You love your boyfriend Namjoon, and you know he loves you too. But love can be acidic, tainted, unclean. And it’s only a matter of time before the toxins spill over and embed themselves into your skin.
pairing:namjoon x reader
genre: fluff |angst |smut |criminal!au
warning: blood | dirty talk | fingering |public sex (?)
It smells of dried blood and all your past fuck-ups.
Your jeans are soaked at the ankles and your socks are wet, but you’re too tired to really give a shit, tugging them off your feet along with your shoes. The moon looks down at you in disapproval, its light grazing over your skin and somehow making even your bruises appear beautiful. You’re sitting on the back of the pickup truck, hands steady as you finish running the tingling ointment over your battered knuckles. Namjoon is leaning against a nearby tree with a cigarette pressed between his lips, and even though you aren’t the one breathing in the toxins ━ it burns your lungs like stove fire.
FINISHED. I’ve invented a ‘Daeydoim’ for The Dark Crystal competition. Basically humble cart pulling omnivores that reside on the edge of deserts. They disperse heat through their large dorsal scales and scrape vegetation off trees with their long incisors. Short fighting tusks also enable them to catch river creatures similar to fish and broad hooves make walking on sand easy. They’re commonly used within the Dark Crystal realm for long distance trade and agricultural farming.
How to Become a Witch in Ten Easy Lessons - (3/5)-A CS Modern Fantasy AU
Rating: T for Teen
Word Count: Approx 6K
Summary: Emma Swan leads a quiet, solitary life, that is until a tragedy temporarily saddles her with three recently displaced orphans. Three recently displaced orphans who make quick work of discovering one of the reasons for her solitude and threaten to confirm the rumors swirling around town about her, unless she can do something to help them, something that will require the assistance of a mysterious Professor who isn’t quite what he seems either.
Notes: The continuation of a birthday gift for the wonderful @phiralovesloki.
As always my undying love and affection for @caprelloidea who made this and my life better just by being her.
She hadn’t noticed that her eyes were squeezed shut until the sound of Killian’s voice asking her if she was alright had them snapping open.
They were back in water again, bobbing lazily along, no longer free falling through space, the rushing roaring wind gone, the air now filled with the cawing sound of gulls, and the gentle lap of water against the hull.
They had done it , had arrived safely in another world, again. This time on a pirate ship. Emma swallowed, and let out the shaky breath she’d been holding for what felt like an eternity, taking in their new surroundings.
The stretch of land in the distance, laid out before them wasn’t nearly as barren as the book described, not even close really. She’d been expecting nothing but sand and rocks, a desert at the edge of the ocean.
This island, however, was just as lush and green as any other, with dense tropical plants and brilliantly colored flowers so bright and vibrant she could make them out even meters away across the expanse of the jewel toned lagoon. Further out in the distance rose a great round tower and the crumbling stone remains of the keep it was once attached to. Still, the island paradise looked off somehow, something out of place and odd. It was another moment before she figured it out: it was the utter lack of trees that made it seem bizarre in scale, no palms or live oaks rose up around the ruins, the stone structure the tallest landmark on the vast island by far, huge and ominous with the lack of perspective.
“Is that it?” she called back to him.
“Aye must be,” Killian stepped up next to her. “The Broken Kingdom. I imagine you want to skip introductions with the locals?”
The first time
he sees her, Rosaline’s eyes are filled with candlelight and a tint of
rose-coloured amusement at the scene before them, as their cousins are joined
in hand and heart in marriage in a deserted church with no witnesses except for
the two of them. She rolls her eyes and looks at him with disdain, and although
her lips move to say that she disagrees with the marriage, they curve up at the
edges at her cousin’s joy when she thinks nobody is looking. Benvolio is.
Rosaline catches him watching, barely a meeting of their eyes that fall flat
with fear, knowing that this will not end well, before she looks away.
