feel as though they are made of lead and marble. Everything aches. The tips of your fingers and your nails down to the little bones in your toes. Your head, though, is the only part of you free from intense pain. It’s as though a weight has been lifted from the veil of your memories. You rest your arm across your waist, too tired to keep it lifted.

‘Who…’ Your brows furrow in confusion. ‘Who am I?’

‘I know you were once a child full of life and love,’ the angel says to you, gently cradling your face in his hands. ‘I know one day you were afraid and unsure and half-mad. I know you stained the streets red with cruelty and devised a plan larger than all of Faerûn. But I know you are strong and that your heart is good. You saved the tieflings, and you saved the refugees, and now you will save the world that threatens to be plunged into darkness.’

You smile. ‘That doesn’t sound like me at all,’ you confess.

The angel shakes his hand, fingers pressing hard into your skin. His voice breaks. ‘But I know it to be true, so you must believe my every word. You are brave. You are kind. You are good. You are my love, and I know that I am loved by you in return. You are a protector,’ he tells you. ‘You have protected everyone, and now it is time to protect yourself. You have survived two gods and now you must survive a third.’

The knot in your throat grows larger with every word. You think you remember now. Yes, you can remember it all very clearly. You know the weight of his hands like baptism. You turn your cheek and kiss his palm, smudging his skin pink.

‘Astarion,’ you whisper.

Your love smiles down at you, your blood dribbling down his chin.

‘What happened?’

‘Let’s not worry about that,’ he shushes you, massaging the bruises beneath your eyes. ‘Come, let us get you cleaned up.’

‘I don’t think I can walk yet,’ you say. Admitting it makes you feel weak.

‘Don’t worry,’ Astarion says softly. ‘I can carry you.’

‘I will bloody your clothes,’ you say.

‘Bloody them,’ Astarion says. ‘I don’t care.’

Astarion does carry you. He carries you all the way back to the inn, to a private room just the two of you share. He orders a tub to bathe you in and then takes an hour to scrub your skin clean, carefully cleaning your gore from your hair and scalp.

You watch as Astarion passes a bar of soap against the skin of the top of your arm over and over again until it is red then pink then flesh. Then, he gently twists your wrist. He cleans the underside of your arm next, and your palm. He washes your fingers until they do nothing but shake in the cold air. You curl your fingers around his.

‘Was it hard?’ you ask him.

‘I will never forget the smell of your scent,’ Astarion replies.

He moves to wash the hollow between your collarbones, encouraging you to recline in the water. He washes your chest and your stomach until his grief washes over him in waves. His chin shakes until a sob escapes. He presses his face into your hair and wails softly into your crown. When he’s done weeping, Astarion returns to his cleansing. He speaks not of it again. There is so little of you left.

You often wonder how much of your brain is left between the parasite and the hole your father has left you. Sometimes Jaheira still looks at you as though the rot of your father isn’t entirely gone. You don’t blame her. You’re waiting for your control to snap. You were good once. You could be good again. You want to be good again.

Shadowheart smiles at you now. Lae’zel no longer frowns. Even Wyll has taken up eating beside you again when it’s nighttime and the adventure can go no more. Gale pours you an extra serving of wine. He says you need it. Karlach lets you hold Clive at night when Astarion goes hunting, and he goes hunting often now. It makes you wonder if your blood is vile.

Part of you wants to ask him if you’ve done something wrong. You’ve committed no crime, but you feel like you have. Your memories of before are slipping away. Your memories of now seem to do the same.

You wait in your tent that night for Astarion to return, your blanket pulled around your head and shoulders. You rehearse what you’re going to say. You want to reassure him you’re not angry. You just…feel loss. Empty. The loneliness nips at your bones like crows at carrion.

When Astarion slips inside, he looks guilty. It almost makes you want to change your mind, but you have to know. You feel as though you’re going mad. A flightless bird trapped in a cage. Like Dame Aylin trapped in Shadowfell. He refuses to meet your gaze.

‘Have I done something — ’

‘You,’ Astarion says through gritted teeth, ‘are perfect. Every time.’

You want to cry. ‘Then why do you avoid me?’

‘Avoid you?’ Astarion repeats incredulously. He looks at you now despairingly. ‘No, that isn’t what this is at all. I would never avoid you.’

‘You’re hunting more often,’ you say in a low tone, a whisper. Accusatory.

‘Can you blame me?’ he asks plainly.

It’s your turn to look away in shame. ‘If it’s too much, you should sleep somewhere else.’

‘I don’t want to be apart from you,’ Astarion says.

‘Then how do we fix this?’

‘You cannot fix what is not broken.’

‘Astarion,’ you plead. ‘Hold me or — I don’t know who I am anymore.’

Astarion wraps his arms around you before you can say another word. His lips are like a halo against your head. Each kiss he presses against your scalp is a prayer from a sinner. You turn your cheek, and he kisses you so passionately it makes your empty head spin.

You relearn who are you in his arms that night. And as he regales you with tales of your history, you think you can imagine them in your mind’s eye. He kisses your wrist. He tells you a happy memory when he kisses the curve of your belly, and when he kisses your ankle, he promises you that everything will be worth it.

It wasn’t you that was the problem. There wasn’t a problem, not really. Only an impiety he wanted to atone for. He struggles with telling you, but when he whispers it against your thigh, you understand.

‘Your blood,’ he says, voice strained. ‘I cannot escape the smell.’

‘I’m sorry,’ you say, but he shakes his head and his hair tickles your sensitive skin.

‘No, I — It is my shame,’ he confesses. ‘I’ll admit I’m a lech.’

Astarion struggles to put his words in a coherent structure. When you died, he was horrified and distraught. Only the gods know how hard he wept seeing you lifeless. Yet it was his vampiric nature that had betrayed him almost as much as your life’s blood had betrayed you. He felt hunger.

How could he be sad when he was so ravenous? Was he not an evil man, or is this what made him evil? That, in all of his beautiful tears and lamentation, the urge to devour you, bones and all, nearly consumed him? Your death was horrible, ugly, wretched. Your death was beautiful and coveted.

Astarion devours you again that night, mouthing and licking and sucking at your swollen core. He makes you a martyr in his grief. His tongue teases you over and over again. When you’ve climaxed once, Astarion seeks out to make you do it again until your legs are shaking violently and your voice has gone hoarse. He doesn’t take you that night, not in the traditional way, but he swallows you up regardless.

It isn’t until afterwards when he’s laying with his head on your chest that you understand his tragedy. It’s a misfortunate impossibility trying to grieve when you can’t stop salivating. Astarion thinks you’re horrified by the admission, but after knowing your past, it was hard to feel scandalized by anything.

