#its all about the mundane humanity filling the place of divinity

[saintofhounds]

In the good supernatural that exists in my head there would have been a shot of human castiel hanging out washing and the white sheets hanging in the wind would have filled the place of his wings

#its all about the mundane humanity filling the place of divinity #im listening to the wonder years again and having feelings #the worms in my brain are incurable #spn #castiel #supernatural #vo1d rambles

[sleepysnails]

When stars die, they leave in a supernova that fills the universe with stardust. That stardust forms into infinite possibilities- planets, people, stars in the ashes.

The amalgamation of dying sources of life left Purpled here, and despite it all he is not divine. There isn’t ichor nor gold flowing through his veins, his wounds leak the very stardust he is made of, but it stains red.

He is not divine, so he will bow his head to those that are. It does not mean he submits. He is playing the long game, and Purpled has always excelled at games.

If gods are made of the same stardust as he, who’s to say he cannot become one too?

His chase leads him to the smp: a small server, with a god closer to its residents than most.

In a strange contradiction of the norm, he gets in after simply asking. He won’t complain about the ease, but once he’s in he sees not a trace of the god he’s after. Almost as though the bundle of divinity wrapped in green that he met was but a mirage.

He lays low- simply lives for a while. Builds himself a home, a UfO and gets a dog like he’s always wanted. He pretends at being human, mortal, made of less than stardust.

He meets a man with an uncanny resemblance to the god.

He’s built a bunker beneath his home, called it Area 51. There he compiles what he knows about the divine, but without seeing one himself, Purpled can only go so far.

When it comes to it, he takes the side of the man god? in green. His tentative friendships forgotten in favor of a chance to understand exactly what sets the gods apart when he too was made of dead stars.

He doesn’t get much. As it turns out, despite their resemblance, Dream is no god.

He’s back at square one. The whole thing feels like a waste of time; what was the point of coming to this server if all he did was the mundane humans participate in? Where is the divinity in living?

He drifts.

By the time he is done sulking in his own mortality, there is wind of a warrior that had joined the server, one by the title of Blood God.

When Purpled goes to investigate, he is startled to find he cannot feel the mark of the divine on the man.

Technoblade is a powerful fighter- this he knows, but there’s not a spark of otherworldly on the fireworks fired at the festival. When Tubbo dies, it’s in a flurry of heat and stardust, but not divinity.

A waste of his time, so long as he ignores the spark of guilt at letting his old friend meet his end so publicly.

He moves into the country rebuilt upon its founder’s grave to smother what that spark ignited in his veins when he fights to save his own skin, sides mattering little in the confusion. He hopes it’s not too late to make amends.

He does not see the new president who is too swamped in the responsibility to notice the old friend moving in next door.

The next time Purpled meets with an old friend on the server, it takes the form of his former home. When he chooses to follow the duck, it is to chase away the hollow creeping in his body made of stardust. The shine of riches glittered so similarly to his roots afterall.

At the end of it all, he loses the UfO to a burst of light and heat so far from what he imagined fireworks to be.

He swears vengeance for the act.

Sets his plan in motion by joining a country under the promise of a legacy, remembrance after his mark on the world is erased. Speaks to its people, gains their trust. When he learns of a book borrowing the power of the god he asked to let him onto the server, all he can think of is how satisfying ripping it from Quackity’s hands will be.

When he watches Slime burn in the book’s place, it’s not nearly enough.

He comes back to the country, the desire for revenge blazing through his veins, changing his star filled soul in a vessel of flesh and blood.

When Purpled falls, the sand stained red lacked any sort of shimmer reminiscent of the stardust he was so proud to be made of.

———

Merry Christmas @psynom!

This is my piece for the secret santa, I hope you like it!

#please let the scheduled post work- how does scheduling work idk #purpled

[breitzbachbea]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love❤

God, I needed this right now, because I am about to explode from how exhausting and unfair adult life is. And I love NOTHING more than talk about my own shit. Thank you so much, nonnie, I owe you my life.

Perché in Sicilia i morti dovrebbe morire I am aware that there is technically a typo in here, but I don't have the book I quoted around, so I don't know if the typo is already in the source material. Either way, do you like ghosts? Do you like folklore? Do you like places haunted by the terrible things they've seen, objects filled with the absentminded crooked intentions of their owner? Do you like childhood friends, who are the only friends to trust each other with their terrible childhoods, but it doesn't solve anything? Perché is the story you want. Herakles and Michele are sneaking around Michele's house during a power outage, talking about the recent past and ranting about the distant one, while the are some parts in between those that are unspeakable. It weaves the past of Sicily on a whole, especially Palermo's and its hinterland, together with the fate of the Vento family and clothes the terrors of Michele's own psyche into the familiar appearance of the collective Sicilian folklore. Also, if you like two mediterranean guys being way too coddly and touchy-feely, you can give this one a go as well.

Don't Touch The Artwork I like this little pwp one-shot immensely, because despite plot being thinly on the ground, it has so many little fantastic character moments. Team Liechtenstein and Team Austria both get to shine, you get to understand both team dynamics on their own and how single members act with each other across the boundary. Not to mention that it brilliantly works out Hugo's and Alois' relationship - the toxic masculinity, the fragile 'friendship', how both are at such cross purposes with their needs and desires but agree just enough on sex itself to keep coming back to play the doomed game. Next round I'll win, they think, always. They are giving it their all and then it wasn't good enough, because it's not good enough on principle. Either way, if you want to read two guys have a handjob quickie in the restroom of the KHM in Vienna, because they find the millennia of human craft and expression boring - yeah, that's the one.

Between Me and the Goddess (and You) Will you please, for the love of God, read my Imperial Rome setting AU that doesn't rely on some Victorian decadence narrative bc these mfers believed Tacitus blindly. We don't need love slave bullshit and tyrannical hedonism, we need a couple who is so concerned for each other's health that they travel miles and miles for it. We need Harry being so close with Michele that he involves him in Magic - in something that is ought to only be between the one who calls upon a divine Entity and the Entity itself. Michele, who cannot bear a night parted from his love to fix his own troubles, in case Harry's leg gives him grief all alone. Also, curse tablets are inherently funny, so please read this SicIre trip to Aquae Sulis, where Harry wishes plague upon houses for petty theft.

No Rest For The Wicked Tu non fermami se capita! Lo sai che il mare mi agita! Ti canterò di quelle notti ad orienteeee, di quella luna che danzava tra i bazaaaaar! If you are a fan of self-indulgent fanfictions, this is the most unashamedly self-indulgent thing I ever wrote.* This story has everything: The Chaos Seven (Team Sicily and Team Ireland) go on a Turkey Vacay with the Greeks and Turks. Paddy hits his head. Harry and Soph are 100% on their bullshit as if no one else is around. Argueing. Cursing. Flirting. Hera and Sadık so deeply in love in their twisted and yet so mundane way. Italian Music and Sexy Dancing. Bridal Carrying. Please go and read it, 🌀 ohhh you want to read about TurGre and SicIre and the O'Connels soooo badly. 🌀 *All my other OC fics don't count, because I avoid tagging them Hetalia as much as I can, so I don't expect anyone to read it. Even if they are tagged hetalia, no one specifically looks for my OC ships, so while I am glad for every reader, I never write with any in mind.

A lot of messy heads No one ever reads this one, which is. fair. It's just a little episode from Paddy's life with the O'Connels, prompted by his girlfriend's old family pictures. I'm sure people who are open to everything and like family fluff will love this, regardless if they know the characters or not. But if you do and would like to see Daddy Paddy in full action, if you would liked to see a little, young teenage Harry in his moody phase and a carefree, energetic little brat of a Soph - please read this. Please see the children that the characters you've come to known, so baggage-laden, used to be.

#storie nostre #the pen is mightier than the sword #beareplies #anon #writing #hetalia #hetalia oc #harry #miche #soph #paddy #hera #sadık #hugo #alois #original fiction #somewhere in between orig fic and fanfic. meh. you'll see

[earthling-wolf]

Ne: The Myth of the Puer Aeternus

The spiritual experience of Ne is called Mer, which is described more completely in this page. Mer is a psychological archetype best known as the Puer Aeternus; a Divine Child with the ability to distort or alter reality. As a symbol, Mer appears in the form of a golden egg, a genie lamp, or a deux ex machina. We find the spirit of Mer in characters such as Peter Pan, Paprika, and The Little Prince. These archetypal characters are almost always unbounded by gravity, able to fly and always have some capacity to use magic in a playful manner. They are provisional, innocent, and entirely without responsibility. Like the spirit of Mer, there is a quality that Ne brings to its user which is floaty, flighty, surreal and nebulous. It may feel as if every mental step taken is a leap into new worlds, causing them to have a fantastical, spritely energy or the quality of air. The individual enveloped by Mer may feel non-literal, non-corporeal and as if they were a caricature of themselves. Relating this quality to music, the floaty energy of Ne carries the tone of Mozart's Turkish March or the Dance Of The Sugarplum Fairy.

Rebirth & Child-like Wonder

The myth of Mer, when personally felt, ignites a yearning for reality to contain something other than the mundane and ordinary. There is a craving for something more than this, which hearkens back to a time when reality did exist as an interesting and unknown place which had not yet been dulled by repeated exposure. A return to infancy; rebirth. It represents the way we are before the world's laws and restrictions oblige us to narrow our perceptions into practical parameters. As such, Mer carries the capacity to rejuvenate weary eyes and to unlearn all that which prevents us from truly appreciating the mysteries of this universe. Mer may notice how odd it is that humans suddenly fall unconscious and helpless for eight hours every day, and nobody seems to mind it. It may ask why we have five fingers and not four, or why we only have long hair on our head or why we have eyebrows - and other questions that any 'sensible' adult has long since stopped caring about. The evocation of Mer is like that of a newborn child who is seeing things for the first time. As the laws of physics haven't yet been established, anything seems possible and the child explores this new universe he has landed into with no prejudice whatsoever. Mer is especially captivated by glittery things such as prisms for their magical capacity to generate a rainbow spectrum, by the allure of distant stars and the reflection of light on morning dew. It holds an eternal wanderlust that compels its user to see what's beyond the next horizon or around the next corner.

Madness & Mischief

As is true of all archetypes, Mer also has a dark form. When life has remained monotonous and dreary for too long, the Ne user's psyche will begin to suffocate and atrophy in the wake of their restrictive situation. Anything that can transform their world away from its present parameters -- even if it's violent and destructive -- will be felt as better than continuing along the same road. Reality becomes a prison which must be escaped, and they will escape this reality in the only way possible; by going deeper into fantasy. The individual's repressed desire for life will break the shackles of life through a series of nightmares and eventually into waking daydreams; distorting reality into chaotic and manic dreamworlds. We see this exemplified perfectly in the tale of Alice in Wonderland, where what starts as a playful fantasy devolves into a frightening world of impossible creatures and surreal situations filled with wacky characters made from the juxtaposition of concepts or memes. The form of Mer will switch from a Divine Child into a playfully mischievous daemon. The Cheshire Cat and the Mad Hatter are, in this tale, the archetypes of the dark side of Mer; speaking to the individual through cryptic, nonsensical absurdities. Here Mer begins to have strong crossover with Ver's trickster archetype; enjoying pranks and developing a dark sense of humor. Other depictions of this iteration of Ne are seen in Invader Zim or Rick & Morty where the protagonists are mad scientists that use their talents for chaotic, fantastical amusements. Madness is chosen above the sterility of sanity, and mischief is taken above the blandness of sensibility.

#Cognitive Typology #Cognitive Functions #Extroverted Intuition #Ne #ENTP #ENFP #Mythology #Archetypes #Puer Aeternus #Rebirth #Child-like Wonder #Madness #Mischief #Potentiality

[shinycreatoravenue]

Meditations on The Blue Lantern Oath

I love the Blue Lantern Corps. I know that there have been mixed reviews of the Corps over the years from comic book fans - most of the criticisms I've seen are related to their lackluster powers (mostly that the ring can only access its coolest powers when near a Green Lantern Ring, because hope requires will to reach its full potential).

Accepting those criticisms, I'd argue that the Power of Hope is one of the most important superpowers in all the universe. Without hope, I'd argue the human person withers - whether we put our hope in a divinity, that tomorrow will be different than the darkness of today, or even in the ability for people to choose the good over the bad, people without hope enter a dark place. We need hope - and we need the Blue Lantern ring.

When I am in a dark place, where my hope is wearing thin, I like to ponder the Blue Lantern Oath - the words a ring wearer says as they charge up their ring with emotional energy. While not as profound as poetry or scriptures - it is a four stanzas written for mass market comic books - there is something valuable in considering its words, and how we can find the hope in us:

"In fearful day, in raging night" A simple admission of the condition of consciousness, at least as we understand it. There will be nights where the storms never cease, and proverbial beasts pound at the door. Nights devoid of sleep, filled with agonizing hours. And those nights are set against a daytime that is fearful - because sometimes the light of day does nothing but let us see the beasts that raged against the door. This is a shared human experience - we all experience the fearful day and the raging night. That is where the oath begins - and we need to remember that this state we find ourselves in is also a beginning of sorts.

"With strong hearts full, our souls ignite." Hope requires a strong heart. It even requires, I'd argue, a foolish heart. After all, when faced with the terrors of the universe we live in - with the ambivalent mass of Earth's natural world, the cruelty in the hearts of humans, and the fact that this awfulness is a refuge of a void that both screams and is silent - hope seems like a fool's errand. It takes strength to say to your despair and nihilism "What you say about the universe is true - but there is more than what you say." It is tremendously difficult to look at the grim darkness of the storm and say "I choose for the flickering candle to matter." But when you do, hope will change you - it will light fire your soul and will help you find meaning.

"When all seems lost in the War of Light" This one takes a little abstraction - it's specifically a reference to the events leading up to DC's Blackest Night crossover event, but it just as easily can be understood as a "war of emotions." After all, the many colored rings associated with the Green Lantern franchise are all associated to part of the "emotional spectrum." "The War of Light" is a war that we all fight within - a war of our feelings, and which ones to follow. And we all know what happens when the negative emotions are winning - that's hopelessness, "when all seems lost." Again, this is a state we can know that we all have lived through in one way or another.

"Look to the stars, for hope burns bright!" Hope calls us to look up, look out, look beyond. Hope is something we can have in ourselves, but it requires us to connect with something beyond the self. This can be divine, or it can be mundane - belief that people will choose the good, that tomorrow the darkness will look different, just as much as belief in a God who will set things to right. Hope requires us to not stay within the dark places in our hearts, but to look up - to move forward into the light.

To believe in hope. To choose for it to matter. To let it burn bright...and to let it be the superpower that saves us.

#comics #blue lantern #musings

[valkyrie-of-the-rising-sun]

Here’s my contribution to the PMD AU: a snippet of the events leading to Flynn’s evolution! This is told from Hauyne’s perspective.

Note: Flynn belongs to @fangaminghell . I only own Hauyne and her angstiness XD

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There were occasions Hauyne had pondered over her purpose. Her entire reason of being.

As a human, she had been ordinary; painfully and mundanely so.  There was no divine purpose, no ambition, no passion, absolutely nothing driving her onward. It was only through sheer force of habit that she managed to slog through life, soullessly and silently perpetuating its monotony. She didn’t know when the days had started to blur together for her, but at that point she couldn’t bring herself to care anymore. It never mattered anyway. All they cared was that she appeared “normal”, just like everyone else.

Then came her abrupt end, and now here she was. Reborn anew into an utterly alien world, into an equally foreign body, to fulfil a sacred mission bestowed by a desperate goddess.

Hauyne could scarcely understood it. There was nothing, nothing special about her. So why, why was she chosen for this purpose? How could they even look at her with those accursed eyes, eyes so filled with faith and warmth it felt like it was burning a hole through her soul whenever she gazed upon them, like she was actually worth something?

All she had was her memories – her final remnants of the life she left behind – and a Blessing that seemed to have a damned mind of its own.  

Yet, despite her flaws, despite everything…

They continued to place their faith in her. Even the little one – Flynn – whose soul shone with so much light, so much kindness, and so much hope. Gentle, timid Flynn, who froze up in abject terror if she so much as thought about Hauyne, yet never failed to muster the strength she needed to brave through the dangers just so she could help her friends.

It felt wrong, sacrilegious, to witness such a beautiful soul suffer like this. Trapped in the shadows of her past, helpless in its iron-clad grasp and her anguished cries drowned out by silence.

Maybe, just maybe… she could do something about it. With the little strength she has left, she will make sure at least one could escape this foregone conclusion. That, she swore. On everything that is holy in this world.

Bone-chilling howls tore through the grim silence, and Bitter Malice descended upon the bloodied sands.

“LET THEM GO!”

#pokemon rejuvenation #PMD AU #interceptor oc: hauyne #oc: flynn (mentioned) #angst #too much? idk #prob a lot of unnecessary purple prose #but hey #that's just how i write

[proofofgods]

Awakening Souls: The Celestial Reverie and Proof of Gods Collections

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The 'Celestial Reverie' and 'Proof of Gods' Collections stand as testament to this extraordinary fusion of art and spirituality. These carefully crafted pieces serve as beacons, guiding us towards a deeper understanding of our own existence. Through the seamless integration of physical and digital worlds, these NFTs invite us to embark on a transformative journey, unlocking our boundless potential and revealing our true purpose.

At the heart of this journey lies a profound truth: knowledge is not simply acquired through passive observation, but through the active pursuit of experience. It is the very essence of karma, the eternal assertion of human freedom. Just as we have the power to shape our destinies through our actions, we possess the ability to elevate ourselves through our own karma.

The 'Celestial Reverie' Collection beckons with its ethereal beauty, each piece a testament to the artist's deep spiritual connection. Through intricate brushstrokes and vivid hues, these works transport us to a realm where the divine and the earthly converge. As we gaze upon them, we are reminded of our own capacity for transcendence, of the infinite potential that resides within us all.

In juxtaposition, the 'Proof of Gods' Collection offers a more abstract exploration of the spiritual realm. Each NFT is a cipher, a tapestry of symbols and forms that challenge us to delve deeper into the mysteries of existence. As we decipher the intricate patterns, we uncover hidden truths about ourselves and the universe we inhabit.

What sets these collections apart is their ability to bridge the physical and digital worlds. Through the medium of NFTs, art transcends its traditional confines, becoming a dynamic, living expression of the artist's vision. This intersection of the tangible and the virtual invites us to contemplate the nature of reality itself, blurring the lines between the material and the ethereal.

