tongues of flame

7

The Birth of the Fifth Sun, the Mexica (Aztec) sacred narrative which tells of the birth of our current sun. The paintings are posted in order, and follow the progress of the narrative told below.

14.1 It is said that when the earth was still dark, when there was yet no warmth, nor day, nor light, the Teteo came together at Teotihuacan to take counsel, and there they lit the Spirit Fires, great blazes set atop the twin pyramids of the sacred city. For four years they burned.  “Come here, oh Teteo! Who shall carry the sun? Who shall bear it? The warming, the dawning? The burning fire? The celestial Light? Who shall leap into the Spirit Fire?” Than forth stepped Four Flint, Tecuciztecatl, Our Lord of Snails, and he cried out, “Oh Teteo! Indeed, it shall be I!” Yoaltecuhtli and Tlaloc stepped forward, “You are one who must keep the sky and the earth.”
14.2 “And yet, another is needed,” said the Teteo. “Who shall be the other?” Yet the Teteo were frightened, and none among them stepped forth. They took counsel with one another, and summoned Nanahuatzin, The Pimpled Lord, the Crippled One, and summoned him to the counsel. Tonacatecuhtli and Xiuhtecuhtli stepped forward and said to him, “You are the one who must keep the sky and the earth.” Many tears did Nanahuatzin shed, for he felt unequal to the task, he, the worthless invalid.
14.3 The Teteo Nanahuatzin and Tecuciztecatl began their fasts, their sacrifices, in preparation for the Spirit Fire, the God Oven. Tecuciztecatl prepared himself with precious things. His fasting-ropes were of quetzal feathers, and his ritual branches of cotinga plumes. His grass heart was of woven gold, his incense of the finest copal. He did not offer his own blood, his own Yollia, but instead offered maguey thorns and  lancets made of coral. Resplendent he looked, shining and beautiful, as he made his sacrifices.
14.4 Nanahuatzin, the Crippled Lord, the Teotl in poverty, formed his fasting-rope of grass and paper. His ritual branches were made of green grass and green reeds, tied in three bundles, bound bundles of nine each. His bloodletting spine was of bone, well reddened with his own blood. His only incense were his scabs, twisted off and cast into the fire.
For four days they fasted, for four days they drew blood and meditated their sacred actions, there upon their respective pyramids. When they had completed their days of sacrifice, they burned their ritual branches, their bloodletting instruments, in the sacred fire. They were become slaves. They were become Gods.
14.5 To Tecuciztecatl, the gathered Teteo gave him his egret headdress, his elegant attire of quetzal and jade.
14.6 But Nanahuatzin was attired only in paper, only in cloth of Maguey. They painted the Teteo in white, they chalked them, and adorned them in eagle-down feathers.
15.1 Tecuciztecatl, as the senior Lord, approached the fire first, to leap into its heart. The fire roared, it crackled, it seared his eyes. He grew faint and afraid. He hesitated. He could not bring himself to leap into the fire.Than Nanahuatzin, the Crippled Lord, seeing the terror of the other, walked forward. Bravely he walked, slowly, so as to feel its heat. And when he reached the Spirit Fire, the God Oven, he leapt into its heart and was consumed.
Tecuciztecatl grew ashamed, and found his spirit, and he too leapt into the Spirit Fire, but lacking the bravery of Nanahuatzin, he fell only into its embers and ashes, where he, too, was consumed.
The Jaguar and the Eagle were among the company of the Teteo, and both leapt over the Spirit Fire. They were singed, they were burned, in its tongues of flame, and thus acquired their spots and dark feathers. For their bravery they were made warriors, ever to serve the sun.

