organ of fire


Genre: Fluff + Smut but mostly smut
Rating: M
Pairing: Namjoon x Reader
Summary: You hate your best friend because she made you go camping. But you also love your best friend because she made you go camping.


You fuck Namjoon in a tent.

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Power is...
  • Use Mars.
  • Earth signs: pleasures and tangible successes.
  • Air signs: intellectual acuity and capacity of organization.
  • Fire signs: self-realization and to have a meaningful life (living the myth, how Liz Greene says).
  • Water signs: high self-knowledge and knowledge about other people.
Tipsy Love (1/2)

Originally posted by got7-updates

Title : Tipsy Love

Genre : Drama / Angst-ish / Fluff

Author : Myself

Pairing : Jackson Wang x Reader

Summary : You have one bad addiction. Jackson is an instructor in a center for people with health problems and bad mental state. How will the addiction acts upon the two of them ? Will your forsaken self be able to change your mental state ?

It’s a One-shot. Part two will be up very soon ;)


The street was crowded. Clouds were everywhere, like a ticking bomb over the salarymen’s heads. Seoul is a huge city. Each person is only a tiny little part of the human presence in the island. One’s goal is the same as his neighbors’. There’s only one within four millions of men, women.

No wonder you felt so empty.

It was 4 A.M, and you were trying to walk down the alley leading to your house (you weren’t sure if it was the good street though). Your evening had been calm and filled with clouded memories of countless glasses scattered around the bar of your brother’s pub. The sound of glass, and the noisy people around you, telling it was just okay to drink too much, since tomorrow you wouldn’t even remember a thing, and gather the courage to speak to the beautiful man watching you with deep, dark envy. Like a vivid dream printed in your mind, you could only remember some parts of that big, insane moment of your life. Another one.

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  • My Darling, I’m waiting for you. How long is the day in the dark?
  • We die rich with lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we’ve entered and swum up like rivers.
  • I want all this marked on my body.
  • I have to teach myself not to read too much into everything.
  • Every night I cut out my heart. But in the morning it was full again.
  • Of course, you idiot. I’ve always loved you.
  • Betrayals in war are childlike compared with our betrayals during peace.
  • New lovers are nervous and tender, but smash everything. For the heart is an organ of fire.
  • Will we be alright?
  • ‘Yes’ is a comfort. ‘Absolutely’ is not.
  • You speak so many bloody languages, and you never want to talk.
  • I just wanted you to know: I’m not missing you yet.
  • Promise me you’ll come back for me.
  • I promise, I’ll come back for you. I promise, I’ll never leave you.
  • There is no God, but I hope someone watches over you.
  • Why are people always so happy when they collide with someone from the same place?
  • How can you ever smile, as if your life hadn’t capsized?
  • This… this, the hollow at the base of a woman’s throat, does it have an official name?
  • Good God, man, pull yourself together.
  • What do you love?
  • What do I love?
  • What do you hate most?
  • When you leave, you should forget me.
  • Could I have a cigarette?
  • Why… why are you so determined to keep me alive?
  • When were you most happy?
  • When were you least happy?
  • I hate being owned.
  • Stop it! Stop it! You’re always beating me!
  • Bastard! You bastard, I believed you!
  • I am just a bit of toast, my friend.
  • A woman should never learn to sew, and if she can she shouldn’t admit to it.
  • Do you think you are the only one who feels anything?
  • You’re in love with him, aren’t you?
  • You think he’s a saint because of the way he looks? I don’t think he is.
  • I’m not in love with him. I’m in love with ghosts.
  • Swoon, I’ll catch you.
  • I’m sick of this room. I’m sick of this heat! And I’m sick of this damn telephone!
  • I must be a curse. Anybody who loves me, anybody who gets close to me… or I must be cursed. Which is it?
  • Why did you follow me yesterday?
  • Escort me, by all means, but following me is predatory, isn’t it?
  • I fear _____ knows about us, they keep mentioning Anna Karenina.
  • Will you please come in?
  • I believe you still have my book.
  • Ask your saint who he is. Ask him who he’s killed.
  • And what if he really is a spy?
  • If anything happened to you I’d never forgive myself.
  • We planned badly.
  • I apologize if I appear abrupt. I am rusty at social graces.
  • I can still taste you. I try to write with your taste in my mouth.
  • I long for the rain on my face.
  • I’m not agreeing. Don’t think I’m agreeing, because I’m not.
  • _____? My God, _____ what are you doing here?
  • No! I was never a spy.
  • I have come to love that little tap of the fingernail against the syringe. Tap… Tap… Tap.
  • It wouldn’t be make believe if you believed in me.
  • Read to me will you? Read me to sleep.
  • And that would be unconscionable, I suppose, to feel any obligation?
  • Am I a terrible coward to ask how much water we have?
  • This a different world is what I tell myself; a different life.
  • I can’t do this anymore.
  • Why did you hate me?
  • Don’t you know you drove everybody mad?
  • There was a result to what you did!
  • This is what I do. I do this every day.
  • Why are you people so threatened by a woman?
  • It’s ghastly. It’s a witch hunt. Anyone remotely foreign is suddenly a spy.
  • How do you explain… to someone who’s never been here… feelings that seem quite natural?
  • You get to the morning and the poison leaks away, doesn’t it?
  • I thought I would kill you.
  • You can’t kill me. I died years ago.
  • No, I can’t kill you now.
  • I’ll probably marry him.
  • My mother always told me I would summon my husband by playing the piano.
  • Then I tell myself you spend all day searching, in the night you want to be found.
  • I do. I do want you to find me! I do want to be found.
  • And the marriage….is that a fiction?
  • You should be my slave.
  • I claim this shoulder blade. No, wait…I want - Turn over ; I want this…this place. I love this place. What’s it called? This is mine.
  • I thought you were against ownership?
  • I could stay tonight.
  • She died because of me, because I loved her. Because I – because I had the wrong name.