As we embark on this journey of self-discovery and enlightenment, we are reminded that the power to shape our destiny lies within us. It is a call to action, a beckoning to embrace our own agency and take charge of our spiritual evolution. Through the 'Celestial Reverie' and 'Proof of Gods' Collections, we are offered a guiding light, a compass on our path towards awakening.

In the end, these collections are more than just art; they are portals to a deeper understanding of ourselves and our place in the universe. They serve as a reminder that we are not mere observers of existence, but active participants in its grand tapestry. Through our own karma, we have the power to raise ourselves, to transcend the limitations of the mundane, and to embrace the boundless potential that resides within us all.

Explore more: [OpenSea Collection] - https://opensea.io/collection/proof-of-gods-treasure

#proofofgods #Proofofgodscollection

[godsnameisjoy]

CENTRE OF THE UNIVERSE

Date: 22 June 2023

1 Duration: 26 minutes at 9:02 AM

2 Duration: 43 minutes at 10:39 PM

Depth:

After an absence of many meditations in a row, I heard sounds in my head again. This happened last night, towards the end of those 43 minutes.

Nowadays, I am entering an entirely different universe every time I am meditating. And I am entering the other world with the very first word of my meditation routine: ‘Heavenly Father’.

The other world is located so far from the conscious memory storing mind that I can’t recall most of it after meditation. There is imagery but I can’t remember the stuff I have seen during last night’s meditation. All I have taken home from the visit to the faraway land is how this newly discovered place feels.

It feels beautiful. It’s Peace with an unmistakable tinge of happiness.

Outside of meditation, I am googling brain parts. For two days now, I have been wondering if I will be shown a glimpse of a phenomenon with regards my sense of taste. I know that I have been through an entire phase of meditations where I heard sounds in my head.

Through google, I was happy to find a diagram that showed both auditory and gustatory brain parts closely placed to each other and both central to the brain. That’s what I had assumed their locations would be.

My relation with sounds heard has undergone a complete change in the days gone by. Life energy can be freed from its workings in the body-mind system. So much can be freed that it can rise up the spine. Garnered life energies can enter the head and fill it to the point that one experiences Peace.

Even greater Peace forces can begin flowing in brain capillaries. Depending on the capillaries affected, one can hear sounds in one’s head. It is entirely likely that mythological literature about ‘divine nectar’ and ‘ambrosia’ is about the gustatory cortex receiving a surplus of life energies via blood capillaries!

I have read about sense perceptions being altered due to meditation. Paramahansa Yogananda and Swami Vivekananda, both have spoken of Sage Patanjali’s teachings on Raja Yoga. All 3 God realised men have spoken of otherworldly effects of meditation on otherwise mundane sense perceptions.

It’s all here. Not over a rainbow or even a cloud. The most suitable church to pray in is the human body that you are born with. The finest food is probably not prepared, not even by the sun. Not all sounds are a result of a vibration coming from the centre of the universe. The centre of the universe is in the centre of the human brain!

#meditation #paramhansa yogananda #god #hong sau #intuition #inner peace #kundalini #dharana #22.6.2023

[moon-lixie]

in this story aphrodite is not a woman but a man, and a simple mortal like you is much more in his eyes.

genre: fluff, mild angst.

word count: 2.020k

Fingers softly pressing on the strings that rested against the neck of the violin and precise movements made with the bow to bring to life a sweet melody. It was quite a sight to take in, how the tip of the bow would always be millimeters close to grazing the strings but never would, because you knew better than to let any other part other than the hair of the bow touch the delicacy of the small instrument resting against your shoulder.

He was particularly mesmerized by the way in which you would close your eyes while playing because you seemed to particularly enjoy it more that way, along with the fact that he could see you had no need to rely on the music sheet to play. Because you played with your heart; every note and every silence were brought by the memory of what your heart loved the most.

 His eyes were glued to you and he found himself often coming down to earth, not as a god but a mere human, just to see you from afar. It was wrong and he was well aware, but you had stirred in him something that he hadn’t felt in centuries. The kind of curiosity and interest that would never be sufficed by just watching from afar at how you fell in love with someone else. That’s why he had been selfish all those months ago when he first felt hypnotized by your peculiar ways and decided against helping you fall in love.

He was the god of love so there was no wonder that jealousy lived fervently inside his heart as well. But he didn’t want to admit it, he didn’t wish to face the undeniable fact that he had robbed someone else from the happiness of being with you and forced the soul that had captured his attention to live on their own, maybe forever. Because he had decided long ago not to approach you; if he did then it would be a futile attempt at making you happy in the way he knew he couldn’t.

Such irony made him laugh, the god of love knew himself to be incapable of loving. That was his price to pay for being who he was and doing what he did.

His steps guided him outside the place where you had been performing this week, every single day at eight pm, the same hour in which he would abandon whatever he was currently working on just to come see you from afar. He would always take the third row in front of the stage, at the right corner. Because that was where the violins were positioned, right beside the violas and cellos that were on the other side.

The street was particularly dark around the area where the back door of the building led to a small alley. As he passed in front of it, he saw you, head hung low and someone in front of you talking with a calm face about the things you had done wrong today. There had been some small mistakes when you were on stage today, the one that caught his attention more was a slip of your fingers that caused you to open your eyes and glue your gaze to the music sheet. Which had led him to wonder if there was something bothering you.

Oh, how he hated himself and the heart he didn’t have, for making him feel like he should do something to tug up the corners up your lips as you walked towards the main street where he stood. He hated the idea and yet he made a bouquet appear out of thin air and approached you with a shy smile.

Your eyes opened slightly in surprise as he cleared his throat and started talking to you with the same naturality that air makes its way through the world. “I got these for you. Just wanted to tell you that your performance was beyond any expectation I could ever have.”

He noticed the soft smile that grazed your lips at the same time your brows furrowed slightly with confusion. He took notice of how your hands reached forward to take the flowers he was offering and at the same instant that your fingertip touched his hand slightly his world seemed to stop. The weirdest feeling took hold of his stomach and the confidence he held suddenly vanished in between your soft thank you.

Who would have said that the god of beauty would find himself stuttering and giggling in embarrassment in front of a simple mortal? Who would’ve even insinuated that such a deity would find himself sitting in front of you talking for hours with the simple excuse of grabbing a cup of coffee?

He wondered why all the words that managed to escape your lips caught his attention as if they were the greatest stories to ever exist and why was he even there if the situation was already messed up. But he couldn’t even think about leaving, because when he mustered enough courage to grab your hand lightly in between his, he felt alive for the first time in his neverending existence.

Sure, it was wrong and not meant to work but that thought wasn’t heavy enough to stop him from smiling as you walked by his side on the empty streets. Your laugh filled his ears and existence, and for the first time ever he wished to be nothing but a human.

He thought that he might have started to lose his mind when he found himself contemplating the words that many times had led humanity to foolishness.

For you I’ll sacrifice everything I have. Such sweet and heartfelt words that had been the beginning of millions of love stories. But they were wrong in his head, because he wasn’t his. He was equally yours as he was of the rest of humanity and that had never bothered him before, until right now as you stood with a sheepish smile in front of your house.

He wanted to reach his hand forward, reach out for you but he couldn’t. Humane thoughts were attacking his head all at once and it felt like too much. He wondered if he was allowed to kiss you, at least just this one time. Or would you perhaps think of him as weird? Would that make him want to stay more than he wanted to now? Was a simple and innocent kiss meant to lead him to doom or was it just a mindless peck that would ignite nothing at all in his heart?

He wasn’t the god of curiosity but he might as well be as he moved forward to press his lips against yours. And when you returned his kiss he thought it was most suited for him to be the god of doom because he loved every second of it and he knew he would never stop coming back for more.

Sweet and tortuous predicament, the one he found himself in when he walked away from your house, trying not to look back every single second. He felt like he was in the clouds, in a metaphorical way. Because he knew clouds all too well, he had felt them with his fingertips and yet you made him experience everything that was around him like it was the very first time.

Excitement filled his mundane and vulnerable figure at the same time that fear took over his mind. He was screwed and under a magical spell, the one that coated the world around him with a special glint. Experiencing the world in the same way humans did wasn’t as impossible as he thought.

Happiness isn’t everlasting and when he goes back from the mortal realm to the colder place that he called home, the smile in his lips fades. Because what greets him there is the deity with blonde hair and a cheerful smile. And his presence isn’t exactly what bothers him, what unsettles him are the words that escape his lips.

“I’ve been noticing you’re visiting the mortal realm with more frequency lately.” His friend, the god of harvest, asks and in return he just nods slightly, hoping for his comment to be a simple observation and nothing more. “You seem rather happy about it.” The deity of passion had nothing left to do but shrug at his freckled friend whose comment made his palms clammy. “If I noticed, eventually they will too .” That was his last comment before leaving with a sweet smile and the god of beauty is left with a worried hole in his chest.

His friend meant well, he was aware of that as much as he was aware than perhaps he shouldn’t go back to see you. But he prefered to play dumb and be a curly haired boy on earth rather than a lonely soul on the sky.

Life is much more enjoyable by your side. He’s like a kid discovering everything all over again and experiencing things that before had seemed too mundane to catch his attention. By your side he learns to appreciate and love every single graze of your fingers with the back of his hands as you walk, relish on the beauty of every laugh that escapes your lips without the need of a big reason, stare at the stars not as a creation of his fellow divinities but as gentle specks that make being with you more enjoyable that he ever thought it could be.

After spending time with you he realised that there was no rush. Even when your days were counted you still found time to stop and smell the sweet and fresh scent of flowers like time would stop just for you to be able to fully enjoy. And he, who had the rest of eternity in front of him, had long forgotten to enjoy every single day as if it was the last. Somewhere along the way the beauty of some blushing petals lost sense to him.

The god of beauty had forgotten how it felt to find such in every corner he could dare look at. But now as the only thing he saw was you it all started making sense again without the need to put much effort.

But things aren’t as beautiful and easy as they seem by your side. His friend was right and after what were the best months of the existence of the immortal being, he was forced to leave you behind. Because even when he got on his knees and begged the rest to let him live as a human and die by your side, they reassured him it wasn’t possible for him to do such a thing.

With his heart on his fist he went back to earth and walked to the place where he knew his heart belonged. Tears formed at the brim of his eyes and he wondered what was such a strange feeling robbing him of breath. The pain that took place inside his chest only grew bigger when he saw you open the door with a hopeful smile plastered on your lips.

He wanted to stay there forever and forget that he ever had a bigger responsibility than making you happy. He wished to be selfish one more time and think only about his happiness but he couldn’t just give up all that he was just like that. For you I’ll sacrifice everything that I have and am.

“If you trust me then close your eyes.” He watched as your lids covered your pupils without hesitation and he couldn't help but chuckle lightly. He sure was going to miss you.

A kiss on the forehead, that’s the last thing you felt before opening your eyes to be met with nothing but the familiarity of your front yard. You wondered what you were doing out there and why you felt a void in your chest?

Guess you’ll never know. 

#stray kids #kpop #stray kids imagines #bang chan #bang chan imagines #skz imagines #skz angst #skz fluff #skz fanfic #stray kids fanfic #stray kids fanfiction #skz fanfiction #bang chan angst #bang chan fluff #bang chan fic #bang chan fanfic #stray kids fic #skz fic

[aurora-daily]

Runaway with AURORA: we meet the songwriting sprite to talk about music old + new

'We simply have to survive. And that is enough'

Interview by Blossom Caldarone for gigwise (July 8th, 2021). 

A textbook empath and considerate soul, Norway’s AURORA has an endearing air of childlike sensitivity. Comfortably seated in her mother’s French dress, we caught up over Zoom amid the frenzied #runawayaurora trend and the singer’s monumental TikTok rise.

AURORA’s 2016 single ‘Runaway’ is now the dainty accompaniament to millions of short videos on the increasingly influential TikTok. Predominantly featuring suburban teenagers, the trend has encouraged people to find the charm in their otherwise mundane corners of the world. “Seeing the beauty in the small things is something we all lost on the way” she says. Whether users film lakeside days out, pose elegantly or capture early morning sun beams, the trend's theme is strikingly on brand for AURORA: “It’s nice that people have created a wholesome vibe to it - you never know with the trends! I’m happy it’s not anything horrible.”

Momentarily gazing at the mountains outside her Bergen window, it’s clear to see AURORA isn’t fazed by the numbers that currently skirt her name. “It’s a very abstract thing for me and therefore I don’t spend time trying to understand it. I’ve just been home, doing my normal things, cooking my dinner, reading my books and being in the studio. I’m very grateful that people are letting my song into their hearts” she softly explains.

Written when she was only 11, the song platforms a prematurely advanced AURORA grapple with the concept of running away from the people we love when we are in pain. “Just like a dog that goes out and dies alone in the forest, we do the same. We struggle so much in talking about these very mutual, normal feelings but can’t deal with them when we are going through them ourselves.”

It’s a universal reality that stumps any age or decade, and her philosophy on the song’s ability to resonate is profound: “Music, unlike us, has no age. If it’s good or relatable, or if it has nerve, it will never die and it will always make sense to someone.”

She’s embarked on a week of interviews, and I’m her last before the weekend. Conscious she may not want to wax lyrical about Runaway any longer, I turn the discussion to the things that make AURORA tick. “My biggest muse is Mother Earth and nature. It always has been and always will be” she gushes. “It grounds me, it opens me up. It humbles and strengthens me.”

Her Nordic roots affording her the luxury of stunning outdoor access, she talks effusively of its importance, and how life’s increasingly high tempo is detrimental. Astutely describing being human as an “extreme sport”, she accredits success to ending up in her own bed at the end of the day. “The world is way too demanding in every area. It’s almost impossible” she laments. Her approach to living is one of simplicity; where surviving is the only necessity and anything else a mere plus. “It’s a matter of life or death, we simply have to survive. And that is enough.”

With last year’s lockdown allowing her to fully immerse herself in her artistry, AURORA found herself revelling in the desolate streets and empty shops, whilst finding ultimate inspiration in the silence. Her introverted intentions thrived whilst she empathised with the struggling extroverts in the world: “Silence is so rare and I love it. I try to be in silence as much as I can”. AURORA famously doesn’t listen to much music apart from fellow celestial Enya: “I’m afraid I’ll miss out on an idea if I’m listening to something else. And I don’t want to be effected by other melodies. It contaminates me” she explains. A theory shared with anything but pretence, AURORA evidently has an ability to hone in on the nuances within the quiet; a skill that requires patience and devotion to creative processes.  

Her timely mid-pandemic single ‘Exist For Love’ is a song that prioritises the fundamental importance of love. A delicate step away from previous AURORA releases, its traditional tendencies embody the timeless essence of a '50s love song, a trait only enhanced by its cinematic Isabel Waller-Bridge arranged strings: “I just felt like we needed a divine love song. I truly believe that when we understand love - unselfish pure love - we understand why we exist” she plainly explains, again finding a way to strip down concepts that feel hard to define.

“When I write, I think a lot about what the world will need. I wish to make something that will be good for people.” Often writing selflessly, boundaries are key; being an empath can be exhausting. “I can’t really read the newspapers. I have to learn things through discussion, and then dive into matters if I want to educate myself more. I spend little time on social media because it makes us sad, but it also makes me sad to see so many sad people on social media.” Surrounding herself with others who also tend to give more than they receive, AURORA ensures her good intentions are not misplaced.

As for her fans, they are at the forefront: “I think a lot about them. It’s all for them.” But it will come as no surprise to learn that she doesn’t like the more vacuous side of the industry, and finds getting recognised slightly unsettling. “It’s good to know it’s all worth it. As long as you can say something that means something, you can use the music as a tool to support people out there” she justifies.

Her new single ‘Cure For Me’, out now, is another example of AURORA’s altruistic approach to songwriting. A playful tune that will surprise fans with its cheekiness, it debunks the idea that humans should ever need to be cured, and that anything other than who we are is abnormal. “People are very self-critical and it doesn’t take much for us to assume that something is wrong because we look different, or act different, instead of just accepting that we are different. We are all biologically designed to be unique” she explains. We go on to discuss how we’re led to believe that we’re crazy for being emotional or sensitive: “That’s what inspired me to make this song, as an anti-gaslighting song where you just celebrate that it’s fine, and you’re going to be fine, and I don’t need a ‘Cure For Me' because I’m perfectly ok as I am.”

The song’s juxtaposed setup is a peek into what’s to come: “It’s fun for me to be less serious about things. It’s very new for me. I am often very serious in all my music. I really feel like we need a bit of light right now, everything has been so intense.”

Heading into a newfound artistic side, AURORA is considering how the new sound should be consumed too. With her mystical ability to sonify nature and art, AURORA’s eclectic and ethereal world has always captured feeling in a visual way. “I love to be able to shape how people see my music, even if just a little bit. For many people, it’s easier to understand the whole thing when they can see it as well.” She is currently painting an “intimidating” canvas and studying Egyptian history, alongside Greek and Roman mythology. Finding inspiration in their bohemian attitudes towards female roles, AURORA is focussing on the old, the new and repeated behaviours in between: “Everything we’ve done in history, both good and horrible, has sometimes taught us to be better and sometimes not. Our patterns of behaviour are very interesting.”

So with ‘Cure For Me’ here and a well-researched new artistic process in full flow, AURORA is peacefully going about her business and prioritising the small things that make her feel truly content. Currently, she's filling her home with flowers: “It makes me more happy every day than I could ever imagine.” Her intentions are in the most authentic place; a space that prioritises connection and understanding, and one that prioritises the heart in a world where its complexities are so often dismissed. “As long as we remember to take care of the mind and the heart, we’ll have the capacity to care for others as well” she finally assures me.