Montague has eyes that match the smirk on his lips – sharp, bright, deceptive. She
knows that she cannot trust eyes so dangerous. They gleam under the dim
candlelight, as he jokes and jibes like they’re not watching a disaster unfold
before them, offering a hand out – but there’s something almost earnest in his
eyes as he does. Rosaline tells herself that it’s a trick of the light and
turns away. He’s a Montague, and
Romeo and Juliet are enough trouble to be dealing with for now, without her
making the mistake of trusting one of them. The disappointment that shines
there for a fraction of a second as he drops his gaze sends a shiver down her
spine all the same.
The second time
they meet, Rosaline walks into the palace with defiance in her eyes, walking like
her steps could leave earthquakes; as the conversation goes on, those eyes dim
with confusion and begin to dart around the room, from Prince Escalus to him to
the door. When the announcement is made that they shall marry, her eyes widen
in shock. Rosaline’s mouth falls open, and there’s an instant glint of
revulsion in her eyes as they turn to him, disbelief etched across her face and
she hates him, Benvolio can see that,
but it’s all he has time to see before she runs away. Later, he finds her
kissing the Prince in a chapel, but the same defiance is back in her eyes when
she turns to stare up at him, tears still shining on her face. Where she had turned
listless and dead at the announcement, there is a spark back in her gaze now.
In the confusion
after the words are said – that she is to marry a Montague – Rosaline’s mind
reels and pitches into a panic that leaves her breathless. She scans the room,
looking for someone to crack a smile and for this all to be in jest, but the
line of Escalus’ jaw remains determined, cold; the rest of the faces she meets
are grim and stony – except for his. The Montague. Her betrothed. He looks as shocked as she feels, eyes widening and head
snapping towards her, green-blue eyes swirling with the same panic she feels
fluttering between her ribcage. This is all she has time to see before she
turns on heels and flees the room. The next time she sees those eyes, she can
still taste Escalus on her lips and the confusion has fallen from the Montague’s
face, replaced with a grim line of resignation and eyes that reveal nothing. He
stares down at them from the balcony, but it is her eyes that he is meeting, and he does not look away.
He sees her
again and there’s candlelight dancing in her eyes, like the first time they
met, except this time they are at the Prince’s party and the shrewd way her
eyes are darting across the crowd isn’t directed at him. Benvolio counts this
as an improvement. Rosaline is watching the other guests carefully, lips set in
a parted line as she assesses, and how anyone could think she was going to take
this quietly, he could not guess. All it took was one look at her to see this
was a woman plotting; with more intelligence behind her eyes than most people in
the room, she was staring them all down like they were a challenge, and when
she turns that gaze on him, paired with a victorious little smile, he has to
look away. Benvolio tilts his head back to hers just in time to see her eyes
shining, before she returns to assessing the crowd, and if anyone can get them
out of this – she can. He’s starting to believe the myth of her, and who knew
when that happened?
party, the Montague is all snark and no substance, leaning close to her with
eyes both hard and soft – sharp as a flint and calculating as they speak, but with her and not against her – but it’s
watching him at the dinner table that really catches Rosaline’s attention. The sarcastic
eyes as they spoke was comfortable ground, and what she expected of him: when
he flinches at the sound of Escalus thudding his hands against the table, eyes
downcast as the shouting begins and biting the inside of his cheek, from the
way his jaw kept locking, that is
surprising. Benvolio doesn’t try to argue as the other lords do, as stuck and
silent while other men talk for him as she was – he kept his eyes down, but
when he does lift them, it’s to her – and there’s a soft resignation in his
eyes, shifting tones in the candlelight, and a subtle pricking of discontent
with the violence on display. It’s the first chink in his armour that Rosaline
Acting has never
been one of Benvolio’s strong points. Pretending to be in love with the Capulet
while half of Verona gawked at them like they would a public hanging, the heavy
anticipation of things falling apart in the air, leaves him feeling slightly
queasy and his hands clenched into fists at his sides. But Rosaline – she’s a
natural at it. When she leans close to him, nothing in her eyes betray that her
lips are lying as she declares I’m
counting the hours and looks at him softly, such a tenderness in his eyes
that he hasn’t seen before that it hurts to breathe. There’s still the glimmer
of intelligence, still the calculating edge to her eyes, a shark looking for
blood when she turns her gaze on the Prince coldly, and Benvolio is glad that
he was not one of the idiots who underestimated Rosaline Capulet.
eyes are tight, pinched at the eyes, as he plays along forcibly with their sham
charade of a love story. There’s a trapped expression in them as she steps
closer, eyes glazing over for the rest of the conversation as he rolls with the
punches, nodding blankly and never letting the frozen grin drop from his face.
