ending the wars

Am I the only one that feels that all these weather disasters and catastrophes with the hurricanes and earthquakes are signs from God?? All of this starts happening right after the “great American eclipse” this just can’t be a coincidence. All this stuff seems to be happening as it was part of a design. Mexico city looks like something straight out of an apocalypse movie..it doesn’t look real.

Now with this major celestial event happening on Sept 23rd, that perfectly lined up with Revelations 12..I can’t help but to feel a very uneasy feeling..like something extremely dark is going to happen. Keep in mind that this event NEVER took place before in history. It’s a clear sign that we are living in the end of days. People need to open their eyes to the world around them..too many distractions going on. When something major does happen, nobody will be prepared for it.

anonymous asked:

When does obiwan finally send a message to anakin in forcesuprise with researcher?

It had taken him months to leave Coruscant, being kept under close observation by the Council but Anakin doesn’t mind even if he is getting a bit antsy about not seeing Obi-Wan. But he knows he has to be patient.

And there’s a lot to do in the meantime, the former Chancellor going on trial a galaxy wide news and he’s called to witness several times over several weeks as he’s been meeting with the man in private for years.

Qui-Gon seems to age a year in those weeks as the full extent of Palpatine’s attempted manipulation comes to light, his hands clenched on Anakin’s shoulders as he seems to understand that he could have lost a second apprentice to the dark, even more then Xanatos Fall he could have had an apprentice that became a full out Sith.

The Order came so close to destruction that its disturbed down to its core and even Yoda seems to have had his faith rocked.

Speaking of Yoda…

Something good had come from all of this.

Yoda’s approval, the little troll inviting Anakin and Qui-Gon to his quarters for tea and meals and while Qui-Gon had to eat around a few things, Anakin quite enjoyed beetle soup thank you very much.

“Old I am. Close to utter destruction I have lead the Order.” Yoda mulled into his cup one day, confessing to the human before smirking and peering up at Anakin, ears twitching. “Approve of you Obi-Wan does, his sign of approval you have. Therefor my approval you also have as dear to me Obi-Wan is.” He chuckled quietly at the flushing alpha.

And the moment he left Coruscant, Anakin had known where to go.

Changing the course, he felt excitement bloom in his veins as the stars passed him by like the little dots of gems they were in hyperspace.


Heart in his throat, he waited for permission to land his ship and knew the moment he touched down on the landing pad.

Because Obi-Wan was reaching out for him, softly knocking on Anakin’s shields in greeting even as the Jedi bowed for the escort and told them he was there to visit a friend.

“A friend?” Senator Organa raised a brow.

“I’m here to see Ben.” Anakin offered, hopeful as he was guided by the Force.

There was silence on the landing pad for a few moments then Bail chuckled. “If I had known it was you he was waiting for… I would have teased him some more. Gods know he hasn’t been kind about the Jedi order always.” He laughed before nodding. “He’s at the palace, he just came back from a dig actually so if you’ll follow me Knight Skywalker.” The Senator waved and dismissed the guards who had followed him.

Anakin followed, eager and warm from the others words.

Obi-Wan had been waiting for him.

Waiting on Anakin.

Stepping into the greeting room, his eyes find Obi-Wan right off the bat, Satine laying on the floor on a blanket where she has toys surrounding her, bubbling happily as her carrier sits by the blanket and cooes and croons at his little one in return.

Though when Anakin enters he looks up and smiles warmly. “There you are. We missed you Anakin. Come say hello to Satine you silly alpha.” Obi-Wan held out his hand.

He looked healthy, warm, his skin having gained yet more freckles and Anakin felt weak in the knees as he dropped his bag by the door and walked over to the two to let himself kneel down by the blanket by the omega and the baby, giving Satine a soft croon in greeting before leaning in and resting his forehead against the others. “I missed you.” He whispered. “Yoda told me to bring his greeting and told me to tell you to take care of yourself.”  