#aurora #aurora aksnes #interviews #cure for me #new album

[fursasaida]

do you have sources or opinions about the uh. development of the idea of the 'veil between the worlds' stuff and how it relates to how we understand ... space and place? question brought to you by "i just read some fantasy fiction that royally hacked me off"

lmao did you know one of my big “i don’t work on this but i lowkey develop expertise in it as a hobby” things is fairy tales and folklore

Anyway, I don’t know very much about the history of the “veil” thing, but I am given to understand it originated with the Victorians. Google Scholar has been unforthcoming on this point, so while I do not have sources, I do have opinions! My opinions are these:

As previously discussed, most people in most places were not, until recently, of the opinion that the world is made of space and space is the universal extensive backdrop, the dimension in which things happen. Moreover, even if we more or less think the world is made of space semiconsciously and in our uses of language, it's not really how most people think most of the time, even in contexts where space in this sense (as opposed to "room") has been invented/internalized. Instead, the knowledge of the world was and is structured much more around places, routes, and regions (which are just a kind of place distinguished by being part of a larger whole). Places have insides and outsides. They are distinct from one another. (Although, as with regions, they can also nest or overlap; this isn't state territory or administrative boundaries we're talking about. Those are spatial artifacts.) Therefore, in a spaceless world, there is nothing contradictory about believing that there are, simply, places where magic is stronger or where the gods dwell or where time behaves differently, and so forth. Just because things aren't like that here means nothing about whether they're like that there. To be clear: I am not saying people in the past (or who practice such traditions today) had or have no sense of a visible/invisible, mundane/extraordinary, or material/immaterial divide. That, I think, is pretty truly universal, and simply a product of human cognition. We have myths in many cultures about a deep past when knowledge (or ignorance) was perfect and the world was immediate, young, more alive, partly because, for whatever reason, the way we experience reality includes the sense that there are some gaps in it, or a little too much room. ("A mystical experience" is basically--and across many traditions--an experience of the full immediacy we normally don't have.) However, places like Olympus or Tir-na-Nog or the realm of Ereshkigal are, still, places. You may not think you will find yourself in Hades or the land of the ancestors if you fall down a well,* but you can still think it is possible for someone to go there in a non-metaphorical sense. They may need extra steps or divine/magical assistance, but going is still going. You know, like people do in the stories.  And at the same time you can very easily accept that some extraordinary kinds of creatures or spirits really are here in this realm, and that their personalities and behaviors differ from place to place (animism, genius loci, some types of ancestor-honoring practices, etc).

(*Or in other words: to think you will end up in Hades if you fall down a well is actually to think about it spatially, or indeed geologically, as simply being what is found at a certain distance down. Why should Hades/Hell/etc, as a place, be under this well, all wells, any wells, just because it's under the Earth? These places have defined entrances, in the same way that you can walk up to a city wall as much as you like and this means nothing about whether you’ll get in if there’s no gate there.)

So I do think plenty of archaeologists, anthropologists, folklorists, etc. who study this kind of thing and look at the iconography or narratives as "obviously" portraying distinct realms in the sense of dimensions are unwittingly applying their commonsense, spatial sensibility to something that is much more ambiguous--because almost none of them have thought seriously about place as anything other than a location in space. They see a line or a boundary drawn and assume this means two existential dimensions, rather than two places. What now follows is basically the speculative explanation for how we got into this situation. It is based on a lot of things I know for sure, insofar as "for sure" can be known re: intellectual history; but I have not demonstrated a direct link, only surmised it. In Europe--more particularly, to my knowledge, in England, France, and Germany--space in our current sense really starts to get cemented in the 17th century. Notably, at the same time, people suddenly get interested in the scientific question of "the figure of the earth." It had long been known the Earth was round, of course, but suddenly it mattered to people what its precise shape could be. Is it a perfect sphere? An ellipsoid? What kind? What is the precise length of a degree of longitude? Is the Earth longer than it is wide or vice versa? This was the first time that intellectuals in these countries started seriously trying to reconcile the Biblical narrative of the Earth's formation with ~Science. They cared about this for some obvious reasons, like figuring out whether Newton or Descartes was right about the physics of motion, and testing Newton's gravitational theory; and there were practical reasons as well (the modern science of geodesy, which is what you need to make "accurate" maps for consolidating your state and conquering places, and to, say, build a railway, gets born as part of this). But they cared about it for another reason too. Namely: after the Thirty Years' War, there was a real sense of dislocation in Western Europe. This dislocation was religious, political, and social all at once. There was thus a serious need to realign political and social order with the cosmic order, and the Enlightenment and Scientific Revolution are significantly responses to this. Empirical knowledge (especially math) was to be the universal language that would allow people to communicate across differences rather than engaging in bloody warfare (they were quite explicit about this, especially Leibnitz, but if you know to look for it you can read it in Hobbes, Locke, Newton, Descartes...there was a reason they all suddenly got obsessed with reason), and the "Quest for the Figure of the Earth" was part of that. So was the emergence of geology a bit later, as the history of the earth becomes increasingly scientific rather than Biblical; the questions that created geology came out of these initial struggles to conceive of the Earth as a "natural" artifact to be known by science. This matters here because it means a redefinition of what the Earth is and what can happen there that is not just a matter of scientific debate but is fundamentally connected to social and political understandings of the world. In other words, it redefines what “the Earth” is as a place and in its cosmic place. One consequence of the new rational empiricism as a reaction to a war understood as being caused by religious ontological commitments and enthusiasms was a transformation in what counted as real. On the one hand, things that under the old Aristotelian paradigm were treated as real but imperceptible and therefore impossible to study (like magnetism) became newly study-able. In the Newtonian, empirical paradigm, you don't have to be able to say what something is or even what physical qualities it has; only to demonstrate its reliable and reproducible effects. On the other, things not observable in these terms become defined as unreal. At the same time, the shift from an Aristotelian to a Newtonian science is itself, precisely, a shift from a world explained by regions to a world explained by space. "Regions" here means places, but it also means directions like up and down. Aristotelian physics held that substances behaved in certain ways (like smoke rising and rocks falling) because it was in their essential nature to belong in different places. In other words, different areas of the world, as well as different substances, were ontologically different in real ways that had real effects. In modern empiricism, this is not at all the case. The laws of how things behave are universal laws. They are not about belonging, difference, and places/directions that have their own meanings and hierarchy; they are about forces interacting contingently. It's exactly Newton who formulates the idea of "absolute space" as an infinite and homogeneous, but insensible (like magnetism) extent over which things are distributed. Forces’ specific interactions may be locally different, but the forces are translocal and indeed universal, because they happen in the single homogeneous substrate that is space. So all of this percolates through various levels of society and fields of knowledge through the 18th century and into the 19th (and up to today). One effect is the redefinition of ghosts, fairies, elves, and so on as not real. It takes a very long time for this news to really reach everybody, though; I've read accounts of rural peasants in the British Isles and Ireland who still fully believed and practiced fairy lore into the 20th century. You also see some wobbles, like the famous hoax involving fairies and Yeats, in part because new technologies are making new things observable and therefore potentially “real” in the Newtonian terms. Thus Spiritualism, for example, was in many ways a practice of reliably producing observable effects of things that are not themselves observable; its attempt at credibility was pursued in Newtonian terms.

At the same time, after initial big achievements in geodesy, the figure of the earth keeps getting refined, details filled in, and so on. The same thing happens to the underground with geology. It similarly takes a while for this to really settle in; you have older formats like isolaria and cosmographic maps overlapping with properly spatial, cartographic mapping. (An isolarium is a world atlas that doesn't try to put all the pieces together but treats every landmass individually as an island. The islands tend to get filled in with what we would now consider fantastical stuff because the mapping enterprise, with isolaria, was all about places and their different characters; things did not have to be consistent, there was no homogeneous substrate. That fantastical stuff is part of what's called "cosmography.") So by the time you have people studying folklore in the 19th century, in these same countries and others, as part of nationalist projects and what have you, these educated elite types are likely to have accepted the following. 1) We know the shape and nature of the earth--not in every particular, but we know that physical conditions are basically the same everywhere--and 2) what is empirically unobservable is not real; and 3) space is a dimension, it is homogeneous, it is the dimension in which things that exist exist. (Plato is howling somewhere.) To be clear, #1 especially matters here because it means the idea that there might be places where things behave/occur abnormally gets ruled out. Long before the maps had actually been filled in, there were "no blank spaces" on them anymore. (Insofar as they ever did get filled in, that still hadn't happened by the turn of the 20th century. I actually have a personal theory about where the blanks are now, but that's a whole other digression.) Therefore, if you want to collect and make a fuss over stories about unreal beings and events occurring in places where the universal laws of physics and histories of geology do not seem to obtain, you cannot fit these beings, events, and settings into the world in which you understand yourself to live. There is quite literally nowhere to put them. They cannot exist in a physical, geodetic, geologic world of space; they cannot coexist with its elements. Let us now note that in the 19th century we also get the Spiritualist movement, which conjures up lots of ghosts and puts them behind a Veil. Ghosts in this framework are real, but they cannot be here. They can visit, but only by "piercing the veil." I therefore further surmise that, likely without being fully conscious or intentional about it, these folklorists and such had to assume that when people talk about a fairy court, etc., they are talking about another dimension, one different from the spatial dimension that we live in. (This is the same assumption the experts I was dumping on at the beginning make; this is what I mean about a commonsense spatial sensibility.) The language of "the veil" may well be influenced by Spiritualism, or may not; I think the "thin places" and "times when the veil is thinnest" stuff is even more recent than the Victorians, like mid-20th century. But what matters more IMO is that the two moves--what happens to ghosts in Spiritualism and what happens to fairies etc. in folklore--are parallel. They both get kicked out of here, they get made not part of "the world." The world is one place, and what is "not real" has no place in it. So in order to talk about interacting with those things that have no place here in the world, it becomes natural, maybe inevitable, to talk about what separates them from us. You need a barrier to explain why something that exists (if you believe it does) is not visible and testable all the time and everywhere, or to make sense of how other people could believe such a thing exists.

There is a very deep irony to all this, though. In making the world a single place with a single set of conditions and a single set of possibilities for what can happen and what can exist, right, we end up creating this “other realm” where all the other stuff is. In physics there is talk of a “quantum realm” exactly because the conditions, behaviors, objects, and so forth found there seem to behave differently from the “classical realm” of our experience. But "realm” is a very unstable and ambiguous word, not clearly spatial or placial. The irony is that what we have here is, still, in fact a discourse about two places. We just don’t even know that, because our formal thinking has become so spatialized. Thus the nature of the barrier between the two or how it could be possible for conditions to be so different in the “other realm” remains fundamentally mysterious--let alone what “crossing over” could possibly entail. Hence a metaphor like “the veil” becomes important and necessary not just to generate another place to put these unreal things, and not just to explain why these unreal things are not here in the real world/place, but also to paper over the basic absurdity of the whole premise. We have come full circle in that we are still basically talking about there being other places where things are different, but we have made it much more mysterious and confusing than it was (I believe) when it was just accepted that the world contains many places where things may be different.

#dieinct #space and place #waiting at the threshold #in this context i should note that this tag refers not to the threshold between two realms in the sense discussed #but to liminality in human life #but that is the fairies/folklore/etc tag

[tipsycad147]

Tools of a Witch

Written and Compiled by George Knowles

Athame  / Pentacle  / Wand  / Chalice  /  Censer /  Broom  / Bolline  / Cauldron  / Bell /  Book of Shadows

As with most other religions, tools are used in witchcraft to aid and enhance ritual worship.  Tools have no power in themselves, though they do have powerful symbolic significances.  Some like the Wand and Athame (pronounced ath-ay-me) are used to invoke and direct whatever power we generate or pass through them.

While tools are not absolutely necessary to the practice of the craft, some tools are nice to have if only to focus our will and concentration.  The basic tools to start with are the elemental tools or those tools which represent the four elements of life: The Pentacle for Earth, The Wand for Air, The Athame for Fire, and The Chalice for Water.

Tools needn’t be purposely bought or excessively expensive.  Take a look around the household, many ordinary implements can be used or improvised as tools.  You could even make your own and by doing so, a certain amount of personal power will be infused into the item, thus increasing its effectiveness.  Other sources of tools are Car Boot Sales, Junk Shops and Antique Shops.  With a little patience you may find tools cropping up in the most unusual places.

All tools as they are collected, should be cleansed of all negative energies and past use influences.  Lets face it, you won’t know how or for what use they may have been used before you acquired them.  To do this, clean the item physically and thoroughly while using visualisation.  Then bury the item in the ground for a few days, thus allowing past associations to be dispersed and purified with earth��s energy.  

Alternatively you could use the water method.  Immerse the item in water, preferably natural water like the Sea, a River, or a Lake.  If these are not available to you, used a bowl of water and add a few pinches of Sea Salt.  Leave submerged for a couple of hours before removing and drying the item off.  Obviously common sense must prevail when using these methods, as you wouldn’t want to ruin the item.  Do whatever seems appropriate for each item.  After the cleansing process, each tool needs to be consecrated, ready to use for magickal purposes.  (More about this later).      

Below is a list of the standard tools used in witchcraft together with their uses and significances.  For other correspondences see:

Athame  - The athame is the traditional ritual dagger of the witch.  Commonly it has a black handle and steel double-edged blade.  Many Wiccans engrave the handle or blade with magickal symbols indicative of deities, spirits or the elements as sources of power.  The athame is a tool of command, it is used to direct what power we pass through it.  It is used to cast circles by tracing the circumference, to charge and consecrate objects and banish negative energies.  In most traditions, it is never used as a mundane knife for cutting purposes, and is used strictly for magickal purposes only.  As an elemental tools of the craft, in most traditions it is associated with the elements of Fire, in others it is associated with Air.  The phallic symbolism of the knife links it with the God.

Pentacle  - The pentacle is a traditional tool of the craft.  Originally it is thought to have been adopted from ceremonial magic.  It is usually a round solid disc often made from stone, wood or cooper.  On the disc is engraved or painted an up-right five pointed star enclosed inside a circle called the Pentagram.  A disc decorated in this manner then becomes called a Pentacle.  In some traditions other symbols are added indicative of deities, spirits or the elements as sources of power.  The pentacle is normally the centerpiece of the alter on which objects are placed to be consecrated or charged, such things as amulets, charms and tools are placed on it, as is the salt and water for blessing.  The pentacle represents the elements of Earth and is sometimes used to summon the Gods and Goddesses.  For a more detailed description of the pentacle - pentagram see (Pentagram - Pentacle).

Wand  - The wand is one of the prime magical tools of the witch.  Traditionally the wand is made from the wood of a sacred tree.  These include the Willow, Elder, Oak, Apple, Peach, Hazel and Cherry, to mention just a few.  Its length should approximate the crook of the elbow to the middle of the index finger.  These days many modern materials are used instead, and even tipped with crystals and gems.  The wand is a tool of invocation, it is used to evoke the Gods, Goddesses and Spirits.  It is also used to bestow blessings, charge objects and draw down the moon during ritual.  In most traditions the wand represents the elements of Air, in others it represents the elements of Fire.

Censer or Thurible  -  The censer is an incense burner used to contain burning incense during ritual.  Any type of censer can be used, even a simple bowl filled with sand will do.  The censer represents the elements of Air and is normally placed before the images of the Goddess and God on the altar.  

Chalice  - The Chalice is one of the four elemental tools of witchcraft and represents the elements of Water.  It is a symbol of containment and often represents the womb of the Goddess.  The base is symbolic of the material world, the stem symbolises the connection between man and spirit and the rim or opening symbolically receives spiritual energy.

The chalice can be made of any material, in times of old - Horns, Shells and Gourds were used to hold sacred liquids during ritual, and then in later times - Silver became the preferred material, having long been associated with the moon and the Goddess.  The chalice is used to hold the blessed water and wine during ritual.  It is traditional in many covens to pass the chalice around all members, who then take a drink as a token of unity.

Broom  - The broom is a ritual tool of the witch, sacred to both Goddess and the God.  The God - through its symbolic phallic shape, The Goddess - through its three-piece make up, the stick, brush and binding cord being symbolic of the triformis aspect of the Goddess.  

Traditionally the broom was made from three different woods.  Ash for the handle, Birch twigs for the brush and Willow for the binding cord.  Ash is protective and has command over the four elements.  Birch is purifying and draws spirits to one’s service.  Willow is sacred to the Goddess.

The broom is used for a variety of purposes but most generally to purify and protect.  It is used to ritually cleanse an area before magick is performed by symbolically sweeping away negative energies and astral build up.  Of old it was used to guard the home and persons within against psychic attack or evil curses, this by placing it across the threshold, windowsills or doorways.  It was also placed under the bed or a pillow to protect the sleeper.

Traditionally and perhaps the use which most people identify it with, are the old wedding ceremonies of the Gypsies and the early American slaves, where a couple leapt over the broom to ensure fertility, domestic harmony and longevity.  Today pagan hand-fasting rituals often include a broom jump.    

Bolline  - The Bolline or White-Handled knife as it is now known, is the practical knife of the craft.  Traditionally it was used to harvest herbs and had a blade in the form of a small sickle.  Today it is normally a mundane knife used for cutting and carving.  It has a white handle to differentiate it from the Athame, which has a black handle and is used only for magickal purposes.  The bolline is used to cut wands and herbs, to mark and carve candles with symbols and to cut cords for use in magick.  Any other ritual function requiring the use of a knife, such as cutting flowers for the altar, can be performed with the bolline.

Cauldron  - The cauldron is probably the tool most associated with witchcraft and is steeped in magickal tradition and mystery.  The cauldron is the container in which transmutation, germination, and transformations may occur.  It is symbolic of the womb of the Goddess, and is the manifested essence of femininity and fertility.  Everything is born from the cauldron of the Goddess and afterwards everything returns back to it.  It is also symbolic of the element of water, as well as reincarnation, immortality and inspiration.

In ritual the cauldron is used as a container for making brews and potions, or to contain a small fire for use with spells.  It can also be used for scrying (divination) by filling it with water and gazing into its depths.

In ancient times the cauldron was used as a cooking vessel and for brew making.  Traditionally it was made from cast iron, it rests on three legs and has an opening smaller then its widest part.  Cauldrons are made in many sizes but can be difficult to find, so you will need to persevere if you want one.

Bell  - The bell is a ritual tool of invocation and banishment.  The bell is a feminine symbol of the creative force, that of the Goddess.  The bell can be rung to indicate the start of a rite by banishing negative influences before the ritual begins.  Often it is used to invoke the Goddess during ritual, or sounded at the four quarters to call forth such spirits as the Watchers and Elementals.

Bells can be used to guard the home by warding off evil spells and spirits, or evoking good energies when placed in cupboards or hung on doors.  Hung from a cord the bell symbolises the human soul suspended between heaven and earth.

Book of Shadows  - The Book of Shadows is the workbook of the witch.  In it is recorded: Rituals guidelines, Invocations, Spells, Runes, Rules of a particular Coven or Tradition, Symbols, Poems, Chants, and anything else of use to the witch during ritual.  

Traditionally the Book of Shadows was always hand written by the individual.  A common custom for new initiates into a Coven, is to hand copy his teacher’s Book of Shadows exactly as it appeared, then later to add his own material as he progressed in the craft.  Today with the advantages of technology they are often typed and photocopied, or even computerised onto Floppy Disc’s.  

To make your own Book of Shadows, you can use any form of blank book, but perhaps the best type to use are those of a loose-leave nature, thus allowing pages to be shuffled around when preparing for rituals.  My personal Book of Shadows is made from recycled paper, bound up in natural tree bark covers, these are available in some art shops and bookstores.