16.1 When, in this way, the two Teteo had thrown themselves into the God Oven, when they had burned to ash, the Teteo sat awaiting to learn from whence they would emerge. Long they waited, meditating in the darkness, when all at once everywhere it became red, everywhere the light of dawn, the reddening of dawn. The Teteo knelt down, facing each of the four directions, to see from whence the sun would emerge at this first dawning of the Fifth Sun. The Teteo fell into confusion; they turned in circles, they faced all directions. The traditional orations, the traditional words, did not bring clarity to the Teteo. Some thought he would emerge from Mictlán, the Place of the Dead, and faced North, to find him there. Some thought The Place of Women, and faced the West, some, The House of Thorns, and faced the South, for the light of the dawning encircled all things, and confusion reigned.
Yet some of the Teteo faced the East, the Place of Light, and cried out, “Already, is he there, already, his light illuminates his Eastern Palace! Behold, he is emerging!” Those who waited there, who pointed there, were Quetzalcoátl and his nagual Xolotl. There too was Our Lord Anahuatl, the Red Tezcatlipoca, and the Mimixcoa without number. And there awaited four women; Tiacapan, Teicu, Tlacoyehua, and Xocoyotl.
And as the sun rose, his light spread like the red Cochineal dye throughout the East, his dazzling brilliance was such that he could not be faced. He shone, he illuminated, and light came into this world. And afterward, Tecciztecatl, too, arose from the Place of Light, also golden and shining, impossible to behold; a second sun.
16.2 And the Teteo said; “How can this be? Shall there be two suns, who both shall follow the same road, who both shall shine in the same way? The brave Nanahuatzin and the unworthy Tecciztecatl?” And so, Tlahuizcalpantecuhtli, The Morning Star, snatched a rabbit from the earth and flung it in the face of Tecciztecatl. Thus, was his face wrecked and his light dimmed, and he fell into the ashes.
17.1 The Teteo declared, “No longer shall he be known as Nanahuatzin, the Pimpled Lord, the Crippled God. He is Tonatiuh, Our Lord the Sun!” And Tonacatecuhtli and Tonacacihuatl, the Lord and Lady of Our Flesh, Our Sustenance, rose to his place at the center of the sky. They bathed and anointed him. They sat him in his Quechol chair. They adorned his head with the butterfly crest, the red-leather thong.
17.2 But he would not move from his place. Four days he remained at the Zenith, at the center of the sky. “Why does he not move?” asked the Teteo, and they sent the Falcon of the Obsidian Blade to ask why he was immobile in the sky.
“I hunger!” replied Tonatiuh. “I need their blood, their precious color, their Yollotl, to find the strength to move across the sky. I need the blood of those who sent me to the Spirit Fire!”
17.3 When the Falcon returned to the gathered Teteo and gave them his message, they were much saddened and afraid. Tlahuizcalpantecuhtli grew angry and cried out, “I will shoot him! He must not stay immobile in the sky!” But his arrows could not reach the sun. Yet the sun, from his lofty perch, shot down his own arrows, his shafts of flame, and they burned the body of The Morning Star, and with the Nine Layers covered up his face, and transformed him into Itztli, the Teótl of the Obsidian Blade, of cold, frost, snow, and judgement.
18.1 Quetzalcoátl raised his eyes sadly to the sky, and spoke to the gods at Teotihuacan. “May he be revived. May we all die!” And the gods mournfully submitted to his will. And so with the Sacred Flint Blade he slit the throats of the gathered Gods; of Titlacahuan, and Huitzilopochtli, and the Goddesses Xochiquetzal, Yapalliicue, and Nochpalliicue. But Xolotl, the god of twins and monstrosities and who is the sprit double of Quetzalcoátl, did not want to die. He fled Quetzalcoátl and his terrible blade. He wept so that his eyes fell from their sockets. “Send me not to the blade, oh Gods! Let me not die!”
18.2 He fled, and Death quickly followed. He followed him to the fields of young corn, were Xolotl transformed himself into the young maize with two stalks in order to hide from Death. He became the Xolotl of the Field. But he was seen by the eyes of Death there among the corn, from whom nothing may be hidden, and so he ran to the Maguey field, and there he turned himself into the double maguey, the Maguey Xolotl. But there too was he seen by the eyes of Death, and so he escaped to the lake, and there turned himself into the Axolotl, the lake-salamander. But there was no more escape, and Death caught him, and Quetzalcoátl slit his throat, amid his tears and lamentations.
19.1 The blood of the Gods rose to the heavens and Tonatiuh drank the sacred strength of their Yollia, on the day Nahui Ollin, Four Movement, the sacred name and destiny of the Fifth Sun. Yet still he could not move, still he could not follow his path.
20.1 But Quetzalcoátl, who had shed the blood of the Gods, who had released the divine force of their Yollia, grew strong and straight. He ran, and blew lightly in the face of the sun, and so pushed him along his path, and than slit his own throat, that his blood and divine Yollia might make the revolutions of the heavens eternal.
Thus it was that as the sun was entering into the earth again, into the open jaws of Our Mother, Tlaltecuhtli, the moon arose from the ashes into which he had fallen, and there at the crossroads met the Tzitzimime, the Star Demons, and the Coleletin, and they detained him a while, and dressed him in rags. He who would have been the sun, who would have been clothed in splendor. And thus it is that on the day Four Movement night and day came into being, and the deaths of the gods established the covenant of sacrifice with men.


There is a door in the history department. It never looks the same twice and is always cracked open when it’s actually there. No one has ever returned through it.

There once was a chemistry major that went through the door. Their friend followed after.

One returned.

One did not.

The story did not begin there though. It began long, long ago, in the tales and songs of ancestors long gone; passed from mother to daughter and father to son. They did not fade through time, starting anew in each beating heart of the family line.

They reached a young girl with olive skin and hair like raven’s wings. Her dark eyes would shine as her grandmother wove the tales by the fireside.

She spoke to the girl of a woman with fiery hair and burning eyes, who spoke with flames and held infernos between her palms. Perhaps that sparked the love in her for all things she should not, and she strove to make the embers dance, like the one with fire in her hands.

Her grandmother knew in her old, wise bones that this child needed the tales more than most. Their family had always been aware, trusting their intuition had never led them wrong.

So when the girl came to Elsewhere, (For where else could she have gone?) Everyone steered clear (The school gave up on roommates before very long.)

Perhaps it was because of her reputation of playing with fire, or perhaps it was simply fate, but her chemistry professor paired her with a boy who loved to play with ice. They became unlikely friends, she with her burning salts and he with his liquid nitrogen.

“Call me Pyrra.” she said.

“Frozone.” He grinned, white teeth gleamed against his dark skin.

He told her of his girlfriend back in Louisiana who was pregnant with his child: “It’s too soon to know the gender yet.” And she would just smile.

She told him of her grandparents and their small, simple home that stood alone on the reservation and of the wild horses that would thunder by.

They knew what everyone would say, how unwise it was to share so much about themselves, but they were chemistry majors—those rarely got taken.

The two were closer then blood and they both forgot one very important fact— being Taken isn’t the only way to Vanish.

It had been an accident. Frozone hadn’t been paying attention. He had forgotten to count the doors, as he stumbled to his history class after a long night in the labs. No one probably would have known if a fellow student hadn’t seen him stepping through the door—too late to stop his fate.

Pyrra was the first one told, the RA’s decided to wait till the end of the term before notifying his family. They knew it was a futile hope, but anything beat having to make that call.

Pyrra wouldn’t accept this though. She gathered up her craft, and armed herself with salts to burn. She dressed herself in her tribe’s garments and war paint on her face—there is power in being claimed—and set off for the history building when the moonless night was at its darkest.

The door gave way before her and she crossed into when; not where, her friend had gone. She travelled far until she found where the Little People were gathered round. They vanished as she drew near, but she was unshaken by this or fear.

“I have come to bargain for my brother of heart.”

“What will you give?” They whispered in reply.

“A story like none other.” She called bravely into the night.

“There is no story to match his fate, for his return we will need something great.”