You pet his curls away from his face, watching as he listens to the hum of your heartbeat. He might have it memorized by now, but each time it beats, Astarion’s eyelashes flutter with admiration. It is a hymn, a doxology, a liturgy that only he knows the words to. After all, he wrote them on your skin and immortalized them forevermore. He is so beautiful, you think, when there is no trouble to be seen.

You were once both trapped by your dark god’s design. You had set yourself free. You had sprouted the wings of a swan guided by the empathy you had planted in a garden as a child. It would be Astarion’s soon, and you would carry him in compassion until the thorn crown was placed upon his brow.

Astarion’s eyes are closed. In your perpetually confused state, you mistake him for having fallen asleep and resort to doing the same. The city becomes chilly at night and your skin is decorated with gooseflesh. He rises almost immediately and you try to chase after him, fingers piercing through a ghost.

‘I wasn’t going anywhere,’ Astarion says immediately. He drags his cape from the corner of the tent and lays it across your shins. ‘You were shivering.’

‘I’m not used to this — ’ Will my mind ever be the same? ‘ — chill.’

‘I will be here,’ he promises. ‘Here, let me hold you for the night.’

You clumsily trade places with him, and he tucks your blanket and his cape around your body as tightly as he can. He kisses you passionately and you taste your familiarity in his mouth. It’s so sweet that you sigh. ‘I know what you did,’ Orin says hatefully, spitefully, cruelly. Her voice is like honey.

‘What have I done?’

‘Did you think I wouldn’t know?’ she asks. ‘Filthy rotten blood-kin undeserving of our father’s gift!’

You repeat yourself. ‘What have I done?’

‘You,’ Orin spits, ‘think your grey matter deserves to be loved! I should carve it out! I should make it disgusting and sticky again! Split it’s skull open! You foul traitor!’

Slowly, you pull Orin into your chest. You hug her and smooth her hair down her back. Her arms wrap around you begrudgingly until the lovingkindness causes her to rupture. She sobs into your neck hideously, clinging to you. She wails and she wails until you are both children again staring up at your grandsire for approval.

‘It isn’t fair,’ Orin tells you, hiccuping. She wipes her nose with her fingers. ‘It isn’t fair.’

‘I love you, blood-kin,’ you say. You kiss the top of her head.

‘Slaughter kin,’ she says sadly. She holds your hand with her snotty palm.

‘Sister,’ you say. In the coming weeks, your mind hardly gets better. Memories are still missing. You catch yourself gazing at the mirror longer than you expect to. You used to be so beautiful. It’s hard to recognize the face staring back at you. You touch one cheek and then the other. You turn your head and watch your jawline.

No, it still isn’t you.

You take the knife in your belt to your hair and begin cutting away pieces you don’t remember. You lean forward and smudge your eyes before sitting up straight and trying again. You recognize a part of yourself. You chase that feeling. You press your hand against your heart. You smile faintly. Astarion sobs so hard you think you might lose yourself. You’re at a loss of what to do. He’s alive but he keens like a dying deer. It’s supposed to be healing, you think. Cazador is dead. His reign of terror should end. Astarion is saved and he saved himself. You couldn’t be prouder of him.

Slowly, you step forward one foot after another. You collapse to your knees at his side. It’s easy to pull Rhapsody from his fingers. You drop it by his side. Slowly, as if in a dream, you hold him like you held Orin. Astarion sobs harshly into your collarbone and clings to you so tightly you might break.

‘I thought — I thought — ’ he cries brokenly.

I thought it would make me feel better, he says without saying. You shush him and pet his hair. Cazador’s blood smears against your cheek when Astarion burrows his face into your neck. You let him linger. You aren’t sure how long you sit on the hard marbled floors, but when you stand up, your knees creak so loud you’re almost insecure about it.

This time, it’s your turn to carry Astarion. He won’t let you pick him up, but you hold him by his waist. You carry him past your allies, past the onlookers who once saw you in opposition. You order the maids to bring you a bath, and as Astarion hiccups in the water, you bathe him.

You wash the taint of Cazador from his body. The soap cleans the dirt and the blood and the memory. You wash his chest and his belly and Astarion thanks you hoarsely. He looks at you, and his eyes are so wide and beautiful that you cry too.

Dying isn’t easy. It isn’t beautiful or romantic or a sweeping gesture. Dying is painful and hideous and ugly, and you have saved Astarion from a lifetime of torment. Rather, he did it by himself with your help. You swipe the soap against his cheeks and use a rag to clear it away. Astarion’s hair is somehow curlier when it’s wet, and you part the curls so they’ll dry without tangling.

Astarion watches you miserably as you towel his hair. You wipe droplets of water off his skin and slowly slide him into his smallclothes. He accepts your blanket and wraps it around his shoulders, staring at the wooden floor, at his feet.

‘Stay,’ Astarion says weakly. ‘I don’t want to be alone.’

‘I would never let you be alone,’ you say.

It isn’t what you bought the room for. Really, you only wanted to wipe the blood from his face but now, you climb into the sheets next to Astarion and hold him tightly. He doesn’t seem to want to talk about the future. He doesn’t want to talk about his siblings either or the thousands of spawn waiting to hang on his every word.

And you can’t even blame him. The gods know how long it took for your tongue to become free from the weight that held it still after you betrayed your father. Karlach said you talked a lot before, but now it’s hard to say anything without wondering if your words are in the right order. Astarion cries softly as if to not awaken you from your slumber, but you can’t fall asleep. You can’t toss or turn either, but dreams evade you.

Dawn peeks through the window. Dawn-bringer, Jergal had called you. You slide out of bed carefully then and cross the room. You draw the curtains shut. Astarion watches you curiously from where he burrows in the sheets. His brow furrows adorably when you climb back into bed and plaster yourself to his spine.

‘Ah,’ you say monotonously. ‘The sun is gone. I suppose we'll stay in until it returns.’

After a day of lounging, Astarion still isn’t ready to talk about what’s on his mind but he watches you do your favorite mundane mortal things with explicit interest. He has you read the book you’re reading aloud, and if it takes you a few hours to struggle through one chapter, he says nothing about it.

Every once in a while, another one of your companions comes to sit in.

Lae’zel tries to commend Astarion for his warrior’s heart without sounding stilted, but eventually she gives up on complimenting him to sympathetically let him know she understands. They had all seen Vlaakith. Karlach brings Clive by and carefully arranges him in the bed next to Astarion. She tells him that he’s fucking awesome and asks permission to hug him.

The touch nearly sends him spiraling.

Gale approaches in his usual manner. He brings Astarion a bottle of wine spiked with blood and lets him know he’s available to chat whenever Astarion feels up to it. Wyll spends thirty minutes apologizing for the bad blood between them, which is funny considering their bickering was hardly vitriolic. Shadowheart visits and gifts him a perfume that makes his lip wobble dangerously.