Sources

Wicca, A guide for the Solitary Practitioner  - By Scott Cunningham

Encyclopedia of Wicca & Witchcraft  - By Raven Grimassi

A Witches' Bible - By Janet and Stewart Farrar

Witchcraft for tomorrow  - By Doreen Valiente

https://www.controverscial.com/Tools%20of%20a%20Witch.htm

[39yuki]

apricity | kbk. (f)

↣ pairing: bakugou katsuki x (f)reader

↣ genre: soulmate au, angst, fluff

↣ word count: 13.4k

↣ warnings: language, grief, death of a family member

↣ song rec:  satellite - ha:tfelt (very cute, makes my heart do things)

↣ notes:  i posted this on my ao3 and quotev (a while ago), but i suddenly felt like posting here too :3  pls enjoy

↣ summary;  a story of two lovers bound together by the universe but brought together by chance on one frigid, fateful day.

---

You have all but a few memories of your parents.

In the farthest reaches of your mind, you can just barely grasp onto an echo of when you were very young. You can see both of your parents smiling at each other, love so evident in their eyes that you can feel it from where you sat, watching them. They looked like they were a match made in heaven, which was all too true, as they were soulmates.

Everyone has a soulmate, but only so many people are fortunate enough to meet their other half. Those who have been blessed enough to cross paths with their divinely-given partner describe the first encounter as a sudden stillness, then the sound of bells chiming somewhere off in some direction, with which you cannot hope to pinpoint. After that, there is a rush of emotions that hit you like a freight train and swallow you whole. Once the stillness comes to an end and the world finally resumes, you're both left with a mark that is permanently etched into the skin as a symbol of the heavenly event that had taken place. This mark is unique to each pair of soulmates.

You can remember the shape of your parent's mark. It was uncomplicated and lovely, which, by no coincidence, were the perfect words to describe the relationship of your parents. Black ink nestled itself snugly onto the inside of their left index fingers, forming a small spiral design.

You vividly remember the strong arms of your parents wrapping around your young cherubic body. They were hugging you, as they were about to depart for a mission that would take a few days. The one part of their job as professional heroes they seemed to dislike most was leaving you behind when their work demanded that it take precedence over their child. The hug lasted for several moments, and throughout, they whispered soft, little nothings into your ear to help calm your emotions. You were upset that they would away for so long. When they released you from their hold, your father grasped your shoulders, and looked into your eyes, promising to be back as soon as possible.

Unbeknownst to you, that would be the last time you would ever see your parents again.

The last memory you have regarding your parents is the devastation that followed at the announcement of their death. You remember the cold, icy fingers of sorrow climbing their way up to your body, starting at your toes and slowly wrapping around your entire body. This feeling sat with you for a long time, and you so dearly wished for it to disappear. Eventually, it did, and in its place was the dull, numb feeling of utter loneliness, and you weren't sure which was worse.

---

You quickly learn that it's better to keep people at a distance. To never get too close and to never share too much. To reveal all the little bits of yourself to someone means to submit yourself to the possibility of being left behind, and to the anguish that will inevitably follow. So, you draw a line in the sand. On one end is you and all the little things that make up the person you are; on the other end is everyone else. Neither side should dare cross that line, lest the repercussions that may follow.

Primary and middle school pass you as mundane and quiet years—just as you like it. When presented with following in your parent's steps and becoming a hero, or becoming a faceless, ordinary person with the rest of society like the cautious and worrisome parts of you desire, you instead come to a compromise; you become part of the support hero programme. The following months pass peacefully, and you spend the hours you're not inside a classroom, working away at the various projects you have lying around in your U.A. provided workshop.

No one crosses your line, and you don't pass over your fictitious border. You're known by your peers as sweet and polite but strangely reserved—just as you like it.

When the temperature starts to dip below zero degrees, and the wind begins to nip at your cheeks, you can't help but feel miffed. You dislike feeling cold; the gelid air stiffens your fingers and disrupts your workflow, while also reminding you too much of the cold clench of destitute loneliness that you were much too familiar with.

You long for warmth again.

 ---

Bakugou Katsuki fucking hates winter.

The freezing air fucks with his heat-dependent quirk, and now he needs to make changes to his hero costume. After he spent all that time before he had started at U.A. designing it, he now had to have someone come in and mess with it. In the event that they screw with his suit and make him look ridiculous, he'd have to kick that moron's ass, which he didn't have the time to be doing. And on top of it all, he was lost.

"Shit!" He crumpled the small piece of paper in his fist. His dumb-ass teacher didn't give him any directions, and this dumb-ass school was unnecessarily large, and it all felt like a giant waste of time.

Still fuming, he unclenched his fist and rolled out the now wrinkled Post-it. Bakugou roamed the halls like a fiery, human-sized ball of rage for another 10 minutes, in search of the workshop belonging to the damn nerd that was supposed to screw with his costume. Upon finally spotting the door placard that held the same combinations of numbers and letters to the ones on his sticky note, he stomped over to it. With all the pent up frustrations he had acquired on the journey here, he threw open the overly large door.

"Why the fuck is this place so damn hard to find!?"

The once still and serene aura of your peaceful shop came to a screeching halt as the door to the room was slammed open, coming to a frighteningly loud crash against its side jam, followed by a spine-chilling howl of expletives. In your fright, you dropped the wrench you had been working with, and it clattered to the ground in a loud clang that reverberated around the room. Quickly moving to face the angry intruder, your gaze fell onto that of fuming, ruby-red eyes, and the world around you came to a screeching halt.

Time had ceased to exist, and the air became still. It was now quiet—eerily quiet. Everything becomes a little hazier, a little gentler, a little warmer all at once. Before you stood a boy who, past all the anger and frustration etched onto his features, was very handsome. His eyes a reddish colour that you had never really seen before, but quickly grew to admire; his nose so cutely pointed upwards, and soft cherub cheeks that were a direct juxtaposition of the rest of his body, which was large and robust.

Far away in a direction you know not of, there is this incessant chiming—they're bells! You assume that he's hearing them, too, and you don't fail to notice all the irritation and tension rapidly fall from his face and body, and all you're left with is a tenderness in his eyes and the tiny, soft curve of his lips into a smile that was so small, you would have missed it if you had not been looking so intently at every part of him. It makes your heart twist and jump in a wild and brazen fashion, and you feel your breath quickly leaving your body. It dawns upon you that he must be noticing several things about you as well, and that doesn't fail to fill you up to the brim with a warm, tingling sensation.

In the corner of your eyes, you notice black ink start to crawl up your skin, settling into a simple image that sits just nicely into the juncture of your right wrist and forearm. You see him looking at his own right arm, presumably left with a mark identical to your own, and that's when you fully comprehend the circumstances of the situation. Time races to catch back up with the two of you again, and suddenly the air around you retakes its natural chilly temperature.

"You..," he lifts a finger in your direction, looking as stunned and bewildered as you currently felt, "you're my soulmate!"

All too quickly, something heavy and uncomfortable settles in the pit of your stomach at his words. You realize that the precious line you'd drawn in the sand is currently being trampled all over by this boy, and you'd only just met. Your throat feels dry, and already you feel way too exposed.

"...I can't," you just managed to croak out beneath your breath. By the confusion present on his face, you're not sure whether he had or hadn't heard you.

Hurriedly standing from your seat, you find your voice once again, and it comes out much stronger this time, "I can't do this right now!"

As you move towards him, arms outstretched to push him out, you can see his puzzlement increase tenfold. Once your hands land on his chest, he seems to regain some control of his voice.

"The fuck are trying to do right now? What the hell do you mean, 'You can't'!?" Before he realizes it, you've pushed him all the way out back into the hallway. Taking hold of the door, you move to begin sliding it close; you're halfway there before he reaches out and grabs a hold of the door as well, effectively preventing you from locking him out.

"Oi! I didn't come all the way here just to fuck around!" He raises his other hand, and in it, there's a creased, little piece of paper sitting in between his fingers. Glancing from it to his face, there's a mix of emotions all fighting inside him and causing turmoil that you can very clearly hear in his voice and see on his face, but the heavy pit in your stomach prevents you from genuinely caring that you've caused such an ordeal within him in only a matter of minutes. You just want him to be as far away from you as possible.

Without another word, you grab the paper from his fingers and yank the door shut, locking it before he can even blink.

You aren't sure whether he's left or not, but once the door closes and silence fills the space again, you feel yourself begin to fill with air, and you're grateful for it, after spending the last few minutes drowning in all that he is. 

You're palms feel hot. There's a searing sensation in them, most likely as a result of having him under your hands. It hurts. You've never felt this susceptible to someone else's gaze or their touch, and it makes you want to run away and bring them as close as possible, all at the same time. It's a dizzying dichotomy of emotions that makes you feel sick.

You have a soulmate.

What was once a tranquil and boring life is now being thoroughly shaken up, and in your mind's eye, you can no longer find your line, and it scares the shit out of you.

  ---

Being in two completely different departments of study makes it much easier to avoid this Bakugou Katsuki. Unfortunately, you aren't able to transfer his request to someone else to handle, so at some point, you'd have to see him again. You aren't sure if the emotions that slap you across the face whenever you think of meeting with your soulmate again are bitter or benevolent ones. 

Two weeks pass of you avoiding Bakugou like the plague. Throughout that time, however, not once does he leave your thoughts. In the mornings when you awaken, and you find that dawn has arrived and is slowly painting the world into a beautiful coalesce of the vibrant hues of night and day, you find yourself wanting to share the sight with him. You wonder if he'd find the view before your eyes as enrapturing as you do. When you're sitting inside your workshop, and you spot the gentle descent of little, white snowflakes falling obliquely onto the ground, blanketing the city of Musutafu in several layers of the soft, puffy substance, you wonder if he's watching the snowfall, too. You wonder if he prefers to go outside and trample over fresh, untouched patches of snow, or if he prefers to stay inside huddling beneath several layers of duvets. You wonder all these things and wish to know the answers to them and so many other things. You wish to unravel him from inside and out until you are properly acquainted with every little habit and idiosyncrasy he possesses, but the thought of having to reciprocate—to leaving yourself vulnerable to any other person leaves you with a series of harrowing emotions.

And so, you avoid him.

Bakugou, on the other hand, had just about fucking had it.

Every second he had outside of his classes and training was spent trying to hunt you down. However, you seemed to just disappear into thin air. 

He knew you were avoiding him and the thought genuinely hurt him. He found himself saying pitiful shit in his head that he otherwise wouldn't have dared to utter. He found himself becoming insecure, much to his chagrin, and he could count the number of times he felt this way on only one of his hands.

To make matters worse, he couldn't find it within himself to hate you, despite you pushing him away. In the stolen pockets of time between all the commotion of his current daily life, you continue to consume his thoughts. He thinks of delicate, velvet-looking texture of your hair that finds he just wants to bury his face into; he thinks of those patient and fond eyes of yours, and how he could spend all day looking into them; he thinks of the supple, pliable skin of your cheeks, and how he longs to feel them beneath his own hands; he thinks of peachy scent of the entire room, and how that was most likely as a result of your perfume or your conditioner—he's not sure which, but he dearly wishes to discover the answer for himself.

Much too soon for Bakugou's liking, he remembers the cute expressions that were present on your face during your first encounter being wiped away and replaced with the anxiety and fear that his very presence seemed to bring. Then, there is a door in his face. 

This is when the pathetic, unconfident thoughts come running back to plague him once again. The cycle repeats itself like this for the duration of you avoiding him, and Bakugou was truly at his wit's end. Screw you pushing him away and screw you avoiding him. He was going to speak to you again, and this time you weren't going to push him away—he'd make sure of it.

After great tribulations, Bakugou was able to get his hands on the class 1F schedule—your schedule. You have a free work period at the same time he's supposed to be getting English lessons from that loud-mouth hero. Bakugou knows he'll get shit for it, but this was his only opportunity. When the time comes, he swiftly makes his escape, and heads in the same direction he did on that fated day two, weeks ago. 

This time, he opens the door gently, and he's once again hit with the dewy scent of peaches that he now so adores. Before him, you work quietly and diligently on a project with nimble fingers that he wants to feel between his own. Your back is to him, and he takes the opportunity to admire you more. 

You sit purposefully and tall—you don't slouch; your uniform fits to you perfectly, as if it was made solely for you, and you alone; through the window, he can see the muted grey skies continuously heave crystalline flakes of snow, and it paints a sublimely backdrop for you—it's as if it was made to fall just for this reason. 

In your peripheral vision, you see a figure standing in your doorway, and you turn your head to face it. Upon seeing your eyes widen in shock, Bakugou hastily steps into the room and locks the door behind him, and he's once again reminded of why he came here in the first place.

With an accusing finger stretched in your direction, he stomps over to you.

"Listen here, you little shit," once within close proximity of you, he leans down so that his eyes are level with your own, "the fuck are you trying to pull, avoiding me and shit like I killed your fucking dog!?"

Upon spotting the fright present in your eyes again, he leans back into a standing position. He continues with a softer, albeit still aggressive, tone. 

"We're soulmates for fuck sake. Why don't you care?" he finishes.

Feeling already so vulnerable under his gaze, you cast your eyes downward, and find yourself at a loss for words for a few moments; you strangely find yourself in appreciation that he waits patiently for you to find your voice again.

"I do care! I just—" you start, and it takes you another beat of time to begin again, "I—I just... I don't think I'm..." you have a sigh, and drop your shoulders. "I just don't want to be in a relationship with anyone." It's the simplest explanation you can give him while still protecting yourself. 

"What'd you expect me to do, fucking marry you on the spot?"

You choke at this, and had the circumstances been a bit different, you probably would have laughed up a storm. It's silent for a few more moments, and Bakugou quickly finds himself growing desperate. 

"...They're not always couples, you know?" He croaks out, uncharacteristically gentle. 

"Huh?" You look back up at him, confused.

He's quickly irritated again. "I'm saying that soulmates aren't always fucking couples, you moron," he begins, "they're business partners and... fuck, whatever else there is! They're friends, sometimes, you know!"

You look up at him at this, and Bakugou quickly feels meek under your gaze, which shocks him down to his core.

"We can be friends..." he quietly finishes.

The room becomes still around the two of you again, and it's at this moment that the two of you realize the closeness of your bodies. You both find yourselves blushing fervently at the close propinquity, the sudden intimacy making your hearts do wild, erratic movements within your chests. You find yourself desiring to reach out and grab hold of his hands in your own just so that you may feel a part of him—you barely manage to convince yourself to refrain from doing so.

"Friends," you call out softly. Bakugou finds his head spinning at the sound of your voice, and he realizes that he wants to spend all day listening to you speak—even about annoying, idiotic shit that Bakugou would otherwise want to rip his ears off if he ever heard it. From you, he knows that it wouldn't be so vexatious.

"Yeah, just friends." 

You can't control it when the corners of your mouth start to curl up into a soft smile. 

"Okay."

Bakugou finds himself reluctant to part with the current moment. He twists his head side to side in search of a stool like the one you're currently occupying. Once he finds it, he hurriedly pulls it right up next to your own. When he sits, his thigh and shoulder are flush with your own—much closer than any pair of friends would sit, but neither of you can find it within yourself to care.

He picks up the material on your desk, "Tell me about this shit," he says gently—Bakugou notices that your presence makes him gentle and he's not sure yet how to feel about it.

Your smile grows, "It's yours, actually! I started working on it a couple days ago."

He takes the time to really eye the suit in front of him. He analyzes the new details of his costume, noting what's stayed the same and what's changed.

"...Not bad," he smirks at the giddy gleam that appears in your eyes at his approval. 

"By the way," you begin after a few moments, "have you chosen a hero name yet?"

"That shitty hag won't approve of anything I come up with," he turns his nose up in irritation.

"...What about something like 'Ground Zero'?"

He thinks for a moment, "...Sounds dumb."

You laugh wholeheartedly at this, and Bakugou finds that he feels proud of himself for finally being the cause of your joy.

"Okay," you breathe out once you finish your little fit, "I'll keep thinking then."

---

You and Katsuki spend a lot of time in your workshop after reconciling.

You adapt to him quickly, and he accepts you unconditionally. It's like he was always meant to be there and you eventually suppose that it's because you're soulmates. Katsuki is patient when it seems like you've lost your voice, and he lets you change topics as you please whenever you're beginning to feel uncomfortable. You know that Katsuki's sharp, and you presume that he's figured out that you find it distressing to discuss certain aspects about yourself. You're grateful for the subtle measures he's taken to make sure you feel relaxed around him, but you'll never thank him out loud, knowing he'd just deny it like the stubborn boy that he is.

Now, it's gotten much harder to get him off your mind in the moments in which he isn't by your side. It's hard to forget the many stolen glances and brushed fingers and the barely-there space between your bodies when you sit next to each other that never fails to make your heart race. It's also much more challenging to keep your mind from wondering about the things that make up who he is. Now that you have the answers to all those burning questions from the time you were apart, you have a million more questions that need answers. It's one of those very burning questions that bring you to your current conversation, held in the cozy confines of your workshop.

"Take me with you then!"

He deadpans, "Hah?"

"Take me on one of your hiking trips then! I wanna know what you like about 'em so much!" You say with a childish gleam about you.

"If I take you with me during this time of year, you'd probably end up killing yourself or some dumb shit like that." Just as quick as it came, your frivolous glow vanishes.

"Oi, quit fucking pouting, you brat!" He chastises at the sight of your indignant expression. "I'll take you when it starts to warm up, I promise."

A smile finds its way onto your face at the future prospect.

Since it's a Friday evening, the two of you take advantage and hang out for a few more hours than usual. Once the outside world begins to darken, however, he insists on you both getting back to your dorms. The walk back to your respective places was filled with a tranquil quiet; the only sound to be heard was the noisy crush of snow beneath your shoes and the heavy huffs of hot air escaping your mouth. Katsuki walked with his shoulder touching yours, and you welcomed the extra warmth. He leaves you at your door with teasing ruffle of your hair, and you bid him goodnight.

Unlike most other instances, you don't fall asleep immediately that night—your thoughts seem to keep you awake, and of course, they're about your soulmate. You think about how many of the little things you've noticed from the amount of time that you and Katsuki spend attached at the hip. You think of his hair and the unexpected softness to it, despite the unkempt look of it; you think of his eyes and the subtle hint of orange in them, a colour which you purposefully added to his suit so that the two now match; you think of the pliable skin of his hands and the way they leave static against your own when the brush against each other.

As if on cue, your phone vibrates with a message from the very same boy who was currently darting from corner to corner of your mind.

Are you awake?

You respond quickly. Yeah what's up

Meet me at the front gates at 18:00 tomorrow. Wear gloves.