As soon as they are alone, the Montague rubs a hand over tired eyes and turns
to her more seriously as they sit, still looking restricted as he offers her an
escape – but he isn’t demanding as most men would, he’s asking, eyes pleading
for her to take the offer and set them both free. She still doesn’t trust him –
she can’t, he’s a Montague – but Rosaline can read no deception in his steady
eyes, unblinkingly looking back at her. She agrees to take the escape to the
nunnery and see’s something shift in his eyes; it looks like relief.
she appears at the top of the steps for their betrothal ceremony, Benvolio can
see the same resignation in her eyes that he knows is reflected in his own.
Rosaline’s face is still as she reaches him, but her eyes are glazed over,
hazy, like she doesn’t quite believe they are both standing there. When he
presses his lips to her cheek, just enough to graze her skin, she whispers I’m sorry into his ear. As she leans
back, he sees a flicker in her eyes that shows her words are the truth, and so
was his soft reply: me too. Honesty
between them was common – he did not lie to her, they would achieve nothing by
deceit – but genuine emotion was. In that moment, he thinks that this is the
first time he has seen her be so true, worried eyes shining as she takes his
hand under the marquee. But her eyes keep darting to the prince, and his to
Stella in the crowd, so there is little he can do to ease the ache of longing
hanging between them.
nearly rocks her from her feet, and Rosaline is only vaguely aware of the
swarming bodies around her or the Montague’s hand on her, holding her steady –
her eyes search the crowd for her sister. Everything she did, it was all for
Livia. It’s only when she sees her sister safe that Rosaline looks away: the
Montague is looking at her, eyes sharp with something that could be worry, but
she is turning quickly and running, following the dark-clothed figure across
the rooftops. He follows, complaining, until they pause and she explains. The
Montague’s eyes turn from irritated to invested, clearing with understanding as
he cuts her loose and still follows her anyway. On the roof, the calmness
fades. His eyes become stormy seas as he argues with Trucchio, but when the
other man falls – they still. The Montague steps away numbly. It isn’t until
they stand safely on street level that a familiar expression takes control of
his face, softening to jesting as he steps closer – and her first assessment
had been right, those eyes were dangerous. And close. So close. She has to bite
her lip as she walks away, thinking of and
here I thought you were counting the hours for a long time afterwards.
the day wishing the Capulet would stay behind and stay out of trouble, but
quickly discovers that watching her face change as she took in the brothel was
too amusing to miss out on. Her eyes change from sharp anger to defiance to . .
. something close to horrified. She smirks and argues back and her eyes shine –
just an inch away from his own, telling him that his picture isn’t very good
and rolling her eyes when it leads them to a suspect. It’s hard to hold down a
smile when she looks so haughty and annoyed, even more so when he is proven
wrong and she looks back at him with I
told you so written over her features. Not knowing why, Benvolio follows
her when she leaves, intending to see her safely home and strangely moved to
see that she does. But she doesn’t go home: she breaks into a deserted house on
the edge of Verona, and turns to him with eyes wet with tears and angrier than
he’d ever seen her. Rosaline’s eyes strike both thunder and lightning into him,
as the words hit as heavily as thunderbolts, leaving Benvolio staring back at a
shattered girl, seeing the fractures in her. She cracks; crumbles, and he has
to look away because she’s too much to hold in a gaze; she’d drown the whole
world with her tears and eat him raw and do it all looking so righteously angry
that he believes that he deserves it.