Jaheira, Minsc, Boo and Halsin come together solemnly. They might be the least offensive of the bunch. Boo gives Astarion a thousand kisses on his cheeks, and Jaheira finally tells them a story of her youth. Halsin has Astarion drink a potion, not because he’s injured physically, but because it should help with his pain. Minsc tries teaching you a Rashemen dance, but Astarion laughs for the first time that day and you do too.

‘It is good,’ Jaheira says, ‘to see you both smile again.’

You touch your mouth shyly. Your cheeks are sore. Astarion’s smile fades slightly but returns in full, timid confidence lighting his features once more. Halsin crosses the room and opens the curtains you’ve closed. The light douses the room in holiness, and you turn your face to watch the sunset, unafraid of what the future will bring.

‘That which troubles you will soon be over,’ she promises. She pats Astarion’s hand, and although she doesn’t say it, you know he’s her son. ‘You will live to see these days renewed. There will be no more despair.’

You’re both left alone again together. Astarion beckons you to the bed instead of your chair and you join him, carefully sitting atop the covers, a respectable distance between your thighs. You inhale carefully.

‘You did the right thing,’ you say. ‘Not completing the Black Mass.’

‘Perhaps I had inspiration,’ Astarion replies. ‘You had a chance to become the Slayer, a being more powerful than you could have known. But you didn’t.’

‘I betrayed my father,’ you whisper, staring at your hands. ‘And he killed me for it.’

‘And if I had completed Cazador’s ritual,’ Astarion says, ‘I would have become Mephistopheles’s whore. I refuse to bow to the whims of others. Being an Ascendent…was blinding me to the truth.’

You look at him curiously then. He confesses to you his sins. He has thought of ascending, and thought of it often but it was never to protect himself. After a certain point, he wanted to protect you too. Your Urges had been mistaken for something else then. A possession, an invasion. Astarion sought to exorcise you of your demons.

But when you had died and the diseased lifeblood fled from your veins, Astarion realized the truth. The ascension would not have helped him protect you. It would have tainted him. It would have contorted him. Rising above all other vampires, Astarion would have become cruel like those before him. He does not want to be cruel to you. He wants to learn kindness as you have. He reaches for it like he chases the sun.

Astarion takes you by the hand, smoothing your skin with his thumb over and over. His skin is cold beneath yours. You curl your fingers into his. He did not want to make you a slave, not again. Not to him.

‘You are the dawn-bringer,’ Astarion says. ‘Even if I never see the sun again, I am free.’

‘I love you,’ you say, voice shaking. ‘I’ll be with you. In the darkness.’

‘You fool,’ Astarion laughs affectionately. He leans across the distance and kisses your temple. ‘There is no darkness. You are daylight incarnate.’

You look at him sharply.

‘I’ve been thinking about something,’ he says. ‘It’s…been on my mind all day, but I think it’s time. Say you’ll come away with me.’

You and Astarion dress slowly. You would follow him almost anywhere, but this is different. There’s something to be done. You don’t dress in armor, and for that you’re almost grateful. You’re tired of fighting. You’re tired of seeing blood.

But it isn’t blood or anything blood related that Astarion takes you to see. One minute, you are wandering Baldur’s Gate at night, and the next, you’ve come to the hollow of a tree where a gravestone is coated in vines.

‘This…is where my old life began,’ Astarion tells you softly. ‘Beneath there, I was turned into a monster. But Cazador is dead now and I get to decide my own fate.’

Astarion tells you in painful detail about his transformation. How his wounds fused themselves shut but the pain never went away. He tells you about breaking through the wood of his demise and the fear that flooded his veins and how, just when he thought he had found his savior, Cazador had laughed wickedly with his cruel glowing eyes.

‘I was his,’ Astarion murmurs, ‘but not anymore.’

He kneels before you on the dirt before his tombstone and bows his head. The prodigal son returned home. The sight of it causes your heart to squeeze. You want to step away but you can’t. You’re afraid.

‘There is nothing left of the person I was before,’ he tells you. ‘I am free to become who I want to be, free to start a new journey. I have all the time in the world to figure out who I am and what I want, but I think I know.’

‘I love you,’ you say again. ‘You’re what I want.’

‘You were by my side through all of this,’ Astarion says, eyes glimmering in the moonlight. ‘And now I want you to christen me. Inaugurate me here on the site of my rebirth.’

This is another dream. You hold your hands over Astarion’s head and sprinkle imaginary water over his head. His eyes close instinctively. Love washes over him, something golden. You kneel down and pluck a flower from the earth and it does not bleed. Relief floods your veins. For once, you touch something and it does not rot. Carefully, like a ghost, you slide the flower into Astarion’s hair and watch as his crimson eyes spill open with tears and devotion.

Astarion kisses you, and for the first time in a long time, he presses his body against yours. He takes you that night in the dirt. His leg is tucked under yours, his cock against your core, his lips never leaving yours. Astarion recites verses in your ears until you burst with ecstasy, tightening around him so much that he can hardly move. He cradles the back of your head to comfort you as he drinks your blood. He cradles your head tonight because he loves you.

‘I am yours,’ he whispers against your skin, ‘and you are mine.’ You aren’t sure when or how Astarion has the time, but he presents you with a gift the night before the world ends. He wears a matching flower from his grave pinned to his armor at all times now. And on his hand, a ring with a silver band. He slides one over your finger as well and kisses your palm as you slowly realize what it means.

The family you’ve chosen throws you a celebration. The next day, Dammon arrives and shows you your repaired armor now dyed white.

You cry for hours out of happiness. ‘This could be the last chance we have for this,’ you whisper to Astarion.

Everyone keeps telling you that a light has returned to your eye, but you don’t see it. It isn’t until you’re laying naked with Astarion again, his skin pressed against yours, that you think you can see it too.

Astarion fucks you tenderly until you’re sore, and you cry and plead sweet things against his shoulder while he holds you safe in his arms. When the pleasure becomes too much and your spine arches from the mattress, he pulls you into his lap and holds you safe against his chest. You kiss him until your lips are sore.

‘Your life is mine,’ Astarion murmurs. ‘You belong with me, my love.’

‘I’ve never been happier,’ you moan weakly.

He has taken you again and again this evening. He doesn’t say it, but Astarion is afraid of what tomorrow might bring. You have outsmarted gods and men. You have found goodness where there was nothing but darkness. You refuse to be afraid now.

‘We were made to conquer,’ Astarion says. His mouth is like a fire across your cheekbone. You shudder around his cock.