Your heart starts to race a little bit like it always does whenever Katsuki is involved. Part of you wants to question what he has planned, but the other part wants to leave it a surprise. You struggle back and forth for a bit, before ultimately coming to a decision.

Ok I'll be there

It takes a few minutes before your phone goes off again.

And why tf are you still awake moron? Go to bed.

You chortle as you text him goodnight as well. With the excitement of what was to come tomorrow evening, you find yourself almost counting the minutes until the next day.

 ---

Your classmates don't pay you too much mind as you spend the majority of the day scuttling around the dormitory.

Once morning came, it finally dawned upon you that this would be the first time that Katsuki would see you outside of school, as well as in casual clothes. To add on to your stress, you also had no idea about where you were going, and when you had asked him out of desperation, he'd stubbornly refused to tell you in typical Katsuki fashion. 

Fortunately, however, as the clock began to tick closer to your arranged meeting time, everything started to fall into place for you. Your hair seemed to finally stop battling against you, resting just as you wanted it to atop your head. As if a divine light had pointed them out to you, several articles of clothing, among the heaps scattered across the room, seemed to catch your eye and you were able to come up with the perfect outfit—you'd also been able to borrow a lovely pair of matching gloves from the girl in dorm adjacent to yours. You ignored the knowing look she gave you with surprising ease.

With only a few minutes to spare, you scampered out the front door, waving goodbye to a few of the peers that you passed on the way there. The walk to the front gates with quiet and you'd almost slipped twice in your hasty excitement. The sun was already well on its way to falling below the skyline, and you wondered where it was that you'd be going so late at night.

You quickly turn on your heals as soon as you hear the familiar crunch of snow from behind you.

Katsuki was dressed in a dark-red cable knit sweater, and over top of it was a grey winter coat and dark-grey jeans to match. It would seem that despite the usual ragged appearance of his school uniform, Bakugou Katsuki did, in fact, know how to dress up nicely.

"Oi! Quit staring already, and let's go," he huffed out once he was a few feet away from you.

"Don't think I didn't see you doing the same thing, Katsuki-kun," you bumped his shoulder with yours, teasingly. When he didn't try to deny it, you quickly found your teasing remarks backfiring against you, and you felt your face begin to heat up. 

The two of you fall into step with ease as you both walk toward the train station, and the conversation flows smoothly, as it always does between the two of you. At some point during the journey, you noticed that your hand had found itself intertwined with his own—you only wish you'd been able to remove the cloth preventing you from feeling the warmth of his skin directly against your own.

Upon exiting the train station, you were able to take a look at the scene around you. You never really got out much—having found no reason to do so throughout your life—so it took you by great surprise at buzzing city life around you, despite the sun having disappeared quite some time ago. The streets were just as packed as they were during the day, and the fluorescent neon signs across every building made everything look several times busier. Katsuki didn't miss the flustered expression on your face and gripped your hand tighter as he tugged you along toward your destination.

Feeling your feet came to a stop, you snapped out of your stupor and gazed at the sight that lay ahead of you. Before you stood a park that was just as busy as the roads behind you. There were lights strung up around several trees that surrounded a large rink.  People were gliding about on top of the icy surface. 

You tugged excitedly at the hand currently laced in your own, "Katsuki-kun, I didn't know you liked to go ice skating!"

Without glancing at you, he pulled you off in the direction of a booth where a middle-aged woman was renting out skates, "I don't, but you wouldn't shut up about me taking you hiking, so I figured this might be better, considering you have the endurance of a fucking child."

"What'd you just say about—" Katsuki ignored you entirely as he began ordering a pair of skates for you both.

He turned back to you, "Hurry up and tell her your shoe size, you brat."

You huffed as you gave the lady your information, not sparing a glare at Katsuki as you passed him to sit on a nearby bench. Once your skates were laced up, you quickly pouted at your current predicament. 

"...Katsuki-kun," you began in a low, childish tone, and he turned to look at you from where he stood, waiting for you, "I need you to help me walk."

He moved to rest his hands against the barrier behind him, and you watched his shoulders begin to shake.

"Quit laughing at me! I'm helpless here!" He began to snort as he snickered noisily and eventually you started to laugh with him. When Katsuki turned back to face you once again, his cheeks were pink, looking thoroughly amused.

After pulling you up onto your feet, he got behind you so that your back was touching his chest. He held your arms in his own, taking most of your weight off of your feet. With Katsuki's help, you were able to waddle your way over to the rink.

He was still profoundly amused as he watched you awkwardly glide across the ice, holding his hand in a vice grip. Eventually, when you proceeded to start getting the hang of it after some time, you were able to stand up much straighter and bring your legs together.

You looked over at Katsuki with eager eyes, "Let's go faster, yeah?"

"When you fall flat on your ass, I'll be too busy laughing to help you up," he was already chuckling lightly, imagining the scene in his head.

"Oh, whatever," you let his jab fly right over your head, too caught up in your quest to start gaining speed.

Without fail, you did end up falling flat on your ass.  However, you managed to take him down with you.

Resting your head against the ice at your back, you began to laugh hard at your fumble. Above you, Katsuki was resting on his elbows on either side of your head, also laughing his heart out, and you realize that this is the first time you've ever heard it—not the usual airy snickers, but a deep, belly laugh. You felt yourself swell with joy.

Once the two of you regained your breath, Katsuki got up first, then proceeded to help you to your feet.

"Take it easy this time," he said, face flush with amusement.

The two of you continued to languidly do laps around the rink for a little while more. When the light snowfall around you began to increase in intensity, you both called it a night. After giving your skates back to the woman who had given them to you—she was smiling merrily while she told you that you and Katsuki reminded her of her daughter and her newlywed husband, which didn't fail to send both of you into a fervent blush—Katsuki began to walk back in the direction of the train station. He stopped when he felt you start to tug on his arm, and you pointed at a café that had caught your eye.

"Thank you for bringing me here today, Katsuki-kun," after receiving the drinks you ordered, you both shed your coats and sat next to each other on a couch in the corner of the dimly-lit room. He only nodded, and in the corner of your eye, you could see the corners of his lips tugging up into a small, bashful smile.

Even after cups of hot chocolate had long since been finished, you and Katsuki sat together in the café, a cozy silence encompassing you two. It was only when you noticed the streets outside began to empty that you suggested that you both start hurrying home.

After the day's excitement began to come to a close on the train ride back to U.A., you felt yourself slowly losing your focus. In your exhaustion, you didn't think twice about letting your head rest against Katsuki's shoulder.

The rest of the walk back to your dorms is already hazy, and you're sure you won't remember it the next morning. He walks you right up to your door, and you hesitate before heading inside.

He looks to you, confused, "What is it?"

"...I had a lot of fun tonight."

He reaches up to pat your head, "Me too," he reaches over to the doorknob and opens it up for you, "Now, go inside before you drop dead out here."

You chuckle softly, "Goodnight, Katsuki-kun."

"Night."

---

The rest of the second term finishes up faster than you expect, and it takes you a minute to wrap your head around the situation. It's only when you're gazing at the backs of your classmates exiting your shared dormitory with suitcases in tow that you recognize that your winter break is officially upon you. You also realize that you are, too, are leaving to visit home, and so was Katsuki—you won't be able to see each other for the next several days, and you're not sure what to make of the funny feeling that settles in the bottom of your stomach at the thought.

The overly-large front entrance to the building comes to a close with a massive bang, the sound echoing—the last of your classmates had left, and you still had yet to pack. The room is suddenly several times bigger, and the air several times colder. Heaving a sigh, you tuck your arms into your body and turn on your heels, heading back to your room.

The air in your dorm-room is just as cold, and so is the air of the outside world. The air in the train station is cold and so is the air in your house once you finally arrive. You're freezing all over again, and you can't seem to figure out how to fix it.

You long for your warmth again, though you don't have a clue as to how you found it in the first place or where it went.

 ---

Almost uncontrollably so, your heart starts to pick up, the incessant pounding rises to a loud crescendo in your ears, and you hold tighter to the small, decorated box sitting inside your palms. There's a familiar prickly feeling in your cheeks, resulting from the flush of your skin and the frigid winter atmosphere fighting against each other. You're nervous.

After knocking firmly on the door of the house standing before you, the quiet anticipation of who would answer makes you stress. It seems like centuries before the door swings open and the boy you've been waiting to see stands before you.

Unabashedly, you smile as wide as your face permits, "It's been a while, Katsuki-kun! Happy New Year!" All too quickly, he finds himself with a rosy glow about his face and turns his head in an attempt to hide it.

"It's not New Years yet, idiot," he reaches out to grab your arm, "come inside before you get sick."

Despite Katsuki quickly dragging you up the stairs and away to some corner of the house, you managed to take a look at your surroundings—his home is very urban and modern with a stylish open concept. Off in some other part of the house, you can hear excited, hushed whispers, presumably from his parents.

Katsuki opens a door and ushers you in first. On one side of the room, there's a hardwood desk with several stacked books and a laptop resting on it. On the other side of the room, there's a bed, properly made, and next to it, a large window looking out onto the horizon. In the middle of the room, there's a low floor table and beneath it, a soft-looking rug. Katsuki walks past you during your inspection of his bedroom to take a seat at the table. You follow suit and take place adjacent to him. 

"Sorry we couldn't meet up until now. Got sorta busy," he raises his arm to rub at the nape of his neck, his expression remorseful. 

You shake your head, "We'll be able to spend the last day of the year together," you offer, "so, it's not all bad. Besides, I'm sure your family wanted to spend some time with you, all things considered. They've probably missed you."

"What about you? You seem like the type to have a huge, noisy family."

"Nope," your smile falters, "Just me and my aunt."

He hesitates before he speaks again, his words cautious, "...What happened to them?" He doesn't have to say it for you to know that he's referring to your parents. There's a long pause that follows, and all that happy gleam about you was slowly, but surely, dissipating. 

"...They died when I was younger," there's a part of you that feels like you're sharing too much—a part that feels like you're leaving open wounds to be laid bare and exposed—the other part of you, most likely the part of you with ink covering itself, wants only to hold faith in Katsuki and trust him with this part of your past, "...they were heroes, and they were murdered by villains."

The eerie quiet that follows does nothing to settle the pit growing in Katsuki's abdomen. He can see a cloud of melancholy fall over your shoulders, and he's woefully unsure of how to get it to disappear. Everything he can think of saying doesn't sound quite right. 

Knowing that nothing he can ever say would help you, Katsuki sits up onto his knees and leans over to you. His arms fall tightly around your body, holding you securely in his embrace. No other words are exchanged for the next several moments. 

The inside of your entire body fills to the brim with butterflies. Their large, downy wings brushing up against every corner of your body, leaving a cozy, soft warmth that tingles on your skin. The areas where Katsuki's body meets your own feel exceptionally warm—almost hot. You unconsciously press yourself against him. You revel in his embrace for a while more.

You find that no words will leave your lips, so you lock your gaze with his instead, hoping that he can see the gratitude through the window of your eyes.  He nods while slowly unwrapping his arms from around you.

He moves onto his feet and walks over to his bed, kneeling beside it and pulling something out from beneath it. You watch as Katsuki's arms tense when he picks up the object. When he turns to face you, you see that it's a box wrapped in brown wrapping paper with twine tied around it. Katsuki carries the box over to where you're sitting and gently places it in front of you.

You stare at him curiously as he moves to sit back in his previous spot, "What's this?"

"I meant to give it to you on Christmas, but I couldn't get away," he looks away from you, "open it."

A childish glow settles over you as you carefully unwrap his gift. Upon laying your eyes on the contents of his gift, you gasp.

"Katsuki-kun, this is—" you're eyes are almost sparkling, and your voice shakes in awe, however, you can't seem to finish your sentence in your stupor. 

He smirks at your palpable joy from his gift, "It's all you support course kids talk about these days, anyway. You're all like broken records." Katsuki had gotten you the newest, high-end toolset designed by an upcoming support hero, and was supposed to be quintessential to any aspiring support course student. 

Unsurprisingly, you and all your peers were frothing at the mouths to get it; unfortunately, it sold out almost as soon as it hit the shelves. You'd moped around for several days about it, pissing Katsuki off to no end with your miserable attitude. 

"How were you even able to get it!?"

"Don't worry about it," he dodged. You laughed and held the box tightly in your hands.

"I love it, Katsuki-kun! Here," you move to pick up the small box you'd placed on the ground earlier, placing it on the table in front of him, "open yours."

Having not expected you to get him a gift, he lifts open the top of the box with a rosy patch of pink across his cheeks. Inside was a silver, titanium band with a small, reddish gem that matched the colour of his hero costume. You watch as he picks it up and holds it between his fingers, inspecting it.

"I made it myself," you explain, "I remember you talking about how your arms start to hurt once you start reaching the upper limits of your quirk. The science behind it is pretty complex, but basically, it should help ease some of your pain."

You grab the ring from his fingers and take his hand into your own. "You wear it like this," carefully, you slide the piece of jewelry onto his thumb. The colour of his cheeks deepens to a shade of crimson, and he turns his head away from you.

"..Thanks."

Before you can start talking his ear off about the ingeniousness of that ring of his and all the intricacies of it, the door to his room bursts open and standing in the doorway is a female carbon copy of the boy seated next to you.

"Oi, Katsuki! How long do you plan on trapping this poor girl in your room, you moron!?"

"I ain't trapping anyone, you old hag!"

"You really plan on using that foul mouth of yours like that in front of your girlfriend?" Instantly, like a muzzle had been placed on Katsuki, he pipes down. His aggression is still easily apparent, however.

"I-I'm just a friend," you say, extremely rattled by the mirror image of Katsuki standing before you—personality-wise and physically. The woman's temper does a complete one-eighty, and she's adorning one of the sweetest smiles you've ever seen. 

"Oh, I know my son's attitude is unbearable, but there's no need to be ashamed of him," she jokes.

Katsuki scowls, "Would you shut the hell up!?"

Katsuki's mother chuckles, pleased at so easily being able to get under his skin with her teasing. "Just make sure to take her downstairs at some point so she can have some of the food you spent all afternoon locking everyone out of the kitchen to make."

"Yeah, yeah, I got it!" He shoos her away, only relaxing when the door finally closes behind her.

"Katsuki-kun, you cooked for me?" you ask with a satirical lilt in your voice.

He blushes again, embarrassed, "How many seconds exactly did it take for the old hag to rub off on you!?" 

You laugh as you grab his arm and stand, pulling Katsuki up with you and drag him towards the door. 

"Let's go eat!"

As Katsuki works at plating all the dishes at the table, you take the time to properly introduce yourself to both of his parents, Mitsuki and Masaru. When Mitsuki proceeds to start teasing you for dating her son again, you lightly remind her that you two are indeed just friends—you can tell she doesn't believe a word you're saying, but at least she seemed to relent a bit.

Throughout dinner, you can't help but notice the startling similarities of everyone at the table, including yourself. On one side, Katsuki and Mitsuki sit next to each other, continually grating on each other. On the other side of the table, you and Masaru are seated beside each other, softly smiling at the antics of the two people before you.

"Why don't you two head down to the shrine a couple blocks from here," Mitsuki suggests once dinner finishes and she spots the time—it's half-past ten, "you can count down the new year together! And since it'd be pretty late by the time you both make it back, you can just stay over."

When Katsuki doesn't say anything, you can tell that he's leaving it up to you. "I'd have to call my aunt first, but I think it should be okay!"

You're excited at the prospect of being able to visit the festival with Katsuki. You hurry to call your aunt and beg her to give the go-ahead, which doesn't take long to get.

By the time you finish washing the dishes with Katsuki, and you've bid his parents adieu, it's only a few minutes past eleven when you make it out of the house. The streetlamps of the neighbourhood are incandescence, shining down onto the throngs of people also headed towards the shrine to see out the year. It almost feels entirely too natural when your hand finds itself latched onto his own. This time, you can feel the warmth of his palm directly up against your own—you also feel the cool, metallic band nestled around his thumb. You can't help the tender smile that makes its way onto your lips as you walk.

 ---

Midnight had come around faster than you expected—having been too wrapped up in the many stalls selling various items, you hadn't kept track of time. Instead of letting you try and find your way home, Katsuki took you back to his home.

Stepping through the familiar entrance, you noticed that all the lights were out, and the house was quiet—most likely, Mitsuki and Masaru had already head off to sleep. You and Katsuki tread carefully up the stairs and through the hallway towards his bedroom. You walk over to his bed and fall ungracefully on top of it, heaving a heavy sigh.

"I'm exhausted," you drawl out, and lift your head so you can see Katsuki and smile merrily at him, "but I had tons of fun today."

He doesn't respond and only continues to shuffle around the room, pulling out an extra set of bedding from the closet, placing it on the floor near the bed. He settles into it as you do the same.

Despite your weariness, you don't fall asleep as soon as you would have liked. The steady breathing and light snores of the boy adjacent to you indicate that Katsuki had long since nodded off. The otherwise noiseless room and your inability to rest allows you to think, and you question yourself—could it be possible that the people around you were right that you and Katsuki bore a relationship akin to that of couples? You've never been in love, so what really was love to you? Were the dizzying touches and held gazes that made your heart clench love? Were the onerous and all-consuming jovial emotions he made you feel love? How does any one person put a label on love?

You realize that Katsuki has all this time been treading on eggshells around you to prevent you from talking about anything that would remind you of your past—he must have thought he'd stepped on a landmine earlier.

If you truly were in love with Katsuki, would you be willing to bare your soul to him and entrust him with your heart that's been scarred by the people you had loved most—to trust him not to toss it out into the piercing, bitter air where it will only wilt away in the presence of none.

These very questions leave you with a sour taste in your mouth and a chill that nips away at your fingertips.

---

Katsuki had once walked around with an aura about him that screamed he was self-centred and uncaring of the people around him. That all washed away once he'd met his other half.

To Katsuki, spending time with you was like lounging around inside a hazy, little velvet cloud of tender intimacy, and when you both part ways for the day, Katsuki falls right back down to earth—except this time, the world isn't so full of troublesome woes and irritations that would normally leave him surly. His classmates have, no doubt, caught on to this new Bakugou Katsuki that was a little less dyspeptic.

Katsuki is head-strong and resolute in his actions—he paves his own way, and all that others say be damned—so after wrestling with his emotions a bit and coming to terms that he's gone completely soft, he doesn't give it a second thought when he concludes that he's in love with his soulmate. It had only been a few months since the two of you had met, but soulmates always did move faster than others.