The Montague is scared. It’s not a look Rosaline has
ever seen on his face before – he had been shut down and appeared subdued when
she had shouted at him earlier, but this was entirely different – looking up at
her with eyes fit for bursting, whites showing at the edges, his fear stands
out starkly in the darkness. And despite it – he tells her to run, and there is
nothing hidden in his gaze, no agenda, no hatred, no argument – just fear and
fear and fear, so she runs. The expression haunts her. She finds herself
speaking out for him, defending his innocence even though she sees the way it
turns Escalus’ eyes hard – she does not care, because no amount of hardness
could erase the look on the Montague’s face from her memory, and because he
cannot speak out for himself, her own voice does not shake as she speaks out for him. The next time she sees him, it
is unexpected – the Montague is standing below her balcony in the middle of the
night, and he is begging her to go with him, tears shining in his eyes even in
the low light. He – Benvolio – is
shaking, eyes open and vulnerable in a way she has never seen them before, but
the fear is one she recognises. His eyes lock on to hers, and it is not a gaze
that she can ignore. He is broken and bleeding and fraying at the edges,
unashamedly crying in the street, and what other choice is there – she goes
with him. When she arrives on the street, his eyes fill with gratitude and
clear of tears, and they set off into the night.
It’s not until
later that something she would describe as
hope appears in his eyes – even later when it turns to love.
“Aren’t you a little short to be a palace guard?” with Jimin
Aren’t you a little short to be a palace guard?
” Pairing: Jimin x Reader Word Count: 1.269k
The peaks of the castle’s high towers are the first
thing that comes in your line of view; the fresh air brushing your face as you
run across the desert field, the edge of the forest already in sight signaling
you that the end of your escapade is nearing. You did this many times before and even all the
yelling and scolding of both the queen and the king – respectively your mother
and father – is not enough to put your desire of freedom aside. It’s not that you dislike your life at court and wish
to be a commoner – as her highness would scream at you – but the palace is not
your happy place either. It is very naïve of you, and also a bit pretentious,
to want to indulge in the best of both worlds but, for as long as you’ll be
able to do so, you have no intention to stop escaping your guard’s protection
to enjoy the exhilarating freedom and normalcy that resides beyond the high
walls. Your feet come to a halt as you glimpse at the wooden
door that protectively secures the outside world from the fastness and joy of
the castle. There’s only one guard at the entrance – or at least only one in
plain sight – and you bite your bottom lip as you try to discern his identity
from several feet apart. Even at that distance you can distinguish his general
features and, upon realizing he’s a few inches shorter than you, you conclude
he must be someone new. A devilish smirk twists your mouth as you resume your
walk, this time much calmer than before – for you have no rush to go back to
your identity and role in the castle’s small society – taking in his features
more and more as you cut the distance short step after step.
I LOVE HALSEY AND THIS SONG IS BEYOND AMAZING! I seriously hope you like it, theres no smut but hopefully it isn’t a disappointment. I’m sorry I took so long to post something, I didn’t know how this one would end, but anyways enjoy!
His eyes are dark. Threaded, coded with an emotion that tightens your throat and dries your lips. Willow green eyes watch you wet them. His face is hard, rigid like the line of his back, spine steeled and shoulders squared. You’ve been driving along the desert edge for hours, watching the sun fade and the place you once called home become a speck of dust in the review mirror. With a pang of regret, you silently understand why you can’t go back. There’s a building that emerges from the horizon, growing with every breath. The construct rises like an appendage, red brown sand coating like skin. It reaches out with the miles, and the car pulls into its grasp, curling around its closed fists. The motel is dirty, caked with desert dust and heat haze. It glows with neon signs and setting sun, the light clings to the corners of marred surface, seeping into the cracks of skin to make it seem like it radiated from the inside out. You follow his long legs, watching the muscles of his broad back shift beneath stained cotton. The sun glides over his flesh, tracing the fine lines of his face and illuminating the grey in his green eyes. He looks white, bathed in the glow of the setting sun, he’s an angel, incandescent with wings of sun rays. He isn’t like the motel, his glow isn’t an illusion. It clings to his cracked skin like prayers from your lips. Salvation is what you asked for, and they sent him, neon light eyes and blood caked fingertips. You still can’t tell who answered you, God or the Devil.