‘Take my love,’ Astarion commands you, so you do.

You kiss a ruby bruise into his neck, and Astarion fills you with a grunt. He doesn’t part from you. He guides you back down into the sheets and burrows against your body as if determined to climb between your ribs. You smile. Astarion has already made a home in your bones and flesh. He has eaten the rot from your core and recreated you anew. You were not his sin but his salvation. Perhaps he was yours too.

#astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion bg3 #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion x oc #extremely #aeristarion #coded #from ，carcosa .#anonymous #my fic #this might be my favorite thing i've written in a really long time #i think it vaguely fits the prompt i tried my best #sometimes...................sometimes.

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weirdly-specific-but-ok · 5 months

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Pt VII good omens S1E3 but i'm in a fever-induced haze and i watched it four days ago

Hello maggots it turns out I may have a viral fever... or perchance I'm just going viral in the GO fandom and Crowley being so hot has given me a fever (this is what I learned from years of studying thermodynamics). BAHAHAHAHAHAH anyway this is a LOOOONG post.

EDIT: There are time inconsistencies, as some of you informed me. Paint before wall slam etc. But this show does not follow linear time, just like me. Time is cosmic Play-Doh, and @neil-gaiman, Einstein and I are toddlers playing with it all bendy-bendy. We may have eaten some. I blame Neil. So I will correct nothing.

(im sorry to all my followers, the maggots, and everyone reading this post, i'm afraid this level of quality will be sustained for the rest of the post)

Whatever it may be... haveth my summary of Good Omens Ep3, or whatever I remember of it, anyway.

The second the episode started streaming everyone was yelling about the cold open in the chat.

I could be conflating this with Ep 1 but I think it begins with Aziraphale's gaslight gatekeep girlboss moment where he straight up LIES TO GOD about giving the dumb humans a flaming sword right after they fell from grace.

Hot take from someone who has negligible biblical knowledge, look at it, guys. What harm has an apple ever done to mankind (except to doctors)? Nothing. *nods vigorously* And then our lovely angel goes and gIVES THEM A GODDAMN FLAMING SWORD. Nice, fire and weaponry, this is going to go well for the world!

Anyway lesson is Aziraphale is a chaotic lil bastard and it's why we and Crowley love him.

Fast forward to uh, Noah's Ark... There is a unicorn and it runs away, which Crowley/Crawly seems concerned about. Azi is just chilling there watching all of humanity be drowned and Crowley, looking gorgeous may I add, walks up and she's like CHILDREN? WHY ARE YOU KILLING CHILDREN?

Did I mention that she looks gorgeous with those flowing locks because she does. It gives kind of Disney Brave vibes, doesn't it? Wait is David Tennant Scottish I WANT A DAVID TENNANT/CROWLEY MERIDA COSPLAY.

Anyway so Aziraphale and Crowley watch everyone drown etc

I may have missed a few centuries but then we have ol' Bill Shakespeare and Hamlet (David!!) and Aziraphale like the bean he is wants to cheer them on, and does it badly.

Crowley is standing there thinking man this angel is a fucking doofus why do I love him, and then they make a deal that allows them to do NO work whatsoever since their work cancels out anyway.

Aziraphale pouts at Crowley and Crowley melts inside and makes Hamlet a success though he doesn't even like Shakespeare's tragedies but Azi does and that's all that matters.

OH YEAH FRENCH REVOLUTION. Just to fuck with Aziraphale and because the painkillers are getting to me, I'm gonna do this one in my shit French (et non, je ne peux pas utiliser les accents, j'utilise l'ordinateur et je ne veux pas ouvrir Google). Alors, la revolution est la, Aziraphale veut manger (quelle surprise) et ses vetements sont tres chers, les sans-culottes le tueront, mais Crowley vient et Aziraphale dis "Crowley! Mon hero"

Okay I ran out of French but yes so he was gonna be hanged but Crowley came and Aziraphale's face literally melted and then he switched clothes with the guard and left him to die while he and Crowley went to dine happily (Aziraphale dined, Crowley was hungry for Azi because he has a watching-angel-eat kink).

Aziraphale being a casual accessory to murder/murderer is the most underrated part of good omens.

Fast forward and it's the holocaust and Aziraphale is tricked by some Nazis and they're about to kill him. But Crowley walks down the aisle to their groom, well, more like skips while yelping, and burns the place down for Aziraphale. Naturally Azi's like OH NO MY BOOKS and is ready to cry, then Crowley gently hands him the suitcase full of books unharmed and says just a little miracle for you, baby, want a ride home? And Aziraphale is left holding the books (which by the by Crowley does not care about, they do NOT read books, again, just for Azi) and looking like the happiest man alive and like he would die for Crowley.

Fast forward and we have Crowley in the sixties SERVING with her bob cut, anyone who doesn't like it can fight me to the DEATH, I LOVE HER, and anyway Crowley manipulates, manslaughters and manwhores her way into getting into the car with Aziraphale. He hands her a bottle of holy water because fuck heaven he would do anything for Crowley, and Crowley offers to drive him anywhere (mmmhm Crowley sure you're just being a gentledemon) and Aziraphale tells her that she goes too fast for him. IF THIS ISN'T CALLBACKED IN S3 WITH CROWLEY SAYING "YOU RIDE TOO FAST FOR ME, ANGEL" on a motorbike or horse or his peepee ANYTHING IDC im gonna throw hands.

I'm choosing to forget all the breakups so end cold open back in present day

They're in a paintball arena and Crowley presses Aziraphale into the wall while growling I'm not nice (ok Crowley bro maybe it's time to take a break from 2010s wattpad) and Aziraphale is just gazing adoringly at him. Ex-Satanic nun comes and is like oh my bad this is an intimate moment and Crowley turns around immediately cross that someone's interrupting them but Aziraphale continues to stare at Crowley's face hornily until he reluctantly looks at the nun too. Thanks for the acting choices Michael Sheen.

They hypnotise her and Azi melts when she mentions the antichrist's toesy-woesies and then they leave and Azi is hit by paint, Crowley circles him devouring him with his gaze and finally blows away the paint with an air kiss. I see you, Azi, I KNOW you can get rid of it yourself. Anyway then Crowley turns all the paintball guns into rifles and people start shooting and Azi is like THIS is my husband and they walk away to have drinks while the police swarms.