Once the sun sets they turn the generator off and sit around the kitchen table in the dark. Scully lights a candle.

“Your instincts are good,” Skinner says approvingly. “Lay low after dark.”

“Why?” Will asks, cocking his head.

Skinner looks at them, then nods toward Will. “Maybe we should wait until…”

But Scully shakes her head. “This is his life now,” she says quietly. “He has the right to know.”

“They’re rounding people up,” Skinner says. “Saying it’s for public safety. It happens at night. Frankly, I assumed that’s what happened to you.”

“Not yet,” she says.

Skinner shakes his head, emphatic. “Not ever.” He glances over at Will, briefly. “You cannot let them take you.”

Scully echoes, “There are worse things than dying,” and Skinner gives her a hard look.

“I mean it, Dana.” The older man looks distinctly uncomfortable. He sets his glasses down on the table and rubs the bridge of his nose, trying to decide where to start. Finally he says, “So where were you?”

“Driving,” Scully says. “Looking for my nephew. West Virginia, Ohio, Kentucky…it’s all the same.” She swallows. “Empty. We stopped in dozens of towns and we can’t have seen more than a few hundred people.”

“The first wave of attacks had an extremely high casualty rate,” Skinner says gruffly. “I don’t have information for other cities — the president was keeping those numbers close to his chest — but in D.C., they estimated a forty percent casualty rate on the first day, and more than half of those were fatalities.”

Mulder shakes his head, disbelieving. “What could kill that many people?”

Skinner shrugs. “They were organized. Bombs, fires, coordinated shootings. And then — I assume you’ve seen victims of the disease. It’s highly contagious. It only took a few hours to blockade the cities, but people had already left. And within the cities…”

She looks at Skinner. “Are you—” she asks, and he nods shortly.

“Clean. I’m immune.” He raises an eyebrow. “As are you, I assume.”

“Scully?” Mulder asks.

She changes the subject. “What about the rest of the world? It can’t be like this everywhere.”

There’s a long pause. Skinner says, slowly, “The president…retaliated.”

He lets that sink in.

Will is the first one to speak. “Does he even know who attacked us?”

“Does it matter?” Skinner snaps. “Someone had to take the blame. It wouldn’t have mattered, anyway. They shut down the airports but people crossed borders on foot. The first cases of the disease appeared in Toronto, Vancouver, and Tijuana six hours after the attacks.”

“And where is the president?” Scully sneers the word.

Skinner waves his hand, dismissive. “Holed up in a bunker somewhere with a dozen men and the nuclear codes. No one is taking control of the situation, if that’s what you’re asking.” She can see his Adam’s apple move as he swallows, hard. “We’re on our own.

Will says, "So this is it. The end of the world.” His voice is flat, affectless.

“Probably,” Skinner agrees, looking the boy in the eyes. “But we’re still here.” He looks to Mulder, and then to Scully. “The question is, what are we going to do now?”


Scriabin - Prometheus: The Poem of Fire

My inner Romantic likes to match music with the weather, and so the other night walking to the local Dairy Queen, I put on Scriabin to match the light of the full moon. Again I’m hypnotized and drawn in by the weirdness and the ethereal sounds from his more “mystical” works. Here is the Poem of Fire, which in a way is essentially his second piano concerto. For orchestra, chorus, piano, and organ, this work is highly dissonant and revolves around his “mystic chord”, which opens the work and which Scriabin also referred to as the “Promethean chord” [A D♯ G C♯ F♯ B]. I can’t help but think of Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony, which is also rooted in a Promethean spirit. Perhaps this is Scriabin’s way of bringing a new language to music? That of atonality, but order in the supposed disorder? One fun fact is that this work also includes a clavier à lumières, or color organ, in the score. The color organ is an instrument Scriabin conceived specifically for this piece, and it is an organ that also shines light as it is played, and each light corresponds with a specific key, which was Scriabin’s way of trying to show the tone painting that he did when he wrote music, using colors as he could see them thanks to his chromesthesia [audio-visual synesthesia where he associates different pitches with different colors]. The work is a fantastic build up, and should be included in every list of “music to hear before you die”.

[2/?] Daughter of Smoke and Bone Tarot Cards: Liraz

“She was no mere weapon as she was trained to be, but a woman in full command of her power, unbowed and unbroken, and that was a dangerous thing.

Dreams of Gods and Monsters by Laini Taylor