tongues of flame

Aries Moon: Can be a bit argumentative at times. You always know how they feel with their flaming tongue. Eyes that spark and sizzle.

Taurus Moon: Passionate and sensitive emotions hidden in a labyrinth and that Minotaur guarding it is named practically.

Gemini Moon: Butterflies in their head and heart but also vibrant songs. He/she is observant and their mind is like a racetrack.

Cancer Moon: Needs to be needed but abuse/use them and their wrath is like the sea. Mind is centered on self-preservation.

Leo Moon: Do you see that crown she/he wears? Mind is highly group-oriented yet subconsciously finds ways to stand out. Performer at heart. 

Virgo Moon: Always analyzing with a computer-like mind. Don’t mess with their routine. Their worry can easily be felt in a room.

Libra Moon: Receptors waiting to connect with others. Do you ever fully understand their decision making? Detached warmth of a swaying scale.

Scorpio Moon:Talk to them and you can feel their depth. you won’t see their claws or stinger until it’s too late. They are a coin of compassion and plotting hate. 

Sagittarius Moon: Mind is in tune to reevaluating their beliefs but their heart sticks to them. Eternally running through a field of freedom. 

Capricorn Moon: Insisting they have everything under control all while desiring a haven. Devoted, old soul, calculated mind, and antique heart.

Aquarius Moon: Such a friendly aura but an unusual mental wave. Learning to be human. Chaotic mind, distant feelings, and jigsaw heart.

Pisces Moon: Sitting on top of pastel clouds, mesmerizing to some and too otherworldly for others. Healer at heart. Receptive and adaptable soul. 

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! 

Anti-Attraction Spell

A spell to dull and hopefully eliminate your unwanted feelings for another person.

•Passionflower (often found in teas)
•Pistachios
•flour
•Hot pepper or hot sauce
•salt
•any clear water that represents change or new beginnings
•Cup
•sealable plastic bag

1. Crack open as many pistachios as you like. Bottle the shells and put them off to the side (they may be useful in a future spell that calls for pistachios or nut shells). Finely chop the nuts.
2. Stir passionflower, flour, and pistachio bits together with a plastic knife or butter knife if you only have access to silverware.
-The knife represents cutting out these unwanted feelings from your heart and mind. Pistachios can be used in ending a love spell and passionflower mixed with flour dulls romantic feelings.
2. Using a teaspoon, pour a bit of pepper or hot sauce onto your tongue (only as much as you can tolerate)
3. Using a separate teaspoon, spoon the flour mixture onto your tongue.
-This will “extinguish” any flame you have for this person, similar to throwing flour onto a grease fire.
4. Spit everything out into an empty cup. Spit as much as you like until everything is out of your mouth. (Take a break to drink some milk if you need to get rid of the spice on your tongue)
5. Fill the cup with about a ¼ inch of salt. Enough to completely cover the bottom and create a barrier between the spit and you.
6. Fill the remainder of the cup with water. Pour onto the wall of the cup, not directly into the salt.
-This will “dissolve” all feelings you had for them and drown them out with rational and clear thinking. DO NOT STIR
7. Let this concoction sit in the fridge for at least an hour.
-This will make sure to cool any warm feelings you have left for this person.
8. When finished, pour the contents into your plastic bag and seal it shut. Once fully closed state “so mote it be” and toss it into the trash! (Outside of your bedroom)

*IF YOU HAVE AN ALLERGY TO ANY OF THESE ITEMS* Spend some time researching substitutions for the ingredient and use whatever you’re not allergic to. If you’re stumped, don’t be afraid to send me a message!

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

Half Life (Damian Wayne x Reader)

A/N: Sorry, more angst! I promise something fluffy will be next! (I might break this promise if I finish Joyride part 5 fast enough, actually lolololol) Damian is 16, so is the reader!I really like writing angst whoops. Also I’m really mean to Damian

Request: “Damian sister angst? Where she’s also a hero please!!”

Warnings: Aaaaaaaaaangst, angst angst angst

Tagging: @solis200213 @pinkwitch21 @tigeragathe @gokusanfan @just-a-girl-maybe @queen-of-all-the-fandoms @holywinchesterness @hyp-oh-critical @batty4dc @battybe-my-writing @neverlandprincessjaz


“Everything will be okay.”

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This mission was supposed to have been easy. Simple recon. That was supposed to be it, but of course, in true Gotham style, things got complicated.

It was you, Damian, and Bruce on patrol that night. Snow coated the streets, falling from the inky-black sky in white flecks and whirling in the wind. And Damian Wayne was about to lose his mind.