People were like 'Crowley only ensured no one got killed because of the look Azi gave him' like LMAO have you MET them? Aziraphale is always fucking down for murder, Crowley is the one being like FOR THE LOVE OF GOD AZIRAPHALE NO. Azi was like "shit we gotta kill the antichrist you do it" and crowley's like "bitch slow down we can literally just raise the kid right"

Anyway Crowley gaslights some demons about seeing the hellhound and ig whatever I said happened in Ep 2 with Dog actually happened here etc

The bandstand scene, fuck me. Crowley asks Aziraphale to run away together from the end of the world and Aziraphale says no and they're both sad

we're all sad too

the end

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byuljoonie · 8 months

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P*$$Y Fairy // pjm

read the title…

pairing: jimin x fem!reader

genre: one shot, quick smut, one take, unedited

word count: 2.3k

warnings: smut, extreme dirty talk, spit play, fingering, riding, oral, overstimulation, begging, exhibitionism, dom!jimin sub!reader, nipple play, degradation, dumbification, mild non-con (read at your own risk seriously)

note: This is really for me because I need park jimin right now, biblically, but enjoy if you want at your own risk. Playlists and other works in bio, or tagged under bts fanfic. Submit requests in bio. Yes the Namseok fanfic is still planned to come this Sunday, but who knows I might post it in the middle of next week. Have a great week nasties☆ -dubu

As you and Jimin sat at a cozy corner table in the dimly lit restaurant, the warm ambiance of your engagement dinner filled the air. You had just savored the last bites of your delectable desserts, relishing in the sweet moments you shared.

However, as the evening came to a close, a flirty waitress approached your table, her intentions clear as day. Ignoring you completely, she leaned in toward Jimin and playfully inquired about the bill, her overt attempts at flirtation leaving you no choice but to dryly chuckle at the waitress's rather poor timing.

Unfazed, Jimin paid the bill without acknowledging the woman's advances, his unwavering devotion to you shining brighter than any fleeting flirtation.

“Did you see how she was practically hanging on you, Jimin?” You said slightly upset at the unwarranted encounter. “Yeah, I noticed, sweetheart. Trust me, it didn't go unnoticed. But you know I only have eyes for you, right?” Jimin said, reaching his hand across the table to rub yours. Admiring the diamond that rested on your delicate finger.

“I know, minie. It's just... It bothers me when people act like that, especially when we're out together,” you said quietly. You moved your hand away from his, grabbing your purse and standing up to leave.

“Y/N, babe. Where are you going?” Jimin said pushing up from the table with a huff. He pushed through the double doors easily catching up with you in the small parking lot. He screamed your name causing you to freeze next to your vehicle.

“You listen to me when I’m talking to you Y/N,” he pushes you against the car, not waiting for you to turn around. “I don’t care about that woman in there, I only need you my love, but you’re pushing your fucking limit,” you gasp out, Jimin’s hand coming in direct contact with your clothed pussy. Your legs shiver in the cool night air, miniskirt flowing effortlessly as the wind grasps ahold of you.

Jimin starts pulling your panties to the side, breathing heavily on your neck as he forcefully grinds against you. His lips are close to your ear, making the hair on the nape of your neck stand in anticipation.

“Look at you darling, already submitting to my touch,” he says whispering into my ear hotly. “This is mine, I’m gonna do whatever I want to you doll, right here where anyone can see you being a pathetic slut.”

Jimin doesn’t bother to give you a warning, he dips two fingers into your wet center, using his free hand to grab your neck. His rough calloused fingers sending you into a frenzy, you tried to stifle your moans, equally afraid and aroused at the thought of getting caught.

His fingers felt like fire inside you, you whimpered at the sweet pain of his unwanted intrusion. Your body betrayed you in every way, his breath was hot against your neck.

He started rubbing you torturously slow, the fabric of your panties pressing into your skin. You felt your arousal drip down your leg, whimpering at how exposed you felt. He left a trail of hot, wet kisses down your neck, biting and sucking near your collar bone.

You hissed at the stinging sensation, sighing as he licked over the forming bruise to sooth your sensitive skin.

“Look at how wet you are, such a slutty little thing,” he taunted, you could hear the mocking pout that grew across his plush lips.

You needed him, sinfully, your body reacted before your mind. You clenched around his fingers in desperation. He used his free hand to yank your skirt up, roughly turning you around to face him. He smirked arrogantly, relishing in the control he has over you.

Slowly, he ran his finger along the slit of your pussy, earning another string of pitiful whines from you. “What if we get caught sweetheart? Hmm? You like the idea of someone catching me knuckle deep in your cunt? MY cunt,” he said chuckling at the broken moan you choked out.

“M…minie I think someone’s coming please stop,” you say, trying to move his hands away from your body. Gasping as his grip tightens on your neck.

“Mm, I don’t think so.”

You tried to fight against him, when did his grip get so strong. He moved his hand from your neck, placing it over your mouth as he plunges his fingers back into your pussy.

“Look at how ready you are for me, honey,” he taunts, pulling you closer and closer to your orgasm. Your stomach tightening again in response to his touch.

He pins you against the car, ducking down as someone walks in front of your parked vehicle, his fingers moving at lightening speed.

You felt like a dirty whore, getting fingered in a dark parking lot by the man you loved most. He kneads his palm against your clit as his fingers work inside you, making your legs shake uncontrollably.

“Aw I know baby, you gonna cum for me?” He coos, caressing your pussy in a come hither motion, sending sparks through your body. You nodded frantically, clenching around his ring adorned fingers, crying out into his hand as he pulls away before your orgasm.

Your legs shake embarrassingly hard, the knot in your stomach slowly disappearing. “Too bad you have to wait,” he rubs your lower back lovingly, sticking his fingers in his mouth before opening the door for you to enter. You pulled your skirt down hastily, fearing someone would walk by and catch you half naked.

You climbed in quietly, body still reeling from Jimin’s assault. He closed your door quickly making his way into the drivers side door, and pulling out of the dark parking lot.

Your gaze couldn't help but wander to him. His hands, beautifully tanned and veiny, gripped the steering wheel with confidence. The soft moonlight played on his sharp jawline, casting enchanting shadows that accentuated his features.

Lost in admiration, you watched him focus on the road ahead, subconsciously squeezing your legs together as he licked across the plump flesh of his lips.

However, your reverie was abruptly interrupted as he pulled up to your home, reminding you of what was to come.

He turned towards you, tilting his head downward to look at you through hooded eyes. Your eyes widen in suspense, Jimin loving every second of how weak you are.

Even his eye contact was fierce, consuming you as if you were his prey. He eyes you a little longer before unlocking the car doors. He steps out, stalking around to open the door for you.

You don’t say anything, walking hand in hand with Jimin through the threshold of your shared home. Once your shoes are off, you’re being guided to your black sofa.

Jimin sits down coolly, eyes roaming your body carefully. With gaze fixated on your cleavage, he grabs your hand pulling you down to the floor. You fall to your knees with a soft grunt, staring up at him through glossy eyes.