Nosing at the other slowly, Obi-Wan hummed. “Of course the old troll said that… you look better. I’m glad, I was so worried when I left.” He breathed out, reaching up and cupping Anakin’s cheek, stroking his thumb beneath the others eye, caressing the bottom half of the scar. “You were so injured and I wasn’t sure my healing would… hold.” He murmured.

“It held. Che said you did good work for someone not trained in healing Force.” Anakin bumped their noses together.

Smiling a bit, Obi-Wan directed his words to the doors. “Thank you Bail for bringing him here so swiftly.”

“Any time friend. I’ll have dinner sent to your private rooms as I imagine knight Skywalker will be staying with you?”

Obi-Wan caressed the top half of the scar with his index finger as Anakin held his breath, not about to demand anything from the other.

The redhead smiled beautifully. “He is. So thank you Bail, we’ll enjoy dinner in private today.” He leaned in the short distance and covered alpha’s lips with his, Anakin melting into the redhead before wrapping his arms as tightly as possible around the other waist.

His Obi-Wan.


Today is the last day get “One Path Ends” of Living World Season 3 for free.

With Path of Fire launching tomorrow, today is the last day that player can log into Guild Wars 2 and unlock Episode Six of the Season Three without playing for it. If players have friends that have not logged in in a while, now is the time to pester them to patch.

Remember, “Path of Fire” goes live Friday, September 22!


“It is you.” | Rey Kenobi

Kylo’s version: [ + ]


“It was always a circle, from our hero’s family home to an underworld to the rallying of the tropes, and Gareth always wanted to get Jyn back home again; it starts with the home and end with (a metaphorical) home.”  - The Art of Rogue One, Josh Kushins

A PSA for the VLD fandom

Things that are ok:

  • Shipping Klance  
  • Shipping Sheith
  • Shipping Kallura
  • Shipping Shidge 
  • Shipping Shallura
  • Shipping literally any ship
  • Preferring heterosexual ships over homosexual ships 
  • Preferring homosexual ships over heterosexual ships 
  • Not shipping shaladin ships
  • Not shipping Klance 
  • Disliking certain ships for personal reasons 
  • Having literally any ship preference
  • Using ships as a coping mechanism 
  • Exploring ship/character dynamics in fanon that aren’t necessarily acceptable in the real world 
  • Asking people (nicely) to tag things you wish to avoid for personal reasons
  • Aging up/ aging down characters in fanon
  • HC’ing characters in fanon as trans 
  • HC’ing characters in fanon as cis
  • HC’ing characters in fanon as gay 
  • HC’ing characters in fanon as straight 
  • HC’ing characters in fanon as bisexual 

Things that aren’t ok:

  • Attacking people for liking ships you don’t like 
  • Accusing people of pedophilia for liking a ship you don’t take the time and effort to understand or look into properly
  • Accusing people of pedophilia for aging characters up/ down in ships to make them legal
  • Falsely throwing around terms such as pedophilia and abuse and warping their meaning for your own benefit
  • Assuming any ship with an age gap is automatically abusive
  • Attacking people for HC'ing a character you HC as trans as cis 
  • Attacking someone for HC'ing a character you HC as cis as trans
  • Attacking people for HC'ing a character you HC as gay as straight 
  • Attacking someone for HC'ing a character you HC as straight as gay
  • Accusing someone of being homophobic for liking a het ship over a gay ship
  • Accusing someone of being transphobic for HC’ing a character as cis
  • Accusing someone of being racist because their favorite character isn’t a POC/ for having a favorite ship that isn’t multiracial or a POC ship
  • Belittling someones mental illness because of their coping strategy
  • Putting all CSA survivors under one, specific umbrella
  • Assuming every single person who has a mental illness/ is an abuse survivor has the same needs/ uses the same coping strategies
  • Using other people’s mental illnesses/ past traumas as an excuse for being abusive to others
  •  Suicide bating under any circumstance

anonymous asked:

I know you probably have a lot of requests with the gods and monsters - but would you ever do an Ares based one?