Pyrra paused before standing straight.

“Then I will take his place.”

“Is this your choice?”

She thought of her grandparents, sitting at home, they had only gotten electricity a few years ago.

She thought of Frozone’s sisters, all so young and alone thriving off their brother’s hope to give them a better home, on the income of the degree the scholarship would to them all. She thought about his girlfriend, who worked two jobs by day, and attended a community college to get her art degree by night. With that her mind was made.

“It is.”

Frozone stumbled in, lost and confused as if it had only been an hour instead of a day. He caught onto what had happened more than quick enough.

“Pyrra, you can’t do this! Please! It’s my mistake to pay.”

“Call my grandmother and ask for my name, give it to your daughter and your debt shall be paid.”

That was all the time they had, before he was gone and she had stayed. The Little Folk drew near her now; intent on Their new pet, but she held up her hand, she wasn’t Theirs quite yet.

“I have another bargain to make.”

“What now?” They grumbled, discontent and bored.

“My story for my freedom, I chose to stay, but not to be yours.”

“Fine.” they hissed “But the bargain is this: you must keep us entertained till dawn or to us you will belong.”

What choice was there left for her to make? The sky was at it darkest—the hour before dawn. But how that hour stretched on and on!

She dared not tell her family’s tales, or sing to Them their songs, so she told them what she had, her science close at hand.

She told them how a star was born and how precious gems became; all the while between her hands she wove the tales with flame.

When that never nearing dawn finally broke upon the sky, They praised her skills, and kept their deals; blessing her all the while.

Fire-tongue they called her; Flame-speaker, They would say. They kissed her eyes and painted her lips, dressing her in flame.

She smiled and simply said, “That is not my name.”

For she had a new name now, one that no one could ever Take, now that she had given her old name away.

Frozone made it back and tried to keep his word. He called her grandmother who patiently greeted him and told him Pyrra’s name, only requesting that in return he send her things and bring his daughter by some day. She waved him off when he explained that the baby was still too small to tell, whether it was female or male.

Years passed and soon it was time to graduate. Everyone assumed that Pyrra’s grandparents came for Frozone. No one expected Pyrra to appear and collect her diploma as if she had been there all along. Then again, no one mentioned how her eyes were embers now or how her hair had turned from raven black to crimson—so she very well may have been.

         A few decades later a new student comes—a chemistry major that loves to play with fire. She wears a white smile; which is near blinding against her dark skin. She claims she came to prove that her father paid his debt. She won’t say anymore than that. But sometimes she would leave the dorm shortly before dawn on moonless nights with a string of fireworks in her hands. She would always return the next morning, humming ancient songs as she wrote an email to her father.

         During her time a new tale whispers its way into campus lore.

It’s breathed into the ears of distraught students—those with the courage to try and reclaim the Taken Ones are the only ones to hear the advice.

“Come to the edge of the woods on a moonless night, just before dawn and set off fireworks of every color—then wait.”

The ones who listen return with tales about a woman in smoldering garments, blazing red hair, and glowing embers for eyes who would test their resolve. To those who passed she would gift them with words or song, depending on their need, she might even gift them with her fire.

Regardless of what you get, it is always enough to get them back.

Except no one can remember what it was she gave them. They could never remember the tale itself, just that she gave them one; the songs she granted would dance just beyond memory’s grasp; the image of a mesmerizing flame leaving a ghostly impression inside their eyelids. There was only one thing anyone remembers her saying.

“My name is Story—”

There is a door in the history department. It never looks the same twice and is always cracked open when it is there. No one has ever returned through it.

There once was a chemistry major that went through the door. His friend followed after.

He returned.

She did not.

“—and I create myself.”

A/N: I know the Gentry come off a little strange in this. It’s mostly because Pyrra is Navajo and thus the stories she knows are of the Little People; but at Elsewhere, the Gentry are for the most part from Great Britain, Ireland and thereabouts. I tried to blend these two cultures. I’m not gunna lie, I didn’t do great. I haven’t done much with Navajo mythology in a long while. I feel it came off pretty shoddy in this. I’m not trying to offend (I’m part native American myself). Also, I love Chemistry but I suck at it which is why I didn’t go as into depth as I would have liked. (My grammar sucks too, so apologies there as well.)

[x]

Voltron Noragami/Noragami Aragoto AU HCs!

Allura as a goddess. Probably like the god of war like Bishamon from Noragami. (Since she can kick ass in her sleep in canon). She has 6 Regalias (Shinki) with her that she had collected and who had overtime, grown on her. Over time, they have bonded through countless battles and have become an unbreakable team, family.

Shiro

  • Shiro is Allura’s first regalia. She found him when she was a relatively new god who wandered the world looking to start her path and create a name for herself.
  • His first form was a chipped wooden ring that Allura wears on her right hand. He packs a real punch when Allura uses him.
  • Over many years, the two of them become closer and they become an efficient duo. 
  • During one of the fights with Allura’s enemy, a god of calamity named Lotor, Shiro risks his life and his name to protect Allura and he evolves into a Blessed Regalia. From a wooden ring, Shiro becomes a polished obsidian ring with a beautiful cut violet stone. When activated, Shiro shifts and covers Allura’s right arm with a metal gauntlet that Allura can use the same way Shiro uses his arm in canon VLD. 
  • As Allura took in more regalia spirits, Shiro takes a stand as everyone’s commander. 
  • They’re like parents!!! They get stern and tired when the younger regalia (except Coran) fight and bicker. But the shrine they live in becomes rowdy with life and laughter. 
  • They develop feelings for each other even if it’s lowkey (Like Visha and Kazuma)  When there are other people around, they act professional but when it’s just the two of them, Shiro cares for Allura and does little things like make her tea or give her a back rub after a long day of fighting phantoms. He combs her her while he sits by the hot spring while Allura bathes. Shiro is like a doting husband who takes care of his overly stressed wife. Allura cares abotu Shiro very much as well and he often comes to him whenever there’s something bothering her. If there’s someone she trust to open up her heart to, it’s Shiro.
  • Yes, they kiss each other good night, good morning, after battle, or at random times of the day. Of course, when no one is around to see but it’s just SOOOOOO obvious. 