"You see what you did to me, darling," he rhetorically questions, pressing your hands onto his hard on. “Beg for it,” he breathes out calmly, titling his head to the side expectantly.

The warm feeling in your tummy coming back in waves of pleasure. You try to speak but can only muster a feeble whine.

“Look at you in front of me, so sexy. Now fucking beg for it Y/N.” He stared at you, waiting for you to defy him, ready to devour you.

Please…please minie, I need you so bad,” you said panting when he grabbed a handful of your hair, yanking your head back roughly.

“Aww, you sound so pathetic, sweet thing.” He let go of your hair, eyes moving between his zipper and your face. You knowingly move to unzip his pants, a light brown suit tailored perfectly for his body.

He raises up letting you pull them down his muscular legs. Your mouth slightly agape as his dick springs free from its confinement. The pink tip already leaking precum, his size will always make your mouth water. He isn’t long but he’s really thick, girth easily stretching you nearly in half.

You took him into your mouth, choking before his tip could reach the back of your throat. Your eyes welled up with tears, he tasted sweet on your tongue.

He bit his lip as you swirled your tongue around his tip. Groaning and fisting your hair as you licked up the underside of his dick, paying extra attention to the prominent veins.

“Mmm, such a perfect mouth baby.” His hips started to jerk up, causing him to hit the back of your throat. You gagged in response, coughing around him.

You twist your hands around his shaft firmly, roughly sucking on his tip. He groaned your name lowly, hand gripping the soft cushion next to him.

He whimpered as you swallowed around his tip, using one of your hands to play with his balls. Giving them extra attention with how heavy they feel. You craved him dearly, wanting to drain him until you couldn’t take it anymore. You felt his dick twitch in your mouth, making you speed up.

“Look at me baby, look at me with my cock in your mouth.” He commands intensely, smiling at the tears falling from your eyes. He rubs his thumb across your cheek, swiping away the moisture.

He lightly slaps you on your cheek, signaling you to stop. You look up at him in confusion, pulling him from your mouth with a light pop.

He pulled you up by your arms, standing you up and instructing you to lay across his lap. Nervously, you climbed onto his lap, chest coming in contact with the soft black cushion to his right. Your knees rest on the cushion to his left, shivering as you felt a breeze under your skirt.

He unzipped your miniskirt painfully slow, pulling it down your legs and discarding it across the living room. Your panties joining them right after.

He removed the black tie from his shirt, strategically tying your hands behind your back. He ran his index finger down your back until he reached the base of your spine. Chuckling at your body’s reaction to him, you felt his cock twitch against your tummy. Slick against your soft skin, crying to be inside you.

“Such a needy Whore, so stupid and pretty, all for me.” He gushed, bringing his hand down and placing a firm slap on your ass. You hissed at the pain, feeling embarrassed at the arousal dripping down your leg.

“Just a dumb slut, and you’re all mine to use.” He delivered another slap to your ass, the sound echoing through your home. You cried out loudly, sobbing into the sofa cushion.

“I know, baby,” he coos, caressing your ass gently, the cool of his rings soothing your burning skin. He runs a finger between your cheeks, stopping just above the entrance of your core.

“You want me right here baby? Hmm?” He questions running his middle finger over your slit, collecting the wetness to taste. Moaning at the taste, he delivered a powerful slap directly on your pussy.

You screamed in pleasure, squirming on his lap uncomfortably.

“Stop moving and let me see where you need me.” He threatened in your ear, grabbing your throat pulling you backwards toward his face. He placed a kiss on your ear before letting you go, using both of his hands to spread your lips apart.

He moaned at the sight, staring until you felt uncomfortable under his watch. You could feel his eyes on your core, cool air making you clench around nothing.

“Such a pretty hole, Y/N. Gonna fuck you until you’re begging me to stop.” He placed his hands on your hips, carefully lifting you until you were upright on his lap, facing away from him.

He lines himself up and rubs against your pussy, you let out a strangled moaned, struggling against the fabric of his expensive tie digging into your wrists.

He pushes in slowly, you clench unbelievably tight around him, causing him to shudder. He’s so thick you can never fully adjust to his size.

He reaches around sloppily rubbing his index and ring finger over your clit, groaning at the contact you started to bounce on his cock. Taking every inch of his girth, feeling it in your tummy.

“Good girl, take my dick just like that.” He growled speeding up his tempo, rhythmically grunting with every movement. A melody of his name left your mouth, crying as his tip hit your sweet spot just right.

“Mm I love fucking you raw, such a nasty girl taking daddy’s dick like this.” You can’t think straight, the sound of him moving in and out of your pussy is so obscene. “So perfect, sweetheart.”

“Jimin,” you sob out, fighting against your restraints, needing to touch him.

“What do you want, baby?” He grunts in your ear. “Tell me Y/N, tell me what you need.”

You feel your orgasm building, your tummy tightening and tightening with his every thrust.

“Hmmfp…I’m gonna cum, minie please can I cum,” you begged miserably, feeling the stickiness of your love making coating both of your thighs. He pressed the pad of his finger to your clit, rubbing solid circles against you.

“Cum for me, Y/N.”

That’s all you needed to hear, shaking uncontrollably you came around his cock. Feeling his movements becoming sloppy as he twitches inside you. You whimper in pain, body over stimulated.

With a few more thrusts, he released inside of you, calling your name out repeatedly. You felt filthy, his cum leaking down his shaft as he lazily fucked into you, milking himself.

He untied your wrists, turning you around to place a kiss on your lips. Your lips molded together perfectly, fitting like missing puzzle pieces. You felt him grow hard again, making you shudder in fear. Too sore for another round but willing to go all night.

He picks you up and carries you to the kitchen table.

“We’re not finished, pet,” you moan his name, arching your back as he sucks harshly on your nipple.

The end.

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monsterfuckerconfessions · 9 months

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Freak nasty angel sex with an angel who is fully capable of vaporizing you into atoms by existing too radiantly becoming increasingly more eldritch, divine, and all consuming the hornier they become. Freak nasty angel sex that burns like radiant white hot heavenly fire and menthol that crackles the air around you. Freak nasty angel sexy that is so sickenly divine that it leaves a sugarsweet craving in your mouth that no water on earth could quench, gluttonous even.

There is something so sexy about the righteous heavenly wrath of divine judgement. Biblical angels so eldritch that their truest forms evokes a primal, raw, and instinctual fear and arousal

#monsterfucker confessions

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lesbiancohen · 9 days

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Some excerpts from this wheels on fire about levon helm's view of richard manuel and their relationship:

"Richard Manuel was a whole show unto himself. He was hot. He was about the best singer I’d ever heard; most people said he reminded them of Ray Charles. He’d do those ballads, and the ladies would swoon. To me that became the highlight of our show."