Zeus’s mistress Io remains in her form of a cow, guarded by Hera’s servant Argus, and Hera is content.

She will remain in that form until her death. Hera hopes that lying with her husband was worth the sacrifice.

Zeus won’t speak to her, unwilling to admit the cow is actually his lover and ensure her death, and equally unwilling to stand against his wife to try and rescue her. Hera has him just where she wants him, and it can’t last, it never does, but she intends to enjoy it while it does.  

Then Artemis comes to her, gold and fierce. She never flinches away from her queen, staring her in the face as if she is nothing more than another of her huntresses. If Hera did not hate her for being her husband’s daughter, she thinks she might actually like the girl. “Io has a destiny,” she says, “you must let her go.”

“I don’t care for her destiny,” Hera says idly, “especially when that destiny involves getting with my husband’s child.”

“She is to give birth to a new line of kings,” Artemis hisses, “to be the wife of a death god, to be mother goddess of a whole new people. She is not meant for us. You must let her go.”

“I am Hera,” she says, “I am Queen. I must do nothing.”

Artemis growls, hand twitching for her bow, but Hera only raises an eyebrow. Let the girl try. There are few that can stand against her, and the huntress is not among them. Artemis lets out a low breath and says, “Do it, my queen, and I will grant you what it is you most desire.”

“Some peace and quiet?” Hera asks.

“A child,” she answers. “Let Io go, let her fulfill her destiny as a goddess of the Black Land of the Nile. If you do that, I, the patron goddess of childbirth, will personally use every ounce of power I possess to ensure you conceive and deliver a child of Zeus.”

Hera’s eyes narrow, “Neither my power nor his has ever been able to achieve this. What makes you think you are any different?”

“We all have our domains,” she says, “just as you cannot command the sea, just as your husband has no power over the art of weaving, so can I ensure a healthy child when you could not.”

She taps her fingers against her throne. They call her a mother goddess, though she’s raised no children. Hephaestus may be her precious son, but he doesn’t know that it was not her that threw him from Olympus. Very few people know that. And she didn’t raise him regardless, that honor belongs to Hecate.

A child, of her and Zeus. A child she can raise.

“I accept,” she announces. “You may take her, and Zeus may fulfill her destiny.” She leans forward, brings the oppressive weight of her power to the fore and lowers the pressure of the air until Artemis is left shivering. “Know this, Patron Goddess of Childbirth. If Io births a son of Zeus before I do, I will travel to the Black Land of the Nile and slay her and her children with my own two hands. Not even Hades will be able to put her back together again.”

“Yes, my Queen,” Artemis says, unable to keep her teeth from chattering.


Hera is true to her word. She allows Hermes to think he’s tricked Argus and to steal Io away. She pretends to be outraged at the audacity, at the pure white cow traveling to the sands of the Nile.

Artemis is true to her word. Hera lies with Zeus, like she has so many times before, and a child grows inside of her. One day she stands before her husband and brings his hand to the swell of her stomach, “This is your child.”

Something almost like happiness steals across his face. She forgets, sometimes, that they hate each other only as much as they love each other. After so much time together, many would think it would be one or the other. They simply opted for both.

Artemis is there during the birth, her easy confidence more comforting then Hera will ever admit. Delivering Hephaestus was easy compared to this. She screams and cries and Hestia’s hands on her shoulders are all that keeps her from collapsing and begging someone to just cut the child from her. She doesn’t think she can die in childbirth, not with Artemis between her legs. She wishes she’d thought to ask before this began.

But she does not die. Her son is born, just as healthy and beautiful as Hephaestus was. “Well done,” Artemis says softly, placing the squirming child into her arms.

Zeus touches her hair and kisses his son’s forehead. “We shall call him Ares.”

“Very well,” she agrees, so tired her eyes struggle to stay open.

She hands her son to Hestia, and finally allows sleep to take her.