Coran

  • Coran is the second regalia Allura takes in. They met when she and Shiro got in a misty forest. 
  • He helps Shiro and Allura find their way out but as they start to part ways, Coran admits that he doesn’t enjoy wandering aimlessly in the forest. So, Allura takes him in.
  • Coran’s regalia form is a cane sword. However, by nature, he doesn’t like to fight if not needed. He enjoys keeping the shrine in tip top shape. Cleaning and making sure things are in order. He makes the meals and he transforms the ten thousand year old rundown shrine into a beautiful place that attracts tourists and people to pray to Allura. 
  • As more regalia joined Allura, Coran is genuinely happy that the shrine became filled with laughter. 
  • When Shiro is too busy with his duties, Coran’s usually the one who break up Keith and Lance when those two get on each other’s throats. 
  • He is very observant! When he first met Allura and Shiro, he immidately knew that the goddess and her ragalia had a special bond. Even if Keith and Lance bicker a lot, Coran knows all about the pining. 
  • When Allura goes out to battle phantoms with her regalia, Coran always makes sure that they all come home to a nice home cooked feast. 
  • He’s so precious. Protect him at all cost. 

Lance

  • Lance is the third regalia Allura takes in. Allura finds him sitting by a river one winter in his white spirit’s robe, looking utterly lost and confused. 
  • Out of all of her regalia, it was Lance who brought Allura to tears when the memories of how he lived and died flashed before Allura’s eyes when she claimed him as he own. (LAAAANGST) Of course, by the rules, Allura can’t tell anyone about it. 
  • Lance’s regalia form is a pistol (A .50 Desert Eagle, to be specific) 
  • His aim is so good that he’s dubbed as The Sharpshooter. That skill is amplified a hundred times with Pidge’s calculations guidance. 
  • Lance fights with Keith A LOT.
  • He also pines for Keith… A FUCKING LOT.
  • But in the heat of battle, Allura can count on Lance and Keith to be a flawless duo and they never let her down. Those two can hack and shoot through anything and they help make Allura even more lethal as a goddess of war.
  • LOTOR TRIED TO PIRATE LANCE ONCE. (hooolyyy shiiiit) It was during a low point in Lance’s life when he started to doubt himself and his abilities. The doubts and the distrust also taints Allura, blotching her right leg with bruises. 
  • Lance got in pretty deep in the rot and they had to use that painful cleansing ritual. Shiro, Coran, and Keith performed the ceremony. It was pretty painful to watch (especially for a certain mullet-haired regalia) but it had to be done.
  • Lance is always the one making jokes during a stressful situation in order to ease the tension and lighten the mood for his goddess and fellow regalia. But when shit hits the fan, Lance also means business. 

Hunk

  • Hunk is the fourth regalia Allura took in. She actually found him while she was on her day off and grocery shopping with Shiro and Lance. Hunk was sitting in an alley with his knees hugged to his chest and he looked incredibly terrified. 
  • Hunk is a gladiator armor type regalia. Lightweight and easy to move in but boooy he provides Allura with amazing (and fashionable) protection.
  • His episode reveals that he’s being chased by phantoms so he’s pretty shaken. He’s been hiding in alleys and scavenges dumpsters. 
  • Allura fights off the phantoms with Lance and Shiro then she takes Hunk in to her care. 
  • Hunk and Lance become best friends and they’re always chilling in the shrine after Coran makes them do their chores. 
  • He’s also an amazing cook! He and Coran often bonds in the kitchen and the team’s meals became 74539% better after Hunk joined the family. 
  • He’s a gentle sunshine child. Pure and too good for this world. 

Keith

  • Keith is the fifth regalia Allura took in. It was actually a last minute decision for Allura. She went off on her own (despite Shiro’s protests) to ‘run an errand.’ Since Shiro was occupied with some duties as her Divine Vessel, Allura went off with Hunk and Lance. 
  • Keith is a blade type regalia. A black bladed katana with a red slit that ran the length of the blade. 
  • Lance and Hunk are good but the phantom Allura fought was too fast for bullets. In the heat of the battle, Allura spotted a floating tongue of flame flickering in the darkness and knew that it was a spirit. 
  • Lance was like, “My lady, what are you doing? Are you even sure?” and Allura’s like: “We don’t have a choice right now, Lance!” then Allura takes Keith. (This scenario is similar to how Yato named Yukine.)
  • Keith is pretty hot headed and he can get quite crass sometimes but on the inside, he’s actually a tender cinnamon roll. 
  • He and Lance always butt heads, pretty much every goddamned minute when Keith was new. But over the course of time, the two started to bond more and they make a great team (range/close combat combo).
  • When Lance underwent the purification process, Keith was one of the three that participated and it hurt him so much to see Lance in pain like that. 
  • BECAUSE HE HAS FEELINGS FOR LANCE.
  • After Lance is cleansed and he falls it was Keith who caught him and cradles him in his arms. 
  • Not that he would admit it. But he’s a pining dork, according to Pidge. 
  • Keith usually trains with Shiro to hone his skills and the two become like brothers but Keith still respects him as his superior. 
  • When he’s not training, he usually takes quiet walks around the shrine and read the wishes that the patrons hang on the posts. On rare occasions that the wish plaque had the handwriting of a child and the wish was simple (ie. finding a lost cat) Keith asks permission from Allura to go out and ‘grant’ the wish. This also boosts Allura’s credibility towards shrine patrons too. 
  • Keith’s wish-granting-mission partner is Pidge. They’re such bros. 