That fucking phrase. Even the very premise of the word ‘hero’ being used made him uncomfortably awkward. As if the annihilation of an entire population was something to be applauded. Even in the post-Bradley era, Central had a problem with letting go of the idea that anything positive came from that dreadful war.
And he hated it.
Roy was far from naive; it was baggage that would weigh on his back regardless of where he walked, but that did not mean that he lived comfortably with it. In comparison, each and every time it was mentioned he felt the familiar surge of disgust, shame and guilt. Hero? He was no hero.
And the worst by far was in the East.
They had been surveying an abandoned town close to the desert edge, just him, Hawkeye and Havoc. With policy in place, they had to start building and repairing. The soon Ishval could be repopulated, the better. This town looked promising.
A little boy had approached from it, and had stopped by their envoy, standing with his bright, red eyes fixed on him. It made him nervous. Guilt, as he recognised it. He waited for any kind of reaction, before the boy spoke loudly, a finger pointed at him.
“ You’re the Hero of Ishval.”
He cringed, and he felt Riza stiffen next to him. She, out of everyone, knew the anguish he held about Ishval. God knows she’d spent enough nights waking him from the nightmares. It was bad enough from any regular citizen, but from an Ishvalan no less…
“ I don’t really go by that title.”
“ But that’s what my dad calls you.”The boy was adamant, fierce eyes staying trained on him. Roy prepared himself for the abuse to come; he had known it well over the years. “He says you are Ishvala’s hero, and you’re going to rebuild our country and we’re going to have better lives because of it. He said you’ll be Fuhrer one day, and then Ishvalans will matter and you’ll build a future for me.” He paused, considering the older man for a moment, before nervously speaking once more. “ Will you?”
And for once in his life, Roy Mustang was lost for words. He stared, slack jawed at the young, eager face before him, before the pit of shame and guilt in his chest twisted into a burn of passion, of purpose. Isn’t this your motivation right here? Isn’t he your ‘beautiful future’?
He became acutely aware of the eyes watching him, before he bent down on his heels, eye to eye with the young boy, and gently offered a hand with a warm smile.
“ You tell your father I’ll do my very best for you, okay?”
The boy shook his hand eagerly, before dashing back off into the town, disappearing behind the ruined buildings with a laugh of glee. Roy watched him go, before clearing his throat,
“ Havoc, stay here and watch for the town elders. Come on, Captain. We’ve got work to do.” He turned on his heel, heading back towards the waiting car, far across the sand, Riza falling into line at his side. She glanced at the silent Roy as they walked, his face turned from her.
“ Are you alright, sir?”
“ You know, Hawkeye. For all my time spent in this place…” He reached a hand up, adjusting the cap shielding him from the sun, with a fierce, quick wipe at his cheek. “I didn’t know it rained in the desert.”
Did you enjoy my first TFA meta on comedy, tragedy, Shakespeare, and Kylo Ren? Well then you’re gonna LOVE this one, fuckers, because your friendly Star Wars geek wasn’t just a literature major - I also racked up a religious studies degree in my free time. Which there wasn’t a ton of. But whatever, I went to an awesome school that permanently fucked me up.
You fuckers are here for some meta. Let’s get to it. Today’s topic:
REY IS THE CHOSEN ONE.
BIBLICAL ALLUSIONS AND JESUS PARALLELS.
Woo boy, I am fucking pumped for this one. And a few clarifications, so I don’t get any whiny fuckboys adding their unsolicited commentary: I’m not going to argue why Anakin isn’t the Chosen One - I don’t have enough time, patience, or wine for that shit. Plus it’s already been done, just fucking google it. But I think I CAN construct a pretty decent argument for why Rey COULD be the Chosen One - and why those who thought Anakin was the Chosen One were hella wrong.
I mean, for fuck’s sake, does anyone actually still believe that this shit head was the Chosen One? And if you’re gonna be like, well, technically he destroyed the Sith when he turned away from Vader and killed the Emperor, fuck you. The Chosen One is a complete and total fulfillment and messiah, not some sort of personal redemption arc. Admit you were wrong and move on.