Ares grows into the spitting image of his father. Same copper-red skin, same silky black hair. Her husband keeps it short, but her son lets his grow long. The minutes Hera spends every morning brushing his hair are among her favorite.

He has an eager smile and a soft heart. Hera doesn’t know where he got it, since it’s certainly not from her or Zeus. Demeter tolerates his bumbling after her, though any time Kore attempts to meet her cousin Demeter’s temper frays. Poseidon allows Ares to explore the depths of the sea with a minor sea god acting as his guide. Apollo plays for him, and Artemis teaches him to hunt. Zeus’s lightning doesn’t burn his son, and when storms rage he takes Ares to the top of Olympus and teaches him to throw lightning bolts.

Hera selfishly does not allow Ares to go to the underworld. She knows he would be safe there, that Hades would protect him as he protected Hephaestus, but that’s precisely why she won’t allow it. They got to raise one of her sons already. It pains her to share Ares with them now.

He is happy, and kind, kinder than anyone would expect a child of her womb to be.

“He must choose a domain,” Zeus rumbles, watching Ares shoot arrows with perfect accuracy.

“He is a child still,” Hera says, “let him remain so for a little longer.”

“If he does not choose a domain,” Zeus warns, “one will choose him. We are gods. We must be gods of something.”

She flickers her gaze at him, and he scoots an inch away from her. “He is a child, and for now a child he will remain. We are not Demeter. We shall not thrust the responsibilities and power of a deity on a child who is not prepared for it.”

Zeus disapproves, but says nothing more.

Her son will be the god of something patient, something soft. The god of lost children, of heartbroken suitors, of forgiveness. Something where his gentle heart will aid him instead of hurt him.

She traded her happiness for power. She doesn’t regret it. But Ares doesn’t need to do the same – she’s the most powerful goddess that still walks the earth. He’s her son, and he’ll want for nothing she can provide.


Ares is almost fully grown, long hair reaching his hips even braided, and the strength of his limbs is such that he can keep up with Artemis on her most vigorous of hunts, that he can throw his father’s lightning bolts halfway across the world.

He’s been to every place, and met every god of the earth, sea, and sky.

Except for one.

 It’s not hard to find the volcano. He’s strong enough and old enough to take care of himself, and his mother does not worry when he says he’s going to the earth. But he did not tell her where, precisely, on the earth he was going.

He has strong legs.  It’s easy for him to climb to the top of the volcano. He’s almost made it there when something grabs his shoulders, stilling him. He turns, and stares into a single large eye. “What are you doing?” the cyclopes growls.

“I’m looking for Hephaestus,” he says, “He’s my brother.”

“My master has many brothers,” the cyclopes says.

Ares shakes his head. He is not the product of his father’s fling with a sprite or mortal. “I am Ares, son of Zeus and Hera. Just as Hephaestus is. I came here to meet my brother.” The cyclopes hesitates. He asks, “What’s your name?”

“Brontes,” he answers, surprised.

“Brontes,” he smiles, “I just want to meet him. I’ve never met him before. I won’t linger.”

There’s a moment where Brontes looks conflicted, and Ares tries to look as unassuming as possible. “Fine,” he huffs, “but don’t get angry at me if he dips you in lava.”

“That would be fun,” he says brightly. Lightning doesn’t burn him. So far the only thing hot enough to cause him pain is Hestia’s fire. He probably could go swimming in lava.

Brontes looks at him as if he’s slightly unhinged. He just keeps smiling.


There are more cyclopes underneath, and bright glittering machines that Ares can’t even begin to wrap his mind around. “Who are you?” someone demands, and a hand grabs his wrist and yanks him away from a boiling vat of lava that he’d been peering into.

He looks up at a man taller and broader than he is. He has skin almost as dark as the obsidian of his volcano, but lighter eyes. They are the color of dark amber, of molasses. “We have the same eyes,” he says happily.

Hephaestus releases him instantly. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Why not?” he asks, “The mortals talk of you. No one else will. But you’re my brother, right?”