Pidge

  • Pidge is the latest addition to the team and the one who is the youngest. Actually, it was Lance and Keith who found her wandering around when Shiro sent them out for an errand. There was a storm that day. Lance and Keith were fighting in a train station platform because they got off the wrong stop and they blamed the other.
  • Believe it or not, Pidge’s regalia form is actually a headband. (The same one she wore as Katie Holt in the canon VLD). But besides being a fashion accessory, Pidge actually extends to a glass scope over Allura’s left eye. (Her abilities are very much similar to Kazuma’s in Noragami.)
  • “Shut the fuck up, you two are making a ruckus. You should just kiss and go on your way.”
  • Klance: “!!!!?????!??!?!” *intense tsundere blushing* 
  • However, there was a phantom in the train station and the three of them have to fight their way through and get away. Lance and Keith can’t just leave this smol sassy salty girl on her own and it was obvious that she was just like them so they bring her home to the shrine. 
  • At first, Pidge didn’t want to because she didn’t want to be a burden, but Allura has a kind heart so… yeah. 
  • Lance’s memories and the way he died might have brought tears to Allura’s eyes because of how sad it is. But Pidge’s story actually leaves Allura frozen in shock and horror because of how traumatic it was. 
  • She does all the tech stuff that aide Allura in her hunts for phantoms. Maps, calculations, aura readings, google,… Just leave it to Pidge.
  • Pidge is the one who guides Shiro, Lance, and Keith during offense for a more exact hit on the target. 
  • Pidge is a sass master and she’s comes up with unbelievable conspiracy theories. She’s hella intelligent and is often the one who comes up with plans. 

So, there you go! I don’t think I’m dedicated enough to write this and I have a ton of project on my plate already. But if you’d like to use these for a fic, just let me know and please give credit! I’d love to read it! 

Escape: the wedding plans

“CAMERAS!” Jenny screamed, and cuffed Jamie round the head.  He was sitting across from her desk, sipping on a coffee, waiting for her to come back from closing her office door.  He hadn’t seen it coming, so she got in a few blows before he reacted.  Coffee splashed on his hand, burning him.  He jumped up and shied away from her.  

“Jenny!  I’m no’ twelve!  Quit hittin’ me!” Jamie snarled, reaching for a cloth to wipe his hand.  

“Ye forgot THE CAMERAS!” she insisted. 

Dabbing at his hand, Jamie looked confused.  Then, shocked.  Then, he blushed red to the tips of his ears.  

“A Dhia,” he breathed.  “Cameras.”

“Aye.  Security brought it to my attention this morning.”  She pulled out her chair, and sat down, lamenting.  “Jamie!  What were ye thinkin’?”

“Who knows?” he asked, panicked.

“Just Head of Security.  Thank God he was on the night shift last night.   The regular guy called in sick.”  Jenny took a sip from her mug.  “I’m going back in a bit to check that he’s deleted it.  I’ve threatened to fire him if it gets out.”  

Jamie sat down heavily.  “Claire will kill me.”

“Claire?”  Jenny leaned on her desk, fire in her eyes.  “I’m ready to geld ye, ye stupid fool!  What in HELL possessed ye?”

Jamie’s hands fluttered as he tried to figure out where to start.  “We came here to taste whisky.”  He still couldn’t meet her eyes.  “To serve at the weddin’,” he mumbled.  

“Mary, Michael and Bride, Jamie!  So ye thought ye’d practice for the honeymoon while ye were at it?”  


“Whisky makin’ dates back to the monks of the 15th Century. Did ye know that?” 

“No, I didn’t.” Claire smiled, interested.  She absorbed the old world feeling in the entry way.  

“Uisge beatha,” Jamie said.  “Water of Life.  It was corrupted to ‘usky’ in the 18th Century, which eventually became Whisky.” 

He took her hand, and walked her through the Distillery showing her where the barley is first steeped in water, then spread out on the malting floors to germinate.  He mentioned how it had to be turned regularly, so she bent down to grab a handful and let it flow through her fingers. Her sweet, round arse bent before him.  

That was the spark.  

He explained how the ‘green’ malt went to the kiln for drying and how peat was added to the fire to impart flavour.  She wrinkled her cute nose at the smell, and he laughed.  

The fire in his belly burned a little hotter.

He showed her the grinder, and the mash house.  He spoke to her of the pure Scottish water and let her taste the wort.  It was sweet, and she licked her lips while she voiced her pleasure at the taste. 

Her tongue fanned the flames.  

They walked slowly to the fermentation area, holding hands, while he explained how they added the yeast, which produced the alcohol by feeding on the sugars.

He felt the warmth of her fingers caressing his.  

Then, he led her up the stairs to the Pot Stills.  He explained how the shape of the pots affected the character of the whisky, and how these stills had been in his family for generations.  She walked up to the shining copper and trailed her fingers down the long, narrow cylinder where it met the wide curvature. She had laughed, and said, “Very sexy looking stills, Mr. Fraser.”  

The fire had exploded in his gut with the heat heading downwards. 

He showed her the distillation process and pointed out the path the amber liquid took on it’s journey.  He’d stood behind her, one hand on her hip, the other pointing.  She leaned back a little, to rest herself against his chest.  She was listening, but that move afforded him a view down her blouse to the curve of her breasts. 

His breath came a little short, and he stuttered a bit.   

He took her to the whisky library and pured them samples in tulip shaped glasses.  He talked to her of maturation, how the whisky became smoother, gained flavour, and developed its golden colour, same as her eyes.  He told her that by law it needed to be matured for at least 3 years, but some lay in their oak casks for up to 15 years or longer.  He spoke to her of blending, and what made Fraser Distillery distinct.  They tasted quite a few. Then, a few more.  Finally, they narrowed down their choice.  

Then, he took her into the barrel room.  

Feeling very giddy, and a little drunk, Claire wanted to mark the blend in the cask that they would have for the wedding.  