"Richard settled in quick. He was instantly likable and extremely funny. He liked to drink a little with the rest of us; he was seventeen when we met him, and he told us with a sheepish grin that he’d been drinking for ten years. He really missed his parents when we went out on the road. In fact, we all missed our folks. We were young and away from home, and we would spend hours sitting around hotels talking about our parents, and families, and the funny things they said and did . That loneliness was a fact of our lives, and in retrospect we know it took a toll on richard"

"When I reported for duty in the basement the day after I arrived in Woodstock, they were working on “Yazoo Street Scandal.” Richard was playing drums. It was the first time I’d heard him, and I was just in awe. It was like a force, and he immediately became my favorite drummer."

"Richard was complicated and felt things really deeply, more than most people. Everyone who knew him would tell you that. His attitude, often expressed to me, was that you might as well live tonight, because tomorrow you could get run over by a truck."

"Richard sang on “Across the Great Divide” and came up with all those chord progressions and tempo changes in the song. You can really hear the glory and plain goodness of Richard’s personality if you listen carefully. "

"Everyone was watching Richard carefully, and he had good nights and bad. Sometimes he shouted and spat out the lyrics to “Tears of Rage” with biblical fevor; other times he sounded painful to hear, but still drenched in the conviction that Richard brought to a song. Richard could hurt you with that voice of his."

"On June 28 we played outdoors in Santa Barbara, our first appearance in Southern California in six years (excluding the Dylan tour). We got one of those rapturous greetings that we all loved, and as the Fourth of July bicentennial neared, Garth began working American anthems into his “Chest Fever” introduction, which made everybody laugh; a nice part of the show. I remember that Richard could barely sing at that show. His voice was so hoarse that he faltered, but he struggled so hard with “In a Station” that once again everybody’s heart went out to him. Despite all the self-destructive behavior, you just couldn’t be mad at Richard."

"Richard had flirted, maybe halfheartedly, with the Reaper a few times before, and every time God threw him back to us. This time He decided to keep Richard Manuel for Himself. Wherever he is now, you can bet that Richard’s got a hell of a good band."

#this post is incomplete btw #maybe i'll finish it in the future #the band #levon helm #richard manuel

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batrachised · 6 months

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Buckle up, kids, and settle in, for I'm about to share the tale of what went down in the batrachised household last night. There were battles...bonding...bloodshed (well, not really)...batrachised has been forever changed. Exaggeration? Yes, but let me have this.

My roommates and I live quite contentedly in a Patty's Place-esque arrangement: young women, striking out on their own, cozied up in a little residence we all love quite a bit. It's a darling place, full of nooks, crannies, bookshelves! (of very high importance). It has green spaces; airy rooms; bright kitchens; crocheted frogs; what more could we ask for?

Despite our idyllic situation, there has been one slight mar, only one, on our little hobbithole ideal. Wasps. During the summer, we had to battle wasp nests outside with frequency. To give you a sense of how bad it got, the brave savior deserving of a martyr's crown who normally helped us remove them (roommate's dad) took a look at one giant nest and shook his head with a whistle. We had to hire professional help to get them removed - which, not too bad, just pest control in the end. But still, the wasps were fruitful and multiplying in a biblical fashion.

Enter fall. Enter cold. Most importantly, enter death. Death for wasps, as bugs, to quote calvin and hobbes, died by the bucketful. We were free - or so we thought. Oh, how naive those who have never walked paths of treachery and pain are.

One fine fall day, we found a wasp in the living. Horrible, but manageable. It was dying. I finished the job with glasses, a mask, a jacket, shoes, a broom, and significantly, lots of poison, looking like Don Quixote of the broom closet. Finished. Done deal. I patted myself on the back for being a brave household savior. Really, this was the proof that I was a strong independent woman. Good on you, batrachised, I thought.

Then, a second wasp appeared.

Horrible, and less manageable. One wasp is an accident - a door left open too long, a window with a ripped screen. Two wasps is a pattern. Two wasps means more wasps.

However, this wasp was very dead from the get go. I pondered. What to do? Then as so many other fools have done throughout history, I chose to blind myself to the truth. Two wasps - what a freak incident! A pattern, to be sure. But how could there be more? We never saw any buzzing around. Odd. Horrible, But still manageable.

I'm sure you can guess what happened next. Another one appeared, this one alive and angry. Clifford roommate got home at 1AM and had to fend off an angry wasp with a broom and poison, until it disappeared and she decided to throw up her hands and go to bed as was necessary, right, and just. We could no longer ignore the reality in front of us. I called pest control.

The pest control man arrived. He was a cheerful, gregarious man who smelt strongly of cigarette smoke. I decided he was a man to be trusted, most especially when he chipperly let us know that no, we shouldn't pay pest control at all! What a waste of money! The wasps, you see, are in the chimneys. He could remove them for several hundred dollars and the inability to access our house for several hours, or...we could just start a fire. It would get hot in the chimney, they'd get uncomfortable, and they'd leave. Smoke theory and all that.

Great. Fantastic, even. We save several hundred dollars, and get to have a cozy fire! Win win. Maybe we could even make hot chocolate and put on Christmas music! Perfect for the Christmas season. We decided tonight was the night. A half hour of our time, then done.

We received two warnings though.

First, the gregarious pest control man had let us know to be careful when opening the flue, as wasps can fall. "Just jerk your hand out quickly," was what he sagely said in so many words. I repeat, we decided this made sense. After all, we could close the metal curtains. That would keep those ol' darn wasps away. Still, we approached the flue carefully.

Second, my little sister. She listened to our plan skeptically. She gravely said (paraphrasing), somber as a small child, "But these are southern wasps." I laughed. Why shouldn't I? We had heard from our dear friendly expert. She finished with a (paraphased again) line of "What if the wasps go down instead of up?"

Well, there's a fire, little sister! Surely they wouldn't!

Flashforward to us in front of the fireplace. My roommate reaches and opens the flue. There's a thud. The sound of something falling. But nothing swarms out. We release a breath.

Neither of us have lit a gas fire before, so we don't know how and have to look it up--and then, in the meantime, my roommate notices:

A wasp.

In the (unlit) fireplace. Nestled in the fake logs. Looking cozy as a demon thorn with wings can.

We decide worriedly to tape the metal curtains shut. They would protect us, remember? These curtains of chain metal (you might be familiar with chain metal as the one full of holes). Tape them shut. I run to get tape. My roommate watches the wasp. The curtains are taped shut. Ah, another sigh of relief. We continue our research into gas fireplaces.

When we look back, the wasp is on the outside of the curtains.