“Everything will be okay,” you repeated in an attempt to assure your brother, although you knew it wasn’t true. You were trapped inside, completely surrounded by solid concrete, and as it stood, you were due to be blown to bits in mere minutes.

“We will get you out!” he insisted over the comms, trying to think of something, anything that could save you. He felt like a complete imbecile. How had he not seen such a simple trap coming? For god’s sake, a false panel in the floor should have been obvious to him. But he’d been careless. Inobservant. And this was the cost. You were the cost. He was searching desperately for some way to get the floor to open up again so he could pull you out, but he found nothing.

“Father!” he called out to Bruce, tears welling up in his eyes despite his attempts to stay calm. The clock was running down. One minute.

“Robin, we have to get out of here now,” Bruce insisted, though he was still working at a way to deactivate the lock on the floor panel.

“No!” he protested loudly, tears beginning to fall. “We can still save her!”

Forty-Five seconds.

“Robin…” Bruce warned hesitantly, not allowing the panic to set in. God, he wanted to save you, but he’d be damned before he let both of his children die.

“Father, please,” Damian begged, his voice breaking as he looked to his father for help. His heart was beating faster than he knew was possible.

Thirty seconds.

Bruce looked down for a short moment before looking back up at Damian, sorrowful resolve evident, even behind the cowl. He’d regret this for the rest of his life, but he’d chosen this life. He’d chosen every hard decision he’d ever had to make. “We have to go.”

“No!” Damian screamed, his voice breaking into a higher pitch once again.

“Damian, please,” Bruce begged, their roles suddenly reversed.

Twenty seconds.

There wasn’t time for begging anymore, and Bruce had made his choice. He grabbed Damian, rushing forward and out of the building and out into the snow.

“No!” Damian screamed yet again, struggling in Bruce’s arms as he fought to get away.

Fifteen seconds.

Bruce dropped Damian in the snow, and the boy could only watch in horror as he saw something move from inside the building.

The floor panel had opened.

Ten seconds.

(Y/N)!” Damian cried as he saw you grapple out of the small chamber and turn to face him.

Five seconds.

He scrambled up as you reached your hand out, stumbling forward towards the wide doorway. Towards your brother.

He ran as fast as his shaking legs could carry him, ignoring Bruce, who was yelling for him to stop. He was so close. He just needed a few more seconds to reach you. He could hear you speaking, he was so close.

“Damia-”

There was a deafening roar as Damian was thrown violently back, his surroundings suddenly transforming into a series of rapidly shifting blurs. He was winded as he hit the ground and rolled through the snow, the sky and the ground cycling across his vision as he tumbled.

The moment he came to a stop he was back on his feet and staggering towards the fiery remains of the building, his vision spinning in a tangled mess of black and white and fiery orange.

Ash rained down, mixing with the snow and staining it a dingy grey.

His vision cleared, though it was still tunneling, as he ran into the remnants of the blast, not caring about the leftover tongues of flame that licked at his skin, or the boiling heat that seemed to burn every inch of his skin.

Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he threw pieces of debris aside to try to find her. She had to be alive. She had to be. His ears were ringing as he tossed a charred beam to the side, freezing at the sight of what was under it.

His sister. His twin. Bloodied and barely recognizable.

Damian dropped to his knees with a strangled cry of disbelief, sending a cloud of ash into the air around him. “(Y/N)…” he whispered, barely able to hear himself over the crackling flames and the howling wind and the ringing in his ears.

“(Y/N)!” he repeated, yelling this time, tears obscuring his vision. He pulled her body into his arms, staring down at her burnt and disfigured face.  “(Y/N), please.”

He felt a presence behind him, but didn’t bother to look and see who it was. He knew it was Bruce.

His father slowly knelt beside him, and for a moment Damian thought that he was calm. Then he saw the way that his jaw was shaking, and the way his trembling hands betrayed the grief he truly felt.

“No,” Bruce murmured, reaching a shaking hand to touch the side of her face. “No.”

“Father,” Damian choked out, looking to Bruce as the tears began to fall from behind the mask. “If we had stayed…” She might still be alive right now.

Bruce didn’t respond as he stared down at his daughter’s body, the sight burning into his mind. He knew that from now on this would be what he saw behind his eyelids. This would be what plagued him when he closed his eyes to sleep. “We should get back,” he whispered, barely able to keep his voice even. “Dick will be waiting for us.”

Damian swallowed hard, giving a small nod and standing, her body still in his arms.

They set off for the manor, travelling back in heavy silence, Damian letting out stifled sobs every few minutes as they moved through the snow.