And when she leaned over the barrel laughing about taking it home, he couldn’t help himself.  A button had popped open on her blouse, and her breasts were swinging free. The jeans hugged her arse tight as she draped herself over the cask, and all he could think of was pulling down the denim, bending her over, and finding as much pleasure inside of her as he could.  

So he did.

He’d stepped forward, pulled her up abruptly to face him, and grabbed her zipper.  He’d driven his hands inside, and made short work of her jeans.  He lifted her on top of the barrel without thought for how uncomfortable it might be. She was just the right height.  Kissing her hard while she fumbled with his belt, he whipped his zipper down, and she drove her hand inside his trousers.  It was all the encouragement he needed.  She pushed down his pants, locked her legs around him as he grabbed a handful of her hair, and they pushed together.  She was more brazen with a few drinks in her, more playful, rougher.  She bit his lip, dragged her teeth across his jaw, and whispered her desires in his ear, hot and breathy.  He groaned at her suggestions, gripped her hips, and let his lips taste every inch of skin he could reach without leaving her.  

It was spontaneous, and dirty, and so very, very good.  


“I’m so sorry, Claire.”  He sounded so contrite.  She couldn’t help but giggle. Just a little.

He was standing behind her, and looked over her shoulder to see her face.  He couldn’t believe she was laughing.  He shook his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.  “It’s no’ funny, Sassenach.  Jenny was livid.”  

Claire couldn’t help herself.  She tried to hold it in, but a snort escaped her. Jamie broke then, too.  

When he’d returned to his office there was a sealed manila envelope with his name written on it. Inside was a disc, and a note.  The note read, “I’ve deleted everything.  Couldn’t help but wonder if you’d want to see for yourself so I made a copy first.  I know if it were me, I’d be curious.  Don’t tell Jenny.”  It was signed by the Head of Security, Angus More.  

While they watched the grainy black and white footage being broadcast on his laptop, there was no mistaking who it was and what they were doing.  

“Thank God there’s no sound,” Claire chuckled.  

“Aye.  Small mercy, that.”  Jamie wrapped his arms around Claire as the disc came to an abrupt end.  “Are ye no’ mad?”

“Mad, no.  Mortified, yes.” Claire turned in his arms and placed her hands on his shoulders.  “I can’t face your sister.  Ever.”

He nodded, serious for a moment.  Then a sly grin took over his face as he admitted, “Neither can I, mo nighean donn.”

Claire thought for a moment.  “What happens to the barrel?  When the whisky is out of it, I mean.”

“It gets used again.  Why?”  Jamie settled his hands on her hips.  

“I want it.  Here.  In our home.  We’ll stand it upright, and use it as a tabletop or something.  I just want the memory.”  She bit her lip, and looked up at him tentatively.   

Jamie made an amused sound.  “I’ll see to the bottling, and bring it home myself.”  Resting his forehead on hers, he kissed her gently.  

“Do ye think for a time,” he whispered against her lips, “maybe we could leave it on its side?”  

Strings

Originally posted by jeonsshi

Summary: The Red String of Fate exists, and like only someone people in the world, you have the rare ability to see them- to change them.

Genre: Soulmates!Jungkook + angst-ish, (im sorry)

Word count: 7.5k

A/N : Hello! So this my attempt at a Soulmates!AU kill me now. This took me ages but now that this is out of the way, I can go back to writing Part IV of Neighbours! I hope you enjoy! I might do a Part II of this if people would like!

Part II


You had never believed in God.

You had never believed in the people that clasped their hands and fingers together in intercession or supplication prayers to the benevolent man who lived amongst the stars and rose with the sunrise and pulled the pomegranate pink and orange glows of a sunset at the wake of every horizon.

You didn’t believe in the man who smiled in the spectrum of rainbows to waterfalls and auroras and stormed in hurricanes and devastation when he raged. You didn’t believe in anything or second any thoughts to anyone else other than fate.

You had come to believe so religiously and so profoundly in destiny solely because you were sure that God simply could not be so cruel to grant you the life you had. You believed in fate because it hated you, spited you and things that caused hate existed far better than the things that didn’t.

Keep reading

"She-Wolf"

Have you never heard the story of the great She-Wolf? How her grey fur would move at the edge of sight like a billowing cloud of smoke? How she had teeth like shards of ice and eyes like fiery embers. She had claws that tore into the flesh of the dirt as she ran, as though the Earth itself were her prey. She had a tongue of fire. And her howl! How it would echo like thunder in a distant valley! Every bird and beast would take flight at its sounding and flee before this dark and old Queen of this dark and old wood. And have you never heard of her Hunt? How she would hunt the wicked men: the evil-doers, the oppressors, the rapists and abusers, and devour them all. She savored the Hunt and she savored her prey. She savored the smell of their fear almost as much as she savored the stain of their blood on her jowl. And did you not hear how she was brought low by the treachery of one such wicked man? How that coward, that worm, that lowest born son amongst the lowliest born sons, let loose a poisoned shaft from the safety of a treetop and struck the Queen at her left breast? How she fell to the forest floor with a resounding finality that shook the very roots of the mountains? But did you not know, as that feckless huntsman failed to realize, that the Mother had Daughters? Nine Princesses of the Old Wood who were to become it’s Queens. Nine pained, piercing howls that broke through the still night air in unison as the Old Mother’s final breath passed her ashen tongue. Nine pairs of ember eyes that suddenly burst into flame. Those Nine sisters bore down upon the huntsman before he could think to escape. They tore him from his perch and threw him to the ground in their midst. Every ember eye eyed him darkly and every flaming tongue licked their teeth hungrily. And those Nine Sisters, those Nine Queens, devoured that lowly son of man, flesh, blood, and bone. They were this forest’s Queens now. They were it’s Guardians. And they had their duaghters and those daughters had daughters in turn, until all the Earth was overun by the children of the children of the children of the great Old She-Wolf. You may still see them today, if you knew where to look. There’s one now, walking down the street, walking with an air of regality befitting only the daughter of a queen. See how her dark curls rest against her ebony brow like a crown? She is a She-Wolf. And there is another, running through the park, running as though she seeks to run down her prey. There is an ancient song in her heart and a sly smile about her lips. She is a She-Wolf as well. Look all about you now, closer and harder than you’ve ever thought to look before. You will find they are all around you. And I think, perhaps, were you to look in the mirror, you might also see a She-Wolf staring back at you.

thoughts for the signs

Aries: your grace is hidden under the fiery exterior you have built for the world. your tongue flicks flames at those in close proximity; if only they could feel the rhythm of your heart as it beats a bruise on your tender chest. 