“You shouldn’t be here,” he repeats, “Does Zeus know where you are?”

He shrugs, taking a step closer. His brother takes a step back. He wonders if he’ll have to treat Hephaestus like a spooked horse.  “Father doesn’t keep track of where I am. Mom know I’m on earth.” Hephaestus flinches, small enough that he almost doesn’t notice. “We have her eyes, you know.”

He can’t stop starring at Hephaestus’s skin. They do not work like mortals – Demeter, Hestia, Zeus, and Hera are all different shades despite coming from the same parents. But – Ares looks so much like his father. Kore looks like Demeter. Yet Hephaestus looks nothing like their father. He can see their mother in him, in the eyes and shape of his jaw, even in how angry he is right now. He looks like Hera does when she’s about to lose her temper, lips pressed into a thin line and the careful stillness of his shoulders.

“I wasn’t trying to make you angry,” he says plaintively, “I only wanted to say hello.”

Unlike their mother, Hephaestus lets out a deep breath and seemingly all of his anger along with it. “I’ve been avoiding you.”

“Why? You don’t even know me.”

Hephaestus kicks him lightly in the shin, the pretty gold and copper of his metal legs catching his eye. “You have legs, and I do not. Hera did not throw you from Mount Olympus as she threw me.”

Ares looks hard at his brother’s face. The stories say his mother threw her son away for being ugly, but he seems just as handsome as any other god Ares has seen. His features are strong and chiseled, and he supposes that could have looked unattractive on a baby, but –

– his mother loves him. Hera loves him with a ferocity only matched by her temper, she loves him at his most mischievous and irritable, loves him when a stray thunderbolt sets Demeter’s hair on end, loves him when even Artemis and Apollo have grown tired of his antics, loves him when Athena can tolerate no more of his questions. He is her son, and so her love comes without conditions.

He doesn’t think Hera would have loved his brother any less just because of how he looked.

He also knows that if he tries to say that, it’s likely Hephaestus will push him into a lava pit.

“Well, that’s not my fault,” he says, “If you don’t want us to be brothers, can’t we at least be friends?”

Hephaestus’s face softens. He looks like their mother then too.  He crosses his arms, “You can’t tell your parents.”

Our parents, he thinks but doesn’t say. “Obviously. Where did you get so many cyclopes?”

The last remnants of his brother’s stern façade shatters as he throws back his head and laughs.


Ares is very near maturity, more adult than child, and his father constantly pressures him to choose a domain. He usually quiets with one sharp glance from his wife, but the fact remains that it is time for Ares to take his place among the gods of the pantheon, to have temples in his name and worshipers like a proper deity.

He doesn’t really want any of that.  He wants to continue hunting with Artemis, learning with Athena, building with Hephaestus.

His brother lets him help out in his workshop sometimes, if he’s very careful and does exactly as he’s told. Otherwise he sits on a table, legs swinging, and watches his brother work and tells him about what he does in the time in-between visits. He talks about their mother enough that Hephaestus doesn’t flinch at her every mention, which Ares can only consider an improvement. Sometimes Brontes will stand beside him and they’ll eat sweet buns together.

Unfortunately, all things, good and bad, must come to an end.


There are two giants, Otus and Ephialtes, who grow tired of hearing of the golden boy of Olympus, who grow jealous of his kindness and his beauty.

These two giants sneak onto Mount Olympus in the middle of the night, sneak into Ares’s room, and kidnap him. They’re not stupid enough to attempt to kill him. Instead, they stuff him into an urn, and seal him inside. Ares rages and fights, uses every trick he can think of to break out his prison, but none of them work.

Stuck at the bottom of the urn and seething, he can’t help but think that if he’d listened to his father and chosen a dominion he might be strong enough to free himself. But he didn’t, so he can’t, and instead he waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Days turn to weeks turn to months. He knows they’re looking for him. He knows his mother will tear apart the whole universe attempting to find him if nothing else. But – what if they can’t? What if he’s stuck in this urn for the rest of eternity?