A revelation like this would have any average person on cloud nine; however, Katsuki is far from it. There is, instead, a dark, ominous cloud hovering over his shoulders. He is wholly aware that you may not be ready to be truly loved by him just yet. With how your first encounter went, how you always seem to be tiptoeing around him when it came to certain subjects, and whatever had transpired on New Year's Eve, Katsuki can deduce that there are shackles around your heart and that they may have something to do with your parents. He knows that they won't just disappear, but he at least hoped that you would trust him enough to share your pain with him, to let him help ease even just a bit of your burden—to talk to him.

Katsuki had thought that you had maybe might have made some progress towards that reliance on him. However, it doesn't take Katsuki long to realize that you've resided back into that familiar shell he'd found you in only a few months prior—you've been faraway and curt with him for weeks now.  You'd taken five steps backwards, and now you are distant, closed off and hard to reach again. ---

In typical fashion for U.A., there was a villain attack on the students of class 1-A. The details regarding the incidence are mostly unclear to the general populous. Of the little information released, you and many others across Japan knew that there was an attack and that a particular student was at the center of it—Bakugou Katsuki, the winner of the prestigious U.A. Sports Festival. Even if no one had been severely hurt, the information left you in dizzying disarray.

For a moment, when the news first struck, you were left crippled with fear and the once deeply buried anguish wrapped its bitter fingers around your throat. Even after the events of the attack were well over with and you knew Katsuki was okay, you still found it difficult to get a breath of air that doesn't burn away at your windpipe, leaving it raw.

Katsuki would vehemently tell you that he was completely fine, and maybe he truly was, but that did nothing to dissuade your thoughts—heroes die, and they leave behind the people that love them most.

You're well aware of the fact that you and your emotions are the two utmost divergent pairs to walk the earth. You had long ago once accepted this incompatibility. The problem arises when Katsuki comes into the frame; you wish so dearly to entrust these fickle feelings unto him and let him help guide you through them—you can tell that he wants to, as well. Yet, the thought of what you stand to lose once you bring him close to your heart dredges up memories and emotions that you'd worked so diligently to force into the farthest reaches of your soul.

Despite all this, you still find yourself longing to lose yourself in him and the comfort he's given you—to meander aimlessly through the warmth and blissful ignorance.

It's when you receive an invitation from Katsuki to visit the winter illuminations and you find yourself agreeing, despite having given him radio silence since New Years, that you realize that you haven't the slightest clue about what exactly you're doing with Katsuki—it almost feels as though you're using him, seeing as you can't find it in yourself to bring him in as close as you know you both want and deserve.

When the night of the date in question comes about, there's a tense quiet that neither of you can seem to shake—you know you're the cause of it.

The sky is flushed with deep indigo-violet hues as you exit the station in Shinjuku, and the illuminations are only a few steps away. Once the area around you starts to become littered with warm, various coloured fairy lights, you seem to forget your troubles just a bit.

"Y'know, I don't think I've ever actually seen this stuff in real life either," you smile gently at Katsuki, "looks like you're showing me new things again."

You're not sure if he's been able to don the same faux blithe attitude as you have, but when he tightly grasps your hand in his own, you know he's at least willing to try.

Katsuki smirks lightly, "I'm pretty sure I just destroyed the last hermit on earth."

You giggle softly as he begins to pull you along the glowy, pink path that many other couples are currently treading. The hazy air of the luminous park is idyllic and intimate, and you're able to stroll aimlessly through the many attractions scattered throughout the neighbourhood with easy conversation flowing between you—it's slightly terse, unspoken feelings trying its best to pierce the atmosphere. You are able to suppress them for the most of the duration of your amble around the district.

When you're legs begin to tire, you pull Katsuki over to an empty park bench that's unexpectedly warm beneath you, though the untouched parts of the bench are covered by frost. As you rest your head against Katsuki's shoulder, and you feel that he rests his head against your own, there are no words exchanged as you sit in silence together.

Once Katsuki's body slowly begins to tense, you know that he's getting anxious about something.

"What's wrong?" You quietly mutter out, not moving from your current position.

He doesn't speak right away, and you can tell that the oblivious serenity of the night is quickly dissipating.

"What aren't you telling me?"

"...I don't know what you mean," you feign ignorance. Unlike every other instance in your relationship, Katsuki isn't so quick to drop the conversation or pretend he's convinced. He sits up straight, jostling you off of him in the process.

"I don't buy that shit, and I don't wanna hear another one of your fucking excuses," his voice shakes slightly, "I wanna know what it is that you're hiding from me and why you've been so fucking weird with me for half the month."

His frank demands leave you rigid and at a loss for words as the emotions you'd been trying hard to hide away all evening are making their way back up. Katsuki waits several moments for a response, and when he receives none, he stands from the bench, dropping your hand from his own.

"Forget I asked," he sighs out, "let's just go home." He doesn't wait for you as he begins to walk toward the train station.

There's an unfamiliar and unpleasant space between you the entire way back. You wish dearly to reach out and hold tightly to him as you explain all your woes, but you have no idea how.

---

At every occurrence prior to now, Katsuki had confronted you. He had always been the one to try and prompt you to bare some of your sullen secrets. At every occurrence prior to now, the words die away on your lips, nowhere to be found.

When you awaken the day after your melancholic walk in the park, it's well into the afternoon, yet the sky is gray and dark; you rise to your feet with unexpected vigour, anyway.

If you approach Katsuki on your own terms to tell him what he wants to hear, you suspect that you won't be afraid anymore, right? The idea fills you with a sense of encouragement to make things right.

You patter around your room as you rush to make yourself a bit more presentable—rubbing the sleep out of your eye, taming the tousled hair atop your head, and changing out of your sleepwear. In your haste, you absentmindedly forget to bring your coat, and it comes back to bite you only moments later.

When you step out into the unforgiving, hiemal, late January air, the snow around you falls as though the clouds had opened up right down the middle and are dropping its contents all at once—you shiver. Katsuki's dorm is a short walk away from yours, so you forego the jacket and sprint towards the dormitory that's five buildings away from your own. When you enter, your cheeks begin to burn at the sudden change in climate.

The common area ahead of you is lively with the students of class 1-A, and whatever it is that they're partaking in, Katsuki isn't there. It's enrapturing enough to keep them from noticing your presence as you slip past them toward the stairs. Your hair is damp with melted snow by the time you reach the fourth floor.

Your fist raps against Katsuki's door three times.

"Fuck off," he calls out from within his room, voice terse and muffled by the door. You knock again.

"Oi, Shitty-Hair, didn't I fucking tell you to leave me the hell—" the look of confusion on his face as he tears open the door is potent, and you know that you're the last person he's expecting to see.

"Hi..." you start, and your feet shuffle in anticipation, "I thought it would be good if we finally talked..."

Katsuki doesn't hesitate to move off to the side and usher you in. Your back is still towards him when the door shuts, and you feel a hand gently entwining itself between the clumpy strands of your wet hair.

"Did you really come all the way over here like this? The day you get me sick is the day I kick your ass, moron." There is no malice to his words, and you chortle halfheartedly.

"Sorry," you mutter.

Katsuki's fingers leave your hair, and he drags his feet along the floor as he approaches his closet. He searches for several moments, only to pull out a ribbed, white bath towel.

"Don't be sorry, just sit."

You perch yourself against the edge of his bed, and Katsuki moves to stand before you, towel poised above your head. His hands are rough as they blot and tousle your hair. As his cloth-covered fingers traverse through your hair, you begin to fill with guilt; even now, while he's still upset with you, he Katsuki still cares for you. You want to show him that you care for him, too. You want to make him feel a bit of joy before you burden him this evening.

When Katsuki begins to move the towel lower to dry the hair near the base of your neck, you peek your head from under the cloth to face him. You hold your gaze with him for a moment, and you watch as his expression softens, though his eyes are still muddled with a sadness that makes your heart twist.

You move half-minded as you grasp his shirt between your fingers and pull gently, bringing Katsuki's forehead to rest against your own. His nose brushes up against the gelid skin of your cheeks. As you lean closer, Katsuki's breath brushes over your bottom lip, and you move a hand to rest upon his face, thumb pressing softly into his cheek. You hesitantly plant a faint kiss against his lips before pulling away, the distance between you only a hairs-width. You wait nervously for a reaction from your soulmate, and you never receive one—Katsuki only moves to caress your lips with his own again.

As you hold each other in your intimate embrace, it's almost impossible to pull away. The kiss is like bittersweet dark chocolate—Katsuki's taste is the saccharin, sugary bits, and yours is the acrid cocoa parts. Heat sits high on your cheeks as the kiss descends into territory the two of you have never explored, bringing you both down with it.

In a way that's just like him, Katsuki delves your embrace into something deeper, more raw and aggressive. You're content to let him as your hand grasping his face moves to intertwine with the baby wisps of hair at the base of his neck, and the other splays against his chest. Katsuki's own hands move to place his hands firmly onto your cheeks, pulling you impossibly closer to him, dropping the now damp towel behind you in the process.

When Katsuki parts from you, he rests against your forehead again, his breath laboured and fanning across your cheeks.

"I want to be more than just a friend to you," Katsuki's voice is quiet and strained, no louder than a choked up murmur. When your body stiffens, and your hand loosens from its place in his hair, Katsuki pulls away, eyes opening to bore into your own—his cheeks are rosy and his lips swollen, but his eyes are despondent, "I've always wanted to be more to you, but you've never wanted to hear that, have you?"

Your arms drop from around him as his own do the same. Katsuki takes a step back from you, arms crossing in front of his chest. You pull at your fingers that suddenly now feel subnivean. You try your best to come up with something to say, but nothing substantial comes to you. You find yourself as at a loss for words as the day you met.

"We were only ever supposed to be friends, Katsuki-kun..."

"Bullshit," he scoffs, irritated, "I don't know shit about relationships, but I know that we're not fucking friends, and you know it, too."

When Katsuki heaves a sigh, you can tell that he's starting to give up, and a heavy pit forms in the bottom of your stomach.

"This whole time we've known each other, I've always been the only one trying for us—even when we first met. Now, all I'm asking from you is to try for me, and all you have are fucking excuses."

You know he's right and that what he's saying is fair and makes sense, but there's this irrational part of you that feels like the world is crashing down around you. You feel like you're in quicksand, and you're sinking down into the deepest parts of the earth where you won't ever be found.

"Well, what am I supposed to say, huh? All of this is terrifying, and I have no idea what to do about it!" You're angry now, and you realize that this is the first you've yelled at Katsuki—this is the first you've yelled at anyone.

"Fucking talk to me! That's all I've ever asked you to do!"

"I—" your lip begins to quiver when you find that you're in the same position that you were last night and that you still don't yet know how to overcome your cowardice, "...I can't."

"Then, get out."

Your head snaps up to meet his gaze, and you've never seen Katsuki looks so full of anguish before.

"I just want to be there for you, and no matter what I do, you never open up to me. If you can't trust me, then get out."

The room is silent for a long while, and it only adds to the hurt you feel. Maybe you're selfish for feeling like you've been betrayed but, it doesn't change the way your chest concaves and fills with dread.

You break your gaze from him as you stand, barely brushing past him. The sound the door makes as it shuts behind you serves only to further solidify the end of your relationship.

---

Somewhere, in the farthest parts of your mind, you almost wish you hadn't met Bakugou Katsuki at all.  Here he is, in all his glory, holding up a mirror to you—a mirror you had failed to hold up to yourself. In it is a scared, young child that feels completely alone. She fears her loneliness, yet desires it most. All she wants is for someone to reach out to her and hold her close as her fears dissipate into an abyss. However, she's terrified that one day that those arms will loosen and that she fall freely until she hits the ground where all her ugly emotions lay—the bottom of the abyss is cold and dark and no light shines there.

Instead of letting go of her fears and letting herself be held, all caution thrown to the wind, she learns to keep them at bay and to reject help from those around her. In her mind, she cannot be tossed into the chasm if there are no arms to carry her; in her mind, she cannot reunite with her unsightly feelings if she never lets them go.

And then, the partner to her soul waltzes in, telling her to he can help her run away from the abyss altogether if she's willing to let him; telling her that she doesn't have to tame her hideous emotions, but rather, he can help her make peace with them if she were to let him.

This scares that young child even more—it scares you even more. Bakugou Katsuki, your soulmate, wants only for you to share your burden with him, and you won't let him because you're too scared to hurt yourself even more—or worse, hurt him. Throughout the past several years, you had never learned to let someone in again without feeling like it's going to be the end of the world. You hadn't ever made peace.

That night when you arrive at your dorm room—chilled to the bone, once again—you don't attempt to sleep.  You settle down in front of your bedroom window. In its reflection, a frightened young child stares back at you for the remainder of the night. ---

The first day after your final confrontation, your general studies classes drag by boringly. You know that you should be paying attention, but instead, you stare blankly at your notebook in front of you. Your pencil is poised to make notes across your material, but it never meets the page—it hovers above the paper for the full duration of your morning classes.

When the bell rings for lunch, you shuffle slowly toward the cafeteria, and your eyes unconsciously settle onto the table you know Katsuki sits at. He sits with friends you had heard lots about, but had never met—you normally only come to buy your lunch, leaving right after to head to your workshop for the remainder of the afternoon. There's the usual irate air about him that's always present whenever he's not with you. Even now, while he's in this perpetual waspish state, Katsuki still looks beautiful to you. 

Your heart drums painfully against your ribs, and you turn on your feet, quickly making your way out of the lunch hall.

You have just enough change to buy yourself a bottle of juice from the vending machine that sits just a ways away from your workshop. After making the purchase, you quickly move to lock yourself away in the confines of the room that now holds a plethora of memories; memories of soft, hesitant touches, longing gazes, and warm embraces—memories of you and your soulmate. 

As you twist open the cap of the bottle and sip at the sweet contents inside, you realize that you'd gotten too used to Katsuki being in this room with you—your shoulders slouch a bit forward at the realization that the room around you feels overly spacious and lonely now. A doleful air quick takes hold of the room.

Your work is blowsy that afternoon, and you know that you'll have to do extra work to make up for it tomorrow.  ---

It's by the third day of the week that your peers and teachers begin to notice that there is something different about you, though they cannot pinpoint what. For them, at least, your line in the sand still exists, and they do not dare to cross it. You are still the private girl they've always known you to be, only ever sparing them the polite pleasantries. You avoid their concerned and confused gazes as much as you can.

As you sit in your workshop that evening, you feel like you want to scream—you settle for tightly clenching your fists around the material of the broken support item that lay before you. You're angry—angry at the world for having the bitter season of winter even exist; you're angry at the stupid vending machine for eating your money and leaving you hungry; you're angry at your fingers for not ignoring your dispair, seeing as all the work you do ends up below average; you're angry at your teachers for giving your sloppy work the poor grade that it deserves; you're angry at yourself and the way your cowardice ruined the best part of your day. 

Your cowardice had ruined the part of the day wherein Katsuki finishes with his hero studies and comes to retrieve you from your workshop—he's always chastising you for overworking yourself. Your cowardice had ruined the part of the day wherein Katsuki takes your hand into his own and protects it from the outside air, keeping it warm with the heat of his own palm.

There's a small part of you that wants to be mad at Katsuki for all this—to blame him for even entering your life in the first place.

If he hadn't walked through that door that day, maybe none of this would have happened.

This time, however, you squash that ugly little part of you into oblivion. You know you can't blame Katsuki for shining a bright, luminous light onto the pitch-black traumas of your past.

In the farthest corners of the earth, where directions lose meaning as they cross paths and north meets south, the sun does not shine for half of the year. For almost as long as you can remember, you had hidden away here in this corner where the sun did not shine. Just as you were about to forget what the sun even felt like, it arrives in all its ardent glory. Katsuki is the sun, and he brings to you the warmth you had almost forgotten. Now that you realize this, you miss it more than ever now that it's gone. You want to take it back. ---

It's by the fifth day that you come to terms that you aren't upset with the weather or any machinery or any teacher of yours, but that you are angry at your parents—you're mad at them for leaving you all alone in this world that you know nothing about. You're upset that they wrapped you up in their arms, the whispered promise of their return broken that very same day. They had unintentionally dug the chasm that you fear so greatly. You don't know how you'll forgive them for this, but it's then that you realize that this journey of reconciliation is not one that you need to make with or for Katsuki; it's one that you need to make with your parents for you're own well-being.

That same day, with the help of your aunt, you skip school to visit the grave of your parents. It is there that you thank her for trying so hard to raise you during the most difficult time of your life while she was also trying to deal with the death of her dearest sibling. Her tears run as freely as your own do when you embrace her for the first time since meeting her. She holds your hand in a bittersweet quiet as you try to traverse the surge of emotions you're feeling.

When it's time to leave and you've entered her car to make the trip back home, you begin to cry more than you ever have—even though you're still angry with them, you still want your parents to hold you in their arms and tell you that everything's okay. You want to bring them back, and you don't know how to deal with the fact that you can do no such thing other than to cry like a lost child. You whimper and whine as the tears cascade down your cheeks, desperately begging for some deity somewhere to give you your mom back; desperately begging for some deity somewhere to give you your dad back.

Your aunt uses her fingers to dutifully wipe away at your tears, and you find that you're no longer afraid to lean into her touch.

You sleep at her home that night, and you let her tuck you into your childhood bed. She bids you goodnight, and you sleep deeply for the first time in the past several weeks.

When you awaken, it's not to the honey-heavy dew of slumber that you'd wanted, but to grief and mourning—this time, you're not afraid to let yourself experience it wholly, and you're content to let your aunt dote on you during this. You're disconsolate, but it doesn't stop her from trying and you're grateful nonetheless. You spend the day between fits of tears and more sleep.

You're still sad when you finally make your return to U.A., but you find that you don't fear this sadness or wish for it to disappear. You know that you'll have to carry this weight with you for the rest of your life, but shouldering it will eventually get easier. On the days that you feel weak, you know you can rely on the people who care for you most—you know in your heart that Katsuki is still among those people, even if your last meeting with him had made you think otherwise.

He's your soulmate, after all.

You take the time to redo all the crudely finished projects you had throughout the week. It's a few minutes past midnight when you finish, and you're proud of your work. You hurry to bed, intent to have to tomorrow come as fast as possible.  ---

Katsuki still finds himself getting lost in the gargantuan building that is U.A., but you know it like the back of your hand—you also know that Katsuki takes the same route every day to keep his head on straight. You wait for him this morning at the landing of the same staircase he uses to get to his class. 

As a familiar stomping reaches your ears, you don't find yourself getting nervous or pulling at your fingers. When Katsuki's gaze falls upon your own, and he stops in his tracks, your heart remains steadfast in its beat, never losing control. When he approaches you, expression guarded, you don't feel intimidated, and for the first time, you find that all the words you need spill from your lips.