Taurus: your mind takes root under the earthy soil, tendrils twisting beneath the ground you walk; your soul is protected here. watch out, though, for those willing to dig in order to unearth the treasure of your darkest secrets. 

Gemini: a spider cannot weave a web as magnificent as you do with your words. only you know how to navigate the sticky strands, and those who dare to cross you often find themselves forever enchanted by your tongue. 

Cancer: the depths of the ocean could not compare to the layers of your mind. so deep are your thoughts, that all close to you may drown if they are not careful to float. churning like the sea, pulled by the moon, your soul will not rest.  

Leo: a conflict between right and wrong rages in your head, while the smile on your face does not fade. standing in front of a mirror, the image is distorted; for you are as noble as the lion, yet as cowardly as the snake, waiting in the grass.

Virgo: tiny, delicate feet dance across the tile as you sneak your way through life.  slipping in and out of consciousness becomes easier as you glide through the dimensions of reality. you are caged, you are grounded, yet you are free.

Libra: you are a miracle stirring in the depths. dip your hands beneath the still, beautiful exterior and dig out the life within. you are balance, and you are serenity, but inside you are churning, swirling, waiting to be discovered.

Scorpio: a dark figure flicks on the shadow of your heart. your tender soul is masked by a rough exterior, a row of thorns threatening to prick all who dare reach out. a tear in the seam of reality draws you in, and you are reborn.

Sagittarius: a forest fire burns, jumping from tree to tree as its tendrils wave. nothing can cool the flames of your heart, the relentless heat of your soul. when the devastation is over, green buds of life explode from the charred ruins.

Capricorn: please yourself with the navy blue that rests in your mind, feel content with the forest green that makes up your body, breathe out the maroon smoke of your life; you are a colorful mystery, with a colorless resolution.

Aquarius: as an angel, you must hide your wings. the bright white light of your essence is masked by the darkness of the world around you. you suck in the black light of society, and with every breath, you turn darker inside.

Pisces: you whisper wishes of a new reality beneath your shallow breath. the radiance of your soul is muted by the quiet beauty of your mind, and the pearly depths of your existence churn with your readiness to transcend.

The Three of Us

(PART ONE)

Guess what I just watched last night.

Everything throbbed. Izuku’s hands and arm were on fire. He’d barely made it three steps out of Recovery Girl’s room before stumbling. His legs trembled, bolts of electricity shooting up them. It left a strange tingling sensation in its wake, the effects of Recovery Girl’s Quirk still trying to combat the pain. Gasping, he fell against the wall, then hissed. Now his shoulder hurt too, dammit. He tried to shift to a better position, back to the wall now, and cradled his bandaged arm in his hand. He could feel the crookedness to his fingers beneath, along with the lingering tingles of pain. He gritted his teeth. Maybe it had been a bad idea to push himself that much. And in front of everyone too, god—

“Kacchan’s gonna kill me,” he muttered, the back of his head thumping to the wall as he closed his eyes. He probably should’ve thought more before pulling that kind of stunt in front of his explosive, hard-tempered boyfriend. He’d already been yelled at multiple times for letting his Quirk damage him like this. He wasn’t looking forward to it again. But…

He couldn’t bring himself to regret it. It had been for Todoroki.

Letting out a strained breath, he gazed down at his mended hands again. He couldn’t imagine what Todoroki’s life must’ve been like before coming to U.A., how much suffering he endured, how many times he must’ve felt worthless, nothing more than a pawn in his father’s sick game. But he needed to see. He needed to know that he could be so much more than a pawn, he could be something incredible, and it had nothing to do with Endeavor.

He may have had a vision of grandeur, but Todoroki had one too. And his would make him more of a hero than his father ever was.

“I don’t regret pushing him to see that,” Izuku breathed to himself. The image came, unbidden, of Todoroki just as his left side had burst into flames; tongues of bright orange leaping from his skin and mingling with the red fire of his hair. Izuku found himself closing his eyes again, face suddenly hot.

He’d looked so beautiful.

“Midoriya.”

Izuku’s head snapped up, the familiar voice ringing out in the empty hall. His eyes widened when he saw Todoroki a few yards away, as if pulled from Izuku’s thoughts. They’d given him a change of clothes, probably because he’d burned through half of his own uniform during the match. He faced Izuku with bandages dotting his skin, expression unreadable. Izuku felt like he was being watched almost too closely by those bicolored eyes.

“T—Todoroki,” he stammered, managing a wobbly smile. He forced himself off of the wall and shuffled forward a few steps. “How’re you doing? I mean, they took care of you, right?”

“Yeah.” Todoroki’s voice didn’t change from that low, measured pitch. His eyes flicked over Izuku’s beaten form, as he stepped toward him, slow and almost…nervous? “What about you?”

“I’ve been better,” Izuku admitted. “But I’m okay, really.” Smiling wider, he lifted his hand and flexed his fingers. “See, it doesn’t hurt that bad.”

That near-blank expression didn’t leave Todoroki’s face, but the slightest curve appeared to his lips. “I’m glad.”