In his darkest moments, his sorrow turns to rage. He is a god, son of Hera and Zeus, how dare they do this to him?

Then, one day, the urn opens.

Hermes peers down into it, then his face splits into a grin. “We’ve been looking for you!” He reaches down and hauls Ares out, and for a moment all he can do is blink at the glaring sun. Then his vision clears, and he sees they’re in the midst of a battle. The giants are fighting against the gods, against his parents, against the twins, against his brother. It’s bloody carnage, but – he can’t help but feel touched that all these people came looking for him. “Almost everyone offered to help find you,” he says, “but Hera didn’t want to draw too much attention to ourselves trying to sneak into their territory.”

No sooner has Hermes finished speaking than a giant barrels into his mother with sickening snap. Her shoulder slopes at a grotesque angle, but it hardly even slows her down.

“I have to help,” he says, a desperate urgency filling him. They came to help him, and now they’re getting hurt. That’s never something he’d wanted.

“Ares, wait!” Hermes calls out as he goes hurtling toward the battle. He doesn’t wait. Fighting on the ground can only do so much good, they’re strong but they’re outnumbered one hundred to one. He darts to Artemis, twisting around the bodies she’s throwing over her shoulder. “I need your bow!”

“Ares!” she says joyously, then, “What?”

“Trust me,” he says, “give me your bow.” A giant comes running towards them. Artemis flips him over her shoulder while continuing to stare at him in confusion. He’d be impressed if he wasn’t so worried. “Artemis, please!”

She hands over her bow. She moves to give him her quiver of arrows as well, but he’s already moving away from her. Next it’s to his father, who’s hurtling lightning bolts towards the swarm of giants crowding him. They’re deadly, but only so effective at close-range. He grabs a sizzling lightning bolt right from Zeus’s hand, the only being on the planet who could do that and survive, and keeps running. “Get clear!” he calls out over his shoulder. “Everyone move!”

He runs up past Hermes, needing to get to high ground for this to work. “Get everyone off the battlefield,” he says to Hermes. “Now.”

Hermes pulls a face, but by the time he makes it to the top of the mountain, the gods have shaken off most of the giants, are far enough away that he doesn’t have to worry.

He can do this. He’s Ares, the son of Hera and Zeus. He’s been trained in archery by the great huntress herself. He breaths in, and strings his father’s lightning bolt like an arrow. He pulls it back, breaths out, and lets the lightning bolt fly.

It lands in the middle of the battlefield full of confused giants. With a great clap of thunder and a burst of light, they’re all gone.

All that remains of the traitorous giants is a crater.

The gods are approaching him, his mother at a limping gait that makes his chest ache. Zeus gets to him first, grin stretched wide as he grabs him by both his shoulders. “My boy! That was magnificent!”

“Thanks,” he says. The smell of charred flesh is in the air, and it makes his stomach roll.

They kidnapped him. They stuffed him in an urn for over a year. They hurt his mom.

That doesn’t mean he enjoyed it. He never wants to do anything like that ever again.

“This was destiny,” his father says enthusiastically, and Ares has no idea what he’s talking about. “This is what you’re meant to do, son.”

He stares. He hopes it’s not.

The other gods are still at the bottom of the mountain. Artemis and Apollo each have one of his mother’s arms slung over their shoulders and are helping her up the mountain. Hermes and Hephaestus aren’t far behind.

He’s never seen his father look so proud of him. There’s a leaden pit in his stomach he can’t explain.

“In honor of my son’s great feat,” Zeus booms, his voice carrying across air, speaking with the voice of the king of the gods so his words become law, so they spread to every corner of the world, “I declare him Ares, God of War.”

Ares can’t breathe.

This isn’t what he wanted.

gods and monsters series, part xvii

read more of the gods and monsters series here


His red henley behind the scenes of Captain America: Civil War (2016) as requested subconsciously by @hisredhenley all day every day. 1