"I went to visit my parents a few days ago," you begin, and even though you start feeling heartsore, your heart still beats with courage, and your voice does not quiver, "I cried like crazy, and I'm pretty sure I gained a couple pounds from how much food my aunt stuffed me with, even when I told her I wasn't hungry."

You laugh airily for a moment, then let a beat of silence pass before beginning again.

"For a long time, I thought you were being pushy and annoying for trying so hard to get me to talk about stuff that made me feel all the feelings I was trying to avoid. And when we had our had our fight, I thought I could make it up to you by giving you what you wanted, which I thought was an explanation. At some point, I figured out that all you wanted was to help me feel better."

At the next breath you take, your voice begins to shake as you feel yourself finally undulating off the burden of keeping your feelings hidden away.

"And all this time, I've been so scared to tell you any of this is and so scared of loving you the way I know you deserve is because you're well on your way to becoming a great Pro-Hero, just like my parents were. Their jobs killed them, and I'm so fucking scared that it might kill you, too, because I don't ever want to lose you. You mean too much to me."

Katsuki doesn't speak for a few moments, but he eventually lifts his hand to place it on top of your head. He pulls your face into his chest, and you readily wrap your arms around his torso.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you that Ground Zero never fucking loses," he questions you and your laugh is filled with mirth, and you shake your head at the response. Katsuki's hand atop your head moves so that his arm is cradling your shoulders, the other arm moving to wrap around your waist. "I'm not going anywhere, dumbass. I'm always gonna be right here for you."

You lift your head from Katsuki's chest and gaze fondly into his eyes, "I'm nowhere near alright yet, so I'm gonna need you to hold my hand when I cry, okay?" He nods, a smile pulling at his lips. Your eyes fall down to his smile, and you're filled with the urge to press your lips against his own—properly this time, no lies or secrets trying to hide in it.

"Oi," your eyes drift back up to meet Katsuki's own at his call for your attention, and there's a familiar gentleness to them, "I love you, idiot. I always have."

Before you can respond, Katsuki slants his lips against your own. The kiss is soft and decadent and miles different than the one you'd first shared. There's a romance to it that is honeysuckle and sweet, and it leaves your cheeks torrid. In the most gentle and agonizing way possible, you know that you've fallen in love with Katsuki as well. As gentle as the soft caress of his hand against the small of your back and as gentle as the press of his lips intertwining with your own. When you finally pull away from each other, you shudder at the lingering sweetness of it.

You stare fondly up at Katsuki, and he returns your gaze.

"I'm your girlfriend, so I need you to take care of me now, Katsu. Please cherish me."

"Don't worry," he starts and his expression is smug, "You can punch me in the dick if I don't."

#drop hearts in my ask if u see this rn :3 #bakugou katsuki #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugou x you #bnha #bnha x reader #bnha x you #bnha fanfiction #bakugou katsuki x you #i wrote this last winter so thats why its so cold in this story :3

[fandom-space-princess]

Make This House a Habit

Rating: Teen

[3.5k words, domestic polycule fluff]

The Solstice is a time to celebrate connection - to celebrate all that you have.

And what Sam, Rowena, Eileen, and Gabriel have is... each other.

read below the cut, or on AO3

Sunday:

The sheer absurdity of the size of his bed is never so apparent as when Sam wakes up in it alone.

He must have shifted in his sleep, sprawling out across the vast expanse of rumpled, empty sheets in search of bodies no longer there. Waking from his daylong nap without the now-familiar tangle of limbs is disorienting, but voices drift through the open door and chase the last blur of sleep from his head. An indistinct rumble from somewhere deeper in the house that can only be Gabriel. Soft tinkling laughter like silver bells—Rowena.

Sam stretches, and rolls out of bed to find his family.

------------------------------

Thursday:

"I've don't think I've ever seen you covered in so much dirt."

The sometimes-queen-of-Hell glanced over her shoulder. One delicate brow arched in his direction, amused, before refocusing on her task. Sam sank to his knees in the soft earth, gaze fixed on the movements of her hands. She had the most beautiful hands of anyone he'd ever met. Small. Nimble. Belying their strength—much like the woman to whom they belonged. He watched her gather bundles of lavender between her long fingers, separating the stalks with deft strokes of a rune-inscribed blade.

She'd been at this for almost a week. Strings of herbs festooned the walls and countertops of their home, flowers and roots drying in the open air. They lent a green, earthy fragrance to the house that Sam had begun to associate in equal measure with mealtimes and with spellwork.

"Good witchcraft is often a dirty endeavor, Samuel." A length of twine curled around her wrist, and she unspooled it slowly as she worked, tying the bundles and depositing them in a neat pile at her side. Sweat beaded on her forehead in the summer heat, and the hand she scrubbed across her face succeeded only in smudging a long streak of dirt across her nose and cheek. "You should know that by now."

"I'll take your word for it," he laughed, and reached out to rub the dirt off the tip of her nose with his thumb.

She caught his hand in her own, turned her head to press her cheek against his palm. "We'll make a real witch out of you yet." Her smile curved sweet and warm against his skin, and her eyes sparkled with humor. "For now, be a dear and fetch a pail, if you don't mind."

He stood. The small garden behind their home was her domain—at her insistence, the others left the beds of herbs and wild tangles of greenery to the designs of her care and her magic—but he knew where she kept her tools: a small ramshackle shed near the back fence. Inside, a shaft of sunlight through the sole dirty window caught drifting motes of dust. Tin buckets towered in a haphazard stack opposite the door, and he selected the cleanest from the top of the pile.

When he emerged, she had relocated to the other side of the garden, shaded by the young maple trees bordering the southern fence. The nettles at her feet seemed to lean up into her touch, and she cut the soft green leaves without apparent fear of their sting. Sunlight dappled over her face, her copper hair. Where it touched her, she glowed.

He drew up behind her, entranced. This wild, powerful, brazen creature—and here she was, nurturing a garden. Putting down roots.

The pail dropped near their feet, forgotten. Instead he drew her back against him, winding arms around her waist and setting his chin atop the crown of her head.

"What are you making, anyway?"

She pressed back against him, tossing the nettle leaves toward the pail. Then she turned in his arms, and tipped her head up to smile at him, something soft and secret behind her eyes.

"You'll see," she said, "when it's ready."

------------------------------

Friday:

Gabriel's preparations were a matter of days, not weeks. Then again, it was difficult to distinguish his normal claim over the kitchen as his sole domain from this pointed, industrious spate of round-the-clock baking. As Sam had the library, tucked away in the spare room on the second floor, as Rowena had the garden, and as Eileen had the converted workroom, so Gabriel made himself most at home in their bright, airy kitchen. While the others were not unwelcome (despite his affectionate grumbling about their notable lack of culinary skill), as he was not unwelcome in their own private spaces, it was clear enough to all of them that the room and its trappings were Gabriel's. His presence and energy expanded to fill it; in turn, it responded to him as though he belonged there.

Odd, Sam thought, the shape their home together had taken. And yet... comfortable, and comforting. Humanity and divinity, the mundane and the arcane. The four of them, with such disparate personalities and desires and needs, carving out a place to coexist.

"You're still at this? We must have enough food by now." Sam leaned one hip on the counter, avoiding a large pot of something that smelled tantalizingly of ginger and cumin.

"Aw, Sammich, it's like you've never been to a harvest celebration before. Absurd, gratuitous piles of food and drink are the whole point. Trust me on this." Gabriel knelt to pull yet another tray of shortbread rounds, heady and fragrant with sugar and starch and some unidentifiable blend of garden herbs, from the oven. Turning to the cooling racks that lined the countertop, he removed each one carefully from the tray. The last he broke between his fingers, smaller crumbling pieces that he popped into his mouth with a contemplative expression. A satisfied grin crossed his face. He held half the cookie out to Sam, the tips of his fingers grazing across Sam's wrist as he accepted.

"Nothing like celebrating the Solstice with a witch in the family. Red's been nice enough to share the fruits of her labors with us, how am I supposed to turn that down? That'd just be rude. Besides, if there's any holiday to throw together a feast for, it's this one." His smile turned wolfish. "You should've seen some of the midsummer festivals the pagans and their followers put on. Those people knew how to throw a party. You know I had my first hangover at one of those? Drank three casks of mead, woke up naked and using a sheep as a blanket while Sigyn braided a flower crown into my hair."

He shook his head, chuckling. As he made to move away Sam caught at his arm, tugged him forward to crush into an embrace against his chest. Gabriel, surprised, stumbled into him, ungraceful but happy. He looked up at Sam through his eyelashes. "What was that for?"

Sam huffed out a quiet laugh. "Just wondering how many people you're planning on inviting to this thing." He paused, as though in thought. Then, teasing: "And whether I should shore up the wards on the house."

Gabriel rolled his eyes in mock offense. "Aw, you're no fun." He extracted himself from Sam's arms, and moved to the stove, raising the lid on a steaming pan to poke at the contents with a wooden spoon. "Don't worry, I'm not planning on dragging the old crowd over for a drink or ten. This is all for us." His gaze was fixed on the pan in front of him, but Sam could see the warmth written in the crinkled corners of his eyes, the quirk of his lips. "Just us. Our family. Celebrating what we have."

------------------------------

Saturday:

As it happened, Eileen's Solstice contribution had been in progress the longest. This was due less to any particular advance planning, and more to the length of time required for fermentation.

When they had first moved in, this space had been a garage, a late addition grafted onto the side of the house and barely spacious enough to fit a compact automobile. As none of them had any interest in it for its original purpose, however, it sat unused and gradually accumulated dust for months.

Eileen had changed that. Of the four of them she was most given to tinkering, to building and crafting with patient hands. They'd woken one morning to find her outfitted in coveralls and a layer of grime and sawdust, the garage having been transformed into the beginnings of a proper workshop. Since then, she'd outfitted it to her needs. Power tools and woodcarving chisels shared space with more esoteric hunting equipment, a small furnace, even a place for metalworking. Her life had always been one of self-sufficiency, and settling into domesticity hadn't shaken the habit.

Far and away, though, what covered the shelves she'd built into the walls in greatest abundance were jars.

Some of these were spells, potions on which she'd collaborated with Rowena, Sam, or Gabriel. Most of them weren't. Instead, their contents were more conventionally edible: preserved fruit, jams and jellies of all kinds, liquors mixed with rich aromatic spices. Bottles, too, of mead and wine and beer. The hobby had surprised Sam, when he first learned of it. "I like making them myself," she'd explained, smiling at his bemusement. "If I make them, I know what's in them. I know where they came from. And I know that I'll like them."

He couldn't argue with that.

"Help me move these?" she'd asked that night. She hefted two large, dust-covered crates of bottles in her arms. Pointed with her chin to the half dozen that remained, stacked near the shelves. Sam picked two boxes off the top of the stack, and turned to face her again.

"Where are we taking them?"

"Out to the garden," she replied. "Rowena wants to do something with them before tomorrow."

She turned away, and he followed, out the exterior door and around the side of the house toward the back yard. Rowena was nowhere to be found, but they deposited the crates at the shaded base of the fence in an area that appeared to have been cleared for the purpose. Eileen rose, scrubbing her hands on her jeans in an effort to scrape away the dust.

"What does she want them for, anyway?" Sam asked. "Are we going to be drinking enchanted mead, or does she just want to hide the good stuff for herself before Gabriel gets to it?"

Eileen laughed. Sam slid his hand into hers as they walked, tracing his thumb idly across her knuckles.

"Dunno. Maybe she just wants to get us all drunk before the Solstice orgy." She raised her eyebrows, flirtatious. "I'm told those are her kind of thing."

It was Sam's turn to splutter laughter, sudden and unexpected. Eileen grinned, smug and self-satisfied, and squeezed his hand. They let themselves back into the garage, and the transition to the dim, cool space after the brightness and warmth outside was jarring. As Sam's eyes adjusted, he reached out to Eileen. Leaned down to brush a kiss across her mouth, meeting smile with smile.

"What would I do without you?" he asked, pulling back to meet her eyes.

She squinted, wrinkled her nose, then chuckled. "Be a lot more bored, probably. Guess it's a good thing I'm here." Raising up on tiptoe, she took his face in her hands. The kiss she gave was slower than the last, deeper; as though she were staking territory. It filled him with tingling warmth, affection he could sense along his skin down to the tips of his fingers.

"I guess it is," he replied, and kissed her again.

------------------------------

Sunday afternoon:

Rounding the corner into the kitchen, he narrowly avoids collision with Gabriel, who lunges after Rowena with flour-covered hands.

"Don't you dare, you feathered menace!" The words are scolding, but she giggles as she dances out of reach. She ducks behind Sam, peering out around him. "Keep testing me and see what it earns you. Archangel or not I will turn you into a frog, Gabriel."

The archangel in question smirks, and advances on Sam. "Then you'd have to kiss me to turn me back. Doesn't sound that bad to me. I'll take my chances."

His advance is effectively halted by Sam's hands on his shoulders; for all that he is stronger and quicker, Sam's reach is undeniably greater, and he holds Gabriel at arm's length. Gabriel repays him for his trouble by reaching upward to grip his forearms, dusty white handprints left in the wake of his touch like ghostly afterimages.

"Hey!" Sam says, eyeing the flour. "She's right, you're a menace. And a mess. You know you're supposed to bake with that, not wear it, right?"

"You try to make food for the people you love, and this is the thanks you get." Gabriel sighs dramatically. Then he lets out a sudden, surprised oof; Eileen wraps arms around his waist from behind and picks him up, leaning her back into it as he flails.

The grin she flashes from behind his back at Sam and Rowena is victorious. "You want me to put him outside? I can put him outside."

Sam shakes his head. "Nah, let him go. Otherwise he might make us start cooking for ourselves again."

Eileen winces at the prospect. "Good point." She releases Gabriel, who promptly turns and pulls her into a hug—pointedly burying his hands in her hair, streaking it with white. Rowena, still unmarked, slides behind him and reaches for the bag of flour. With a sly smile, she dips one hand into the bag.

A moment later, the back of Gabriel's neck is covered in flour. Sam doubles over laughing, tears beading at the corners of his eyes.

Gabriel is momentarily stunned. Then with a whoop of joy, he buries his hands in powder and dashes across the kitchen after Rowena. Sam and Eileen recover themselves enough to follow suit, and within minutes they've managed to coat every available surface—but especially each other—with a thin dusty veneer.

Sam sinks to the kitchen floor, struggling to catch his breath. He pulls Gabriel down onto his lap, a broad grin plastered across his face, and Rowena and Eileen collapse next to them, arms around waists and heads on shoulders.

"That was ridiculous," Sam mutters, and Gabriel's shoulders shake with laughter. "But I've woken up to worse."

"How long do we have to get ready?" Eileen asks. "I could use a shower."

Rowena cranes her neck, peers up at the sky outside the window above the sink. "A few hours, yet. Time enough to get clean and get packed."

Gabriel springs to his feet, all catlike grace and fluid movement, and pulls Sam up after him. "I think we could all use that shower," he says, shaking his hair out of his face and raising a faint cloud of powder around him. "Dibs on sharing with Samsquatch."

"Like hell," Eileen replies jovially, and rises to her feet. "We're going to hose you down out in the yard."

"You have to catch me first!" Gabriel cackles, and dashes off into the house. Grinning and tripping over each other, the others follow after.

------------------------------

Sunday night:

The sun is just beginning to sink below the western horizon as they set out from the house, crimson and gold fading into the cloudless vault of starry indigo overhead. Eileen and Rowena lead them along the path, through an overgrown field and ascending the slope of the low hill across the way. It's a short walk from the house; the hill represents the highest point for miles, a slightly larger-than-usual elevation gain amidst the gentle rolling countryside.

Gabriel and Sam hang back a few paces. They all have full arms, laden with the baskets of food and drink, firewood, a pile of blankets: all that they need for the night.

They walk in silence, but Sam can feel them, each of them, their nearness a warm weight at the edge of his mind. He thinks he could probably find them anywhere, in darkness or silence. Not even by magic—although between the tracking spells Rowena keeps on them all (she thinks they don't know), the tracery of runes hidden like a promise along their ribs (Sam had rolled his eyes and made comments about being a canvas for angelic graffiti; Gabriel, all snark, had replied that if Sam wanted something more visible he would be happy to tattoo "property of the Archangel Gabriel" along his lower back), and the perpetually suspicion-inducing hacked state of every GPS-capable device they own (he'll never underestimate Eileen's technological aptitude), he thinks it might actually be impossible for them to lose each other ever again.

The thought makes him smile.

The top of the hill is a clearing, a large flat expanse of grass surrounding a rock-lined fire pit. Sam sets to work building a fire, stacking wood he'd chopped days ago and let dry in the summer sun into a tower around kindling and dry grass. Rowena kneels beside him. From the bag at her hip, she extracts smaller bundles of cloth-wrapped herbs. Her face a mask of concentration, she whispers words in a language that slips past the edge of Sam's understanding like oil over water. Then she nestles them securely near the base of the pyre.

"For us," she says quietly, not quite meeting Sam's gaze. "Old spells, and strong. Protection for the coming year. Health and good fortune through the lean months." She looks up then, and the last rays of sunlight glint in her eyes. "We should light them together. All four of us."

His hand finds hers, twists fingers together. "We will."

He turns to glance over his shoulder, finds Gabriel and Eileen already there. Presses matches into each of their hands. Side by side, they stand at the edge of the firepit.

"On three?"

Rowena nods.

One. Two. Three.

Matches strike, and are dropped. The kindling catches and blazes, crackling sparks.

Sam moves to tend to the rest of their supplies, and finds the others have beaten him to it. Eileen has created a nest of blankets several paces back from the fire, and the food they brought has been laid out nearby, a banquet under the night sky. He selects a bottle of something deep crimson and richly-scented, and settles himself back onto the blanket.

Eileen curls next to him, leaning into his side. "Cherry wine," she says. "Plus whatever Rowena did to it."

"Blessed cherry wine now, my loves," the older woman replies, and seats herself near Sam's feet. "Spirits for the good of the spirit." Her soft tinkling laughter drifts through the darkness, and Sam smiles in turn.

"Only one thing left to do, then we can eat." Gabriel circles the fire. He draws a small cloth-wrapped loaf of bread, no bigger than a fist, from the depths of one of the baskets. Snags a bottle of Eileen's wine as well, and uncorks it, advancing on the fire.

The firelight flickers, and casts deep shadows across his face. Power tingles in the air. For just a moment, it's easy for Sam to remember what lives behind that face.