We all got that? Good.
Let’s start out by listing some “Chosen Ones” in literature. Harry Potter. Aragorn. Eragon. Azor Ahai. The Pevensies. Moses. JESUS.
What’s similar about the “Chosen One” narrative? Well, they almost always involve a prophecy about someone who will come into the world to save it from some great evil. There are conditions to be filled with the prophecy. Most times, they are an unknown raised to some position of power in order to battle the evil. And almost always they have some sort of special power that sets them apart.
Power of my dick, amiright?
Ok. You shits got this? Because I’m getting tired of back-explanation but we’re NOT DONE YET. GET EXCITED.
So I want to talk specifically about the Chosen One narrative surrounding Jesus. It’s known in circles of people “in the know” as the Messianic Prophecy. There’s like, a crap ton of components to the Messianic Prophecy, so I’m only going to focus on a few as they relate to the Prophecy of the Chosen One and to Rey’s fulfillment of that prophecy.
1. A STAR IS BORN: Ok, so let’s talk about birth narratives. Here’s the main parallel I want to focus on:
Micah 5:2: “But thou, Beth-lehem Ephrathah, which art little to be among the thousands of Judah, out of thee shall one come forth unto Me that is to be ruler in Israel; whose goings forth are from of old, from ancient days.”
Grand Moff Rand: “Here we have the desert world of Jakku, worthless on its own but soon to live forever in history as the place where the Empire defeated the Rebellion once and for all.”
Parallel: In case you shits couldn’t figure this out for yourselves, the both Beth-lehem and Jakku are backwater, desert locations, completely disregarded by those in power as places without value in their own rights. There is nothing special about either location; no one expects anything great to come from them.
EXCEPT that people DO expect great things to come from them, people who follow the prophecies, that is. Out of Beth-lehem, there is a savior to come. And out of Jakku, a victory for the Empire following the Battle of Endor (actually, slightly over a year after the Battle of Endor). BUT THEY WERE WRONG. Jakku was the final defeat of the Empire.
But there is something yet to come from Jakku: THE CHOSEN ONE. The Jesus-parallels are huge, and if you think that the writers didn’t do their research and understand the significance of Jakku OR the complete and total allusion to the Messianic Prophecy of the Prophecy of the Chosen One, you’re DEAD WRONG, fuckers. Dead wrong.
Just as Jesus comes out of a backwater desert town with no special claims, indeed, looked down upon, Rey comes out of a backwater desert planet with no special claims, looked down upon. But Jesus’ birthplace is a matter of great expectation, as is Rey’s planet. Wow. Much parallel, such cool.
2. BET YOU CAN’T DO LIKE ME: So what’s this Chosen One going to do? Something big, that’s for sure.
Isaiah 61:1-2: “The Spirit of the Sovereign LORD is on me, because the LORD has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners, to proclaim the year of the LORD’s favor and the day of vengeance of our God, to comfort all who mourn.”
Prophecy of the Chosen One: “In the time of greatest despair, a child shall be born, who will destroy the Sith, and bring balance to the Force.”
Ohhhh boy. OHHH BOYYY. Look at this shit here. This passage from Isaiah is generally considered the end-all, be-all of “what is Jesus gonna do” questions, and the Prophecy of the Chosen one serves the same function. Jesus came during a time of great despair, when his people were being oppressed by the Romans. Rey appears during a resurgence of something resembling the murderous and oppressive Empire (the First Order). Both of them are children born under mysterious circumstances - Jesus is virgin birth, and Rey does not know her true parents. They both have (or will) brought down vengeance and destroyed some great evil - and we’re most definitely going to see Rey bringing down the Sith in Snoke - and both have or will comfort mourners and bring balance to a world out of whack.
Ok, enough convincing. I could go on FOR FUCKING EVER about the parallels with like, endless amounts of Biblical allusion, but you’re getting bored. Don’t like, even I am bored. My two buck chuck is running out. Damn it.