Feeling himself flush a bit, Izuku dropped his hand back to his side. “So…I guess I’m gonna get to watch you in the next mat—”

It happened too fast for him to react.

In a sudden burst of movement, Todoroki strode to him in three steps, lifted his hands to his face, and kissed him.

Izuku’s heart backflipped against his ribs. At first, there was a flash of light, and heat, and want, but—Kacchan. Guilt prickled somewhere beneath it all and he thought that he should pull away. But Todoroki’s grip on his jaw gentled until he was cradling Izuku’s face, thumbs stroking across his cheeks. After the first, hard press of his lips on Izuku’s, he let a gasp of air appear between them to whisper, “Izuku.”

A shiver leapt up Izuku’s spine and he forgot everything except the want to be in this moment, here, now. “Shouto,” he breathed back, wrapping his arms around Todoroki’s shoulders and angling his head to meet his mouth again.

Izuku parted his lips this time to taste his breaths, his tongue, and Shouto moaned quietly against him. He took Izuku by the waist, pulling him in, until there wasn’t a centimeter of space separating them. There was nothing but the press of their bodies together, the way they fit like they were made for this. Izuku inhaled a quick breath through his nose, not willing to break the kiss just yet. Shouto smelled amazing, a mix of sheer cold and ash that made Izuku lightheaded. He melted into Shouto’s arms and felt one of Shouto’s hands slide up his back to his hair, locking curls between his fingers. He never wanted to stop, and when Shouto broke the kiss, Izuku gave a small, disappointed whine. With lips still grazing his, Shouto whispered into his mouth, “I’m in love with you.” Izuku’s entire world trembled, and he didn’t know if it was falling apart or being pieced back together at the same time.

But then

“HEY! WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!”

Izuku’s eyes shot open wide, a feeling like icy water doused over his body. He had to force himself to tear away from Shouto, gaze landing on the figure standing down the hall from them, watching them. His heart plummeted to the floor. He’d know those scorching eyes anywhere, the pop of angry sparks.

Katsuki glared first at Izuku, then at Shouto, a tangle of hurt and rage written across his face. As Izuku watched in horror, he jabbed a finger at Shouto. “You better have a damn good explanation, half-and-half bastard, before I blow your fucking face off!”

i will never be the type to come home
with shattered fists, a bloodied mess
you aren’t responsible for looking after.
i don’t need to defend this skin
as long as you settle yourself inside
of it once the sun goes down.
i will be the first to admit
that my only strength is choosing
the tongue over the flame,
knowing i carry more than
rage behind these teeth.
you deserve the type of peace
men beg for at their deathbed.
my only fear is that you’ve settled
for so long, anything less than
madness would bore you.

“We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always –
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.”
(T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets, Little Gidding, V.)

Sahara

Haunt

(Drabble.) Stanley explores his brother’s house in the woods for the first time, and comes away with no more answers than he’d gone in with.


The longer Stanley Pines explored his twin brother’s musty, isolated cabin, the more he wondered if this damn thing was actually haunted. 

“Goddamn Ford, what the hell did you get into?” he muttered softly, kicking aside the sun bleached and torn canvas portrait he found at the entrance of the attic.

Some sort of creepy black triangle was depicted on it- now faded grey from the passing of time- and surrounded by tongues of scarlet flames. The figure had a single, bulging eye, with which the artist apparently took great care to render in traumatizing realistic detail. Stan’s lip turned up in disgust at the pinkish, almost diseased looking veins that spread across the yellowish sclera of the eye like arcs of lightning, at the shiny catlike slit pupil that seemed to peel away at the walls of his soul in judgement. Its strange resemblance to all that Masonic illuminati shit did not go without notice. 

And from all he’d seen, the painting wasn’t the only illuminati-like image in this house. The triangular windows in the attic boasted that all-seeing eye. It was woven into the very fibers of the carpet in the entry hall. On a few walls, he found triangles sloppily carved into the wood frames, with a deep ‘X’ where the eye would normally be. Glass pyramidal prisms sat on shelves, desks, and the top of cabinets in nearly every room. One lay shattered in the lounge with the couch he’d slept in, but on the middle of the floor far from any furniture, as of his brother had personally hurled it to the ground. In anger? In surprise? 

In… fear? 

Did… did Ford- the brainy twin, the one Stan always assumed would build a grand livelihood for himself- really get sucked into some cult kind of stuff? Was this what he was trying to escape from when he begged him to take that damn journal? 

Stan sighed, a worn edge to his voice. The bandaged wound on his shoulder still throbbed from the whiskey he’d poured on it as rudimentary disinfectant this morning, pulsing at the same tempo as the headache that was beginning to bloom at the base of his skull. This creepy house made no fucking sense. Ford’s so-called research made no sense. After hours of failure with the portal, he hoped he could at least glean some context as to what that monolithic machine did- or why his brother was in such danger- but it all seemed hopeless. The contents of the journal Ford left behind didn’t even begin to explain what chaos he got into other than detailing some kooky magical forest biz. His cabin was a maze of smoke and mirrors, fostering questions but providing no direct answers.

Worst of all, he could swear this house was mocking him. The halls felt a little too narrow for his stocky frame whenever he’d pass through them. Doors he never touched would crack ever-so-slightly open the second time he laid eyes on them. The wallpaper would tear further when he wasn’t looking. Ford’s creepy triangular paraphernalia observed him from every angle, its gaze inescapable.

He is more than a hero
he is a god in my eyes–
the man who is allowed
to sit beside you — he

who listens intimately
to the sweet murmur of
your voice, the enticing

laughter that makes my own
heart beat fast. If I meet
you suddenly, I cant’

speak — my tongue is broken;
a thin flame runs under
my skin; seeing nothing,

hearing only my own ears
drumming, I drip with sweat;
trembling shakes my body

and I turn paler than
dry grass. At such times
death isn’t far from me.

—  Sappho (around 600 B.C.E.)