"In thanks for all we've been given," he mutters, crumbling the bread between his hands into the base of the fire, "the first and best of the harvest, and our gratitude." He pours a measure of the wine across the rocks, and it hisses where it makes contact with the flames. His voice is odd, solemn, echoing up a hollow chasm of meaning that takes Sam by surprise. Then the moment passes, and Gabriel grins, his usual cheer restored. He drops himself across the blanket, sprawling over Sam's legs and taking up more space than his small frame would seem to allow.

"All right! I can't wait to drink whatever this is, El, it smells delicious. Red, grab whatever's closest to you and pass it this way, would you? I'm starving."

Sam chuckles down at him. "Harvest offerings, huh? Thought you'd given up on the paganism."

Gabriel shrugs. "Eh, old habits. You know how it goes."

"Sure you don't miss it?" He traces a hand slowly down Gabriel's spine, then back up again. Beside him, Eileen silently buries a hand in the angel's hair, gently scratching at his scalp.

Gabriel closes his eyes, and a smile plays at his lips. "Nah. That life... it was what I was then. It'll always be a fond memory, but..." He cracks open one eye. When he continues his voice is soft, almost too quiet to hear. "This, now? I wouldn't trade it. It feels like... something worth protecting."

Sam gazes down at him, then looks around. Eileen rests her head on his shoulder, warm and contented at his side. Rowena curls next to Gabriel, setting out plates of steaming food, her presence a reassuring spark against the darkness.

"I know what you mean," Sam says.

Together, they wait for the sun to rise.

#happy solstice all <3 #these people are cute and i love them #domestic polycule fluff #sam winchester #rowena macleod #gabriel spn #eileen leahy #gabriel/eileen/rowena/sam #sabreilena? #we really need a better tag for this ship #spn #fanfic #sabrileena

[go-hux-yourself]

Synchronicity

This is Day 4′s FebuWhump prompt fill for impaling :D I swear the past three fics I wrote have all taken place in a jail cell HAHA :) This fic titled Synchronicity, and I went with gingerpilot for the pairing ;D YAAAAS

See also on my ao3 here. My masterlist archive of bullshit i write can be found linked at the top of the blog or here.

--

“Hey! Hey! Listen to me, he’s gonna die if you don’t let me stop that bleeding... Hey!” Poe was trying to get the attention of their jailer; a reptilian humanoid similar in form to a Trandoshan, though where they had two arms, this one had four.

He didn’t know where he was-- he’d only seen the planet from orbit before some sort of anomaly was recorded, and then he was crashing- and then he’d woken up here in this weird cell on an oddly-warm stone block. He thought he’d been hallucinating when he realized there was someone in the cell next to him- the last person he ever expected to see.

He’d thought at first that he must’ve died in the crash landing-- that he was seeing a ghost in some kind of limbo of his own. He’d had reports that Armitage Hux-- the Starkiller, their spy, villain and antihero in his own right- was killed in action. Apparently the force had other plans for the general, because Hux was definitely lying there and that was definitely the blood of a living man dripping down the side of the slab.

There was no way this could just be a simple coincidence. More like divine providence. Or maybe Poe had hit his head really hard in the crash, because there could be no way that he was getting a second chance to act where he hadn’t before; to save Hux like any of them wanted to be saved.

He’d regretted leaving the man behind ever since he’d done it, and Hux’s death weighed on him with everyone else he felt he’d used as pieces in a battle.

To get a second chance to make things right, though….

Poe had checked his head further for injury just in case, still not uncertain that he wasn’t just hallucinating. But then, he didn’t think he’d hallucinate the ex-First Order general in such mundane clothing… or hallucinate a slow-bleeding wound on an unfamiliar world.

Hux’s chest moved up and down in shallow breath, so he was still alive, but he wouldn’t rouse no matter how loud Poe was in trying to get his attention. He wouldn’t be alive for much longer if his wounds weren’t seen to soon. Hux wasn’t even fully on the wide rectangle of stone, his body at an angle and legs over the side as if he’d been hastily dropped there. Poe didn’t know how badly Hux was injured, or even how long the other man had been there before Poe was brought here too, but it was clear that he needed help.

Poe stuck his whole arm out between the bars that made up their cells, now waving madly. His attention was split between desperately trying to appeal to the guard, and looking at the thin line of red down the side of the stone Hux lay on. “I’m telling you, he needs help! Come on!”

His appeals either hit their mark, or Poe had annoyed the non-human enough to peak his curiosity, because he came down to their cells to peer into Hux’s with scrutiny. The guard’s voice was apathetic. “He’ll regenerate. He’s already hibernating.”

Poe’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He didn’t know anything about this species, but clearly they didn’t receive many human visitors. Or at least, not injured ones.

“Humans don’t work like that,” Poe said with an urgent shake of his head. The guard scoffed. “Look at the blood, man. Bleeding usually stops after so long for any species, right?” Poe was taking a guess as to how long they’d been there, but it had to be a couple of hours at least. Moreover, if the guard thought that Hux should be ‘regenerating’, then the fact that he was actively bleeding should’ve brought that line into question. “He’s hurt really bad if he’s still bleeding. You gotta let me take a look at him. Please.”

The jailer looked between them, scratching the back of his head with one hand, another on his waist, and still another toying with keys at his belt. He pointed at Poe with his last hand, staring him down with ice-blue eyes. “If he dies, you’ll be blamed for it, mammal.”

Poe gave a blink for what he was pretty sure was an insult, but didn’t care. “I don’t want him to die. I want to help. Please.”

There was a long look over Poe, taking him and his strange anatomy into clear consideration of the request. He must’ve decided that a human would be best treating another human, because Poe got his wish.

Poe was made to stand with his back to the four-armed guard, facing the wall with arms on the back of his head while the doors were unlocked and secured. The width of the doors when fully opened spanned the hall, subsequently blocking it off in sections to contain various cells. He then gave Poe instructions to turn, walk directly out, and move directly into the neighboring cell to take up the same stance in Hux’s.

Escape crossed his mind for only a moment, but Hux’s unknown injury, the large, curved-blade on the humanoid’s back, and all four of those arms to take on by himself was enough of a deterrent. He couldn’t escape without the other man either-- Hux was the whole reason the war was won, and he didn’t deserve to die here. Regardless of what anyone else might think.

Poe wouldn’t just leave him to his own chances again.

With the turning of the key in the lock, Poe looked over his shoulder, but he was left in Hux’s cell without much more regard. The guard left in much the same mood of apparent apathy as he’d arrived. Poe didn’t waste time gawking, instead turning to the man the entire galaxy thought was dead.

Hux was wearing some sort of brown robes over long trousers and shirt-- a shock for how utterly normal he looked out of uniform. But there beneath the robe Poe saw it-- a piece of something sharp sticking out of the man’s side staining his shirt and puddling blood beneath him.

Poe could only guess how deep it was in there. It looked like a piece of broken metal-- part of a ship’s console, maybe? Something else?- and it stuck right through the material of his shirt and into his torso. There might not be much Poe could do if he couldn’t remove that. And he shouldn’t-- not without bandages and something to stick in the hole- but without supplies, basic first aid would only go so far.

Poe just about jumped out of his skin as he’d been so focused on being careful with triaging Hux that he didn’t notice that the four-armed guard was back. A small, simple cloth satchel was tossed into the cell behind Poe-- mammal’s medicines, the guard specified- and he was told he better not be lying about medical intent, and to fix him if the man wouldn’t regenerate on his own.

Poe wasn’t going to question his good luck and the surprising decency. Maybe things would work out. He dug into the bag and found the components of a ship’s medkit. There was bacta, bandages, and some other ointments and creams for burns. A trauma kit as well which actually looked like exactly what he needed, but no tools or tweezers of any kind to pull the thing out of him.

He’d have to do this with his hands, then.

Poe opened an alcohol wipe that was graciously present, cleaning his hands and going over his plan once more in his head.

It passed a lot faster in reality than it felt to Poe. Removing the piece of metal impaling Hux’s side, the man twitching in some form of awareness while Poe literally patched him up. Quickly staunching the wound, applying the bacta, waiting.

...Scared it might be too little too late as Hux went further pale from the pain.

Hux’s lashes fluttered several times before he opened them enough to frown with disbelief up into Poe’s face. Poe couldn’t help smiling as he held his hands over Hux’s bacta-laden injury, having followed the instructions on the packet. The wound-sealing medical bio-foam was doing its job, and he stopped counting in his head, certain the seal would now hold on the wound. He just hoped nothing important had suffered too greatly beyond the quick fix that would buy them some time. If any of his organs had been pierced, Hux would still need medical attention.

“You’re not hallucinating. I’m really here,” Poe as their eyes met, thinking Hux was probably wondering the same thing he had upon setting eyes on him. “You’re the last person I expected to see, either, but that’s okay. You’re hurt pretty bad, and I just bandaged the wound. I think you might’ve crashed landed here like I did... ”

Hux bodily shuddered and grimaced as pain flashed through him, eyes shut and skin ashen. “....Dameron…”

“Yeah,” Poe said, worry shooting through him as Hux looked-- frankly- like absolute hell. “Hey, you’ve got a friend here, okay? I’m just trying to help. You hang in there for me, Hugs.”

Hux made a face at the nickname. “...Dameron.” There was a sort of recognition to his tone, as if to say ‘Oh. You.’

Poe just smiled.

If Hux had the energy to be annoyed at him, then he was optimistic that he wasn’t on death’s doorstep. Or at least, he hoped so. Really, Hux needed to be seen by someone with more than just battlefield patches and first-aid kits. It got Poe thinking.

The jailer had cared enough not to let Hux die. Maybe he could get him to help him again.

Hux shivered despite the warmth of the rock slab he was laying on, and Poe removed his jacket to throw over the other man’s chest to try and make him comfortable.

He was going to need real medical attention, and sooner rather than later. Poe had no idea if there were other complications from the metal that had impaled the other man, but Hux was going to live if it was the last thing Poe did.

He wasn’t going to let him down. Not when the universe was clearly giving him another chance to make things right.

Poe stuck his arm through the bars to frantically wave and holler for their four-armed jailer again.

He felt a sprig of hope as the guard once again gave him his attention.

–

my kofi | ao3 main

#poe dameron #armitage hux #gingerpilot #gingerpilot fanfic #damerux #whump #febuwhump 2021 #hurt/comfort #impaling #non graphic injury #:) these are fun but damn im slow ahahah #i live for comments if you've got them! :D my ao3 is open to guests :D

[impfamiliar]

5, 6, 12, 17, 19, 21, 37, 44, 49, 61, 62 any or all! for whoever you’d like! 💕

hi thank u so much king.

5. do they follow a higher power? what are their thoughts on divinity?

this first one got really long lmfao. the others are a little shorter bear with me.

skit is funny because for all her "i'm a revolutionary" shtick she has pretty orthodox and also vaguely chauvinistic views on religion. she still believes that the Boar, Sovereign is the last living god which is funny because skit has now very much been to the celestial plane. but in her head she's like, ok, well, those are divine beings, they might be gods but they're not really thee Gods, like, the originals, so. only the Boar, Sovereign is God. and we need to kill that thing btw.

Skit is both religious and very sacrilegious in the way that most people from Seapink are. she fears the Boar, Sovereign because she's afraid to die, which i guess is a kind of reverence? but she also fully buys into the whole "time of the gods is over" thing, which kind of grinds reverence under the boot. skit hates the idea of a divine higher power exerting influence on her life. she only wants sexy tyrannical women to do that.

as for amandine, yes she is a cleric yes she is the only "living" devotee of the Boar, Sovereign, but amandine kind of isn’t religious in a traditional sense. she very much views 'religion' as like, comparable to duty to her mom...... (starts coughing). her connection to the divine is very deep and very important to her but also mundane. amandine is mildly to moderately afraid of her God, as she was of her real mother. her relationship with the Divine isn't... completely lateral, but maybe the word is familiar. amandine and her God are a lot closer than if she had been an acolyte of some deity in some church somewhere, mostly because of their closeness and onlyness to one another

but! a crucial thing informing how amandine views God / divinity is the fact that the Boar is not a god that can just take a human form and chat; She’s a manifestation of the Natural, and in many ways, a wild animal. i don’t think She and amandine can ever fully communicate and understand each other. they're both at peace with that, but because of this, i think its unclear to what degree amandine's ideas about the Boar as a God are projections onto this huge unknowable ancient inhuman Being.

for ex, the Boar taught amandine to find people who were near death out there in the forest and do a little rite to commit their bodies back to the earth and their souls to the Boar. but i think it was amandine who started trying to heal the ones  who she felt could be saved. the Boar didn't stop her, which amandine took as a sign of approval, but it just as easily could have been indifference. to a god, especially one as old and weary as the Boar, what do a few years or decades matter? they're going to die eventually :)

i genuinely don't know if the Boar, Sovereign actually cares about merciful death. She might? amandine thinks She does. The Boar definitely isn’t the malevolent bogeyman that She’s painted as in Seapink culture, but i think the value judgement of mercy is in some ways very human. possibly amandine saw that the Boar, Sovereign did not relish in killing or kill gratuitously, but instead took those who were already dying and ended their suffering. and amandine saw in that mercy instead of pragmatism, because that was what she wanted to see. so it’s anyone's guess what part of amandine’s religion is just amandine and what is the Boar, where that line is, if there is one

all that matters is that amandine trusts her God, loves Her and wants to please Her, and feels, maybe, that the Boar, Sovereign, in Her way, cares about amandine. but also... there's this other shoe that’s gonna drop one day.... the matter of coming back to life the Way She Did. meeting altair has planted a ghost of a thought in amandine’s head that she cannot consciously think about yet. the matter of why altair came back 'right' and amandine came back 'wrong'. the matter of why did the Boar did not tell amandine that she was dead. so that’s gonna be fun

6. which party member do they relate to the most?

for skit it was gaerokas, but honorable mention to sena because she and skit came from a sort of similar place and had compatible politics, and sena reminded her of her sister. other honorable mention to nethal for being skit’s intolerable mirror <3

for amandine it's definitely altair. undead bffs. honorable mention to ahe (amandine ahe 🤝quest for closure, devotion to a villainized god), and, interestingly also garo. garo amandine 🤝being lost in the woods for a long time, being the ghost in ghost stories told about them (which amandine doesn’t know about so i guess it doesn’t count) and having a fairly private but profound connection to God/nature. their clash in personalities and loyalties tends to get in the way of amandine seeing the overlap there. but that’s starting to change i think. also we will see how this plays out but i have a feeling that the more amandine remembers about her life before, the more she will relate to n’ethal actually.amandine nethal 🤝growing up privileged, Vhurask and Lady Iris being Like That

12. have they ever been in love?

skit is obviously in love with myev, and i think she was maybe in love with daya too? possibly? but it was complicated. amandine has not. yet.

17. what do they dream about, when their dreams are their own?

amandine doesn’t really dream anymore. she stopped sleeping mostly because of her dreams. amandine used to dream about dying, even if she didn’t realize that that was what it was for a long time. it was all distorted and hazy and amandine is missing huge chunks of memory so her mind free-form fictionalized to fill in what wasn’t there. she couldn’t make sense of it, only relive the sensations :) which were unpleasant :)

skit has two main genres of recurring dreams. one is redacted, and she doesn’t really dream about it that much anymore. in the other, there are two of her and the other skit is psychologically tormenting her. OR she’s tormenting the other skit. it isn’t clear

19. what haunts them? what doesn’t?

skit is obviously haunted by redacted, but she’s also haunted by what happened to vega, but also what she saw starting to happen to sena, who had been so lighthearted and trusting at the beginning :( she’s also haunted by when her sister was conscripted, and the fact that her dad almost died in the war. i don't think failing to prevent the apocalypse really haunts skit that much. she's like. well we ALMOST stopped them.... and WE didn't open those portals. so. but she is haunted by what happened to senele (i think that was its name? ahe's town that burned). but she’s not haunted by leaving Val in the celestial plane 😔

amandine is haunted by the flickers of memory from before her death and the flickers of memory or the dream distortions, whichever they are, of her death. amandine is haunted by her reflection. amandine is occasionally haunted by gaerokas. amandine is, now, also haunted by her mother's face and the memory of how she felt in the company of her mother. she isn’t haunted by the lives she's taken or all the bones and bodily fluids and entrails she's seen. i think the only body that haunts her is her own

21. do they follow their head, their heart, or their body?

skit: head and heart

amandine: body and heart

37. what is their favorite thing to hold?

for skit its uhh myev. for amandine, i feel like she's someone who reaches out for people a lot and likes to take her friend’s shoulders or rest a hand on their back or grab their hands (when they are ok with it). it's kind of a grounding thing and helps her feel less lonely. she is also comforted by holding fauchet, who is soft even if he unnerves her

44. what do they need to learn?

god where do i START.

i think the main thing skit needs to learn is how to look at herself -- who she really is without the smoke and the mirrors and the masks -- with self-compassion and honesty. skit also desperately needs to learn to communicate and be vulnerable with other people, to ask for help when she is afraid and overwhelmed. i think beginning to repair her toxic relationship with herself and letting people see her will massively help her feel more secure in her relationships, treat others with more kindness, and maybe, one day, face her problems instead of running from them. this is my sincere wish for her. skit is so so terrible but she isn’t irredeemable and i very much want to see her grow ;;

amandine needs to learn uhhh that puppy mills are bad. she also needs to learn how to let people in and ask for help. she’s not as bad as skit, but i do think amandine is scared of seeming weak or useless, and she also struggles to verbalize her thoughts so would sometimes rather not try. also, we haven’t seen this play out much yet because it’s mostly internal, but she does have a problem with internalizing blame for things that aren’t her fault, but also blaming others for things that objectively are her fault. maybe most importantly, amandine needs to learn that her life before was not idyllic and she can’t ever go back. i do think unconsciously lurking in her head all this time has been this feeling like 'oh if i learn who i Am and what happened to me i'll be able to reclaim what i lost and come Back" but... uh.... rip.

they both need to learn how to face their pasts and heal, to build a life that’s no longer chained to What Happened to them

49. what makes them smile?

their friends and loved ones! fucking with people and dancing also makes skit smile. what makes amandine smile is giving friends little trinkets and getting pretty things, going to festivals, being victorious, and Getting a Good Grade in Being a Sort of Dead Sort of Alive Girl

61. what kind of flower would they choose to pick from a meadow?

skit would choose uhhh tacca chantrieri. i’m interpreting the word ‘meadow’ expansively. amandine would of course choose an iris!

62. outside of otherworldly forces, what do they believe in?

skit believes in communism. and Love. kind of. amandine believes in growth from decay, that kind of thing. and friendship :)

#amandine #skit #tysm... ily <3