Reader, here I will be honest: if you're expecting a giant nest to fall down, and us to have to run for our lives, this does not happen. Or at least, it has not happened yet. But in that moment, that trembling, unsteady moment, we knew that anything was possible. We didn't know that a giant nest wouldn't fall. But we did know that we had committed. We had opened the flue. We had woken the beast.

Fear strings through the air tensely, but we continue. Roommate bravely lights the fire. Half an hour. Half an hour, then we're safe.

My memory of the next few minutes is shaky, but I remember one clear, bright detail gleaming out among the rest:

We saw more wasps.

One flew through the air. Slow, lazy. Unhurried. But assuredly directly headed for us.

Both of us scurried out of the room like we'd seen the girl from the ring.

Reader, the wasps had come down instead of up.

Three wasps, to be specific. Even as I sitting here writing this, it's possible we missed more. There was a fire roaring that would hopefully prevent more. But that did little to assuage our fears. I now understand what it's like to live in a horror movie. Around every corner, danger lurks. Danger lurks behind the curtains. Danger lurks in the lights. Danger lurks in the blankets. Nowhere is safe. Anything can happen at anytime. There are creatures in your house, waiting to attack for no reason. It's not your house at all, in fact: it's theirs. The house is on their side. It hides them, cloaks them, shelters them, and in doing so, destroys you (well my mental stability anyway).

Half an hour, and then we're safe. The problem was, that whole half an hour factoid didn't seem to ring quite true anymore. What I was realizing with a cold, gripping understanding, was that there might not have just been one wasp nest in that chimney - there might have been many. If not a downright giant hive. And we had lit a fire, right under their home.

It was time to discuss backup plans. We came up with an escape route on the off chance it was a big swarm. We grimly got out the wasp spray. And most horribly of all, we waited. Waited sturdily. Waited fearfully. My roommate made soup, then froze. "Did you hear that buzzing?" No, I hadn't. Did she hear a distant buzzing in the chimney?? No, she hadn't.

We scoped out the enemy's territory. There was a scout on the ceiling, still except for the occasional shift. Another lazily flew through the room. We had been invaded.

All throughout, that waiting for the worst, something was edging through the back of my mind, snaking through

We were going to have to turn the fireplace off and close the flue. Or, in other words (1) enter the wasp territory (2) turn off the wasp deterrent, and (3) stick our hand up the wasp-infested chimney. It was very much the moment in the horror movie when they realize the only way out is through. We had our velociraptor in the kitchen, except it was a ton of wasps in the chimney. What's more, we had our chosen weapon of poison, but our chosen weapon couldn't be used because the wasps were coming from the lit fireplace, unless we wanted to start a chemical fire.

Half an hour passes. We decide to wait longer. Better to be safe than sorry.

Finally, after an hour, we glance at each other. We have a somber discussion, akin to tributes from the same district about to enter the hunger games arena. How long to run the fireplace? Would more time matter at this point? Who would close the flue?

I decide if I go down, I'm not going down without a fight. Much like a few weeks earlier, I grab a jacket. I make sure I have my glasses on. I grab a mask to cover my face. I have shoes on my feet. I get an extra shoe to put on my hand. I have a potholder on the other hand to close the flue. Don Quixote (Don Avispa?) has returned.

We march into the enemy territory. The enemy watches from above. Bravely, we steadfastly ignore it. I ask my roommate to watch my back and cover me as I turn towards the side of the room. First step: close the windows. Visions of thousands of wasps hiding behind the curtains dance through my head (at this point you should have realized i have no common sense about wasps and would die immediately in a zombie apocalypse). I ripple the curtain gently. Nothing. One window down. Next window: again, nothing. Another window down.

Now, time for the fireplace.

Wizard Hat roommate insists on sacrificing herself to the flue. She's done before; she has the muscle memory. Both of us are concerned that closing the flue will jostle the wasps and cause more to fall down - wasps that if still living, have to be very angry. I hand her the potholder.

The flue closes without incident.

We wait, holding our breath.

No more wasps.

With not a little relief, although still edgy, we make our way to the other room. We still have wasps in the house, but for now, the risk of having a torrent of wasps come down the chimney seems to have abated. I will never forget, though, that time period of waiting.

We decide to stay up a little longer. Just in case. The fireplace is cooling down now, so in a way there's more risk of wasps.

We go to the other room and sit, making conversation quietly. It's not unlike the ending scene in Jurassic park where they're in the helicopter, bruised, worn, but still alive.

It's then I look up. And heading straight for me, straight and low, is a wasp.

We leap up. I hear its buzzing in the room, and I grab the poison. Enough is enough. This wasp is dying tonight.

It feebly lands on the fireplace, and we see that it seems to already be dying. The Lord is merciful when he wants to be. Unfortunately, its proximity to the fireplace means that I can't spray it safely. We talk, waiting for it to move, but then we lose sight of it. My roommate briskly goes to cover her chicken soup. "I don't want a wasp to fall in it." Wise words, and wiser priorities.

It's when she finishes that she notices it on the floor, still somewhat feebly dying.

I have to admit, I'm not the coolest head under pressure. We could have just waited it out. But I had had enough. Wasps? Wasps in my house?? Wasps that had tried to divebomb me??

I went a little berserk, even trigger happy, and sprayed the ever living bejeesus out of that wasp. The spray said it killed on contact, which did not turn out to be true because that wasp was KICKIN'. On the floor, but still kickin'. I sprayed it again. And again. And again.

Finally, it stilled. RIP, wasp. (Rest in Poison).

However, we then faced the fact that I had created a giant puddle of poison smack in the middle of the floor that we now had to clean up. We got out rubber gloves (I noted them for future use of fighting wasps, more armor), and paper toweled away. Once done, we had to face the issue of where to soak the poison-coated gloves, and decided in a plastic tub on the counter.

And so this tale comes to end (for now). We decided wearily to go to bed. We were done with the day. More wasps may come, but we'd shut the door.

The final cherry on top of the sundae though, was the fact that Clifford Roommate was not home during all of this. This means that she got a series of increasingly frantic texts that looked something like this (I invite you to consider the fact that these wouldn't be out of place in a doctor who episode):

We lit the fire and wasps came out be careful!!

keep the doors shut! we have to keep the wasps out!!

don't turn off the light in the living room...the light distracts them

we've closed the flues. the fire is off.

there's one in the room with us now

we're trying to kill it!!

DO NOT touch the gloves in the kitchen, they're covered in poison

Drums, drums in the deep.

All this to say, if ever you decide to light a fire to chase away wasps, be prepared. They might just come down instead of up.

#i now know what it is to live in jurassic park and i now know i would die immediately #poor wizard roommate had to be the lead #long post #anyway here's hoping more wasps don't come out :)

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