Basically, Rey is Jesus. They were both born under mysterious circumstances, both come from backwater desert lands at the edge of the known universe (although both come from somewhere else, interestingly enough, either Heaven or, in Rey’s case, unknown), both have prophecies that they have, or are on track to, fulfill, AND…..
HERE’S THE BIGGIE:
(you best be listening)
Both were mistaken for someone else, born ahead of them, also born on backwater desert planets, also born under mysterious and miraculous circumstances.
I’LL TAKE JOHN THE BAPTIST AND ANAKIN SKYWALKER FOR 500, ALEX.
You see, both men appeared to fill all qualifications to be the “Chosen Ones” for their respective stories. A bunch of people even thought that John the Baptist was the Messiah until John was like, nah, bro, that’s not me. But a pretty significant number of people still thought he was the one come to save them. And, similarly, a bunch of people thought Anakin was the Chosen One. He seemed to hit all the major requirements, and even after he turned to the Dark Side, people were still like, eh, he was still the Chosen One but he just kinda…messed up…the prophecy…
The voice of one crying out in the desert: “Now THIS is pod racing!”
Stop fucking lying to yourselves. I’m looking at you, Obi-Wan, standing there watching Anakin fucking burn alive as you scream about him being the Chosen One. Damn it, Obi-Wan, open your eyes. This biddy is NOT THE CHOSEN ONE.
But like, the whole premise of this grand space opera demands a Chosen One, demands someone to fulfill the Prophecy. Who you gonna call?
REY. YOU GONNA CALL REY.
Rey, whose name literally means “light,” who already has more parallels to THE BIG CHOSEN ONE STORY of all time (Jesus) than Anakin ever had. Rey, who doesn’t actually come from a backwater desert planet, but from somewhere else, but also fulfills this grand expectation of that place at the edge of the known world/universe. Rey, who destroys her enemies while showing mercy. Rey, who is massively powerful in the Force and only comes into her power in young adulthood (sound like someone we know? Jesus, anyone?), Rey, who reluctantly enters into her ministry because SHE ALREADY KNOWS the dangers and burdens it will bring.
A Master List of Things Ruled by the Planets, the Signs, and the Fixed Stars
This will be the ninth post in our series on astrological magic. Now I’m going to expand on the planets, signs, and fixed stars, and give you some information about the particular perfumes, plants, and materials which are influenced by specific celestial bodies. This will be a fairly extensive post, detailing many things which are under the influence of the various celestial powers, or which otherwise correspond to them. I will start with the planets, going in Chaldean order, which means I’ll be starting with Saturn. This post intends to be very useful, but in order to successfully draw power from the heavenly bodies and have their energy directed effectively to carry out your will, you should not use this post as the only reference for your methods. Be safe, and feel free to ask us if you have any questions.
At the Edge of the Sea is a story that I believe sets the tone and brings out the strong determined side of Anna in such a beautiful way!
I had so much fun researching the Viking era. Hopefully I was able to get some parts of the story right. Take care everyone! :)
In the breath immediately following his beef-witted assemblage of words, Dorian panicked, and the evidence of that panic ran straight for his face.
Adaar froze, his lips slipped away from Dorian’s skin, leaving it haunted and wet, and his fingers stopped moving in the most excruciating way. What had been the inspiring sight of a lover on his knees became a moment of sheer, unending mortification for Dorian.
Of all the things to say while a certified hero had you twisting deliciously like laundry on a wire.
A panicked expression was death to this sort of bawdy intimacy. Even the most handsome man couldn’t pull it off. Dorian was one of those, succumbing to the undeniable truth of the other. And he was nothing if not exemplary.
I love you.
What a ruinous end to what had promised to be an act of physical sublimity on his person. I…love…you.
As naked a sentiment as a portrait in his pocket, just the worst kind of gasping declaration. Varric would shit himself with glee. His tent wasn’t far, perhaps he was taking notes.
“You do?” Worry was unfairly becoming on Adaar.
There was nothing for it, Dorian’s panic grew a thousand misshapen arms and legs and there was no escape, no more superb mouth on his-
“As an expression, you see. In a manner of speaking.” Dorian squinted against the sound of his own withering poise.