From that moment on, everything felt like a blurred fever dream to Damian. The shock and sorrow on Dick’s face as they entered the cave barely registered to him. He couldn’t seem to look away from her body as Dick rushed over, saying something he couldn’t bother to listen to. It was so strangely hazy, and the outside world seemed to play in front of him like a silent film as his thoughts consumed him. He could have saved her. If he’d just stayed for five more seconds, then everything could have been okay. She’d be standing with him and everything would be okay. And he’d pull her into a hug and he’d tell her he was sorry. He’d tell her to be more careful. He’d tell her that next time he’d be more cautious.

Damian snapped back to reality as he realized she was being taken from him. Dick was trying to pull her body away from him. “No!” he cried out, recoiling, holding her closer to him and standing defensively, tears still streaking down his face.

“Damian, please,” Dick pleaded gently, reaching his hand out towards his younger brother.

“You can’t take her!” Damian yelled at him, misdirected rage mixing in with the flurry of emotions that coursed through him.

“She’s gone, Dami,” Dick chided, fighting back his own emotions in order to stay calm in front of Damian. “Please set her down so we can at least clean-” he had to stop to draw in a deep breath, on the verge of tears. “So we can clean her up for a funeral.”

Damian shook his head, eyes wide as he backed away from Dick. “No… She’s not! We can save her! I can take her to the Lazarus Pit! I can-”

“Damian,” Bruce cut him off sternly. “Do you really want that? Do you really want to bring her back just for her to suffer?”

“I- No, but-”

“It’s not an option,” Bruce asserted, though suddenly he sounded more weary, more broken than angry or stern.

Damian’s shoulders slumped as he looked down at her in bitter defeat. He allowed Dick to approach him and take her body from his arms. Once she’d been lifted, he stumbled backwards, collapsing down onto the floor.

This marked the beginning of a season of sorrow.


The following days passed in a blurred haze, and Damian wasn’t sure he’d really processed what had happened. He still felt like he’d turn to see her at his side at any given moment. But deep down he knew. The house felt empty to him, and he’d pass by her room, hoping to hear her playing her music from the other side of the door.

It was the morning of the funeral, and Damian was wearing a black suit and a blank expression. He stood in her room for the first time since before she had been ripped away from him. Since before she had died.

It looked exactly as she had left it. There were books on her nightstand that were opened to the pages she’d left them on, just waiting to be finished.

Tears welled up in his eyes as he looked at the posters on her walls and the objects on her furniture, all of which reminded him of his precious sister. For a moment it felt like she was still there. Like nothing had changed. Standing there, in her untouched room, felt like living in a snapshot of her life where things were still okay.

“Damian,” he heard Dick call him softly from the doorway.

He wiped at his eyes, brushing away the tears and turning to face Dick, his expression once again becoming dull and lifeless.

“It’s time to go,” his brother told him, gesturing for him to come. His face was seemingly blank, though his eyes shone with despair.

Damian nodded, walking towards Dick, eyes glued to the floor as he followed his brother out to the car.

The funeral was held in a church, and Damian was supposed to be giving her eulogy. He was supposed to have something prepared, though he had found he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Writing her eulogy would be admitting that she was truly gone. And he refused to do it.

So there he stood by her casket, facing rows of people he didn’t know who were waiting for a speech he hadn’t written.

He felt anger rise to his chest as he took in their pitying looks. How long had he even been standing there? His eyes were wide and he felt like a deer in the headlights. He looked over to Dick, who was giving him a concerned stare. What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to say to these people? That he’d just lost the only person who’d been with him his whole life? That there was a chunk that had been ripped out of his soul? That every second he felt like he was bleeding? He knew he had to say something.

Nothing. There were no words. There was nothing he could say. He looked over to Dick again, who nodded encouragingly. He looked back out into the pews, where he only found more pity.

“She was my sister. And she was the most amazing person I knew.” He looked down at the stone floor, unable to muster up the energy to say anything more. He stepped down from the podium, tears welling up in his eyes and beginning to fall freely as he returned to his seat.

He didn’t pay attention to the rest of the funeral. Soon the memorial service was over and guests were free to mull around and spread their synthetic compassion.

He ignored them all. He ignored every person who approached him offering condolences that he knew were insincere. None of it mattered anymore now that she was gone. Nothing mattered.


He sat before her gravestone which was by Bruce’s parents’, staring blankly at her name, which was engraved into the stone along with her epitaph. Rest peacefully, dear sister.

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.

2

Celtic mythology : Brigid aesthetic.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ  Celtic Goddess of Fire: fire of inspiration, poetry, art forging, healing, fertility and guessing. Her inspiration was vital for bards and poets which freely called her. ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ
  ㅤㅤㅤㅤ   On a legend, Brigid was born with the tongues of flame on the head connecting her to the Universe. New (Christian) and old (pagan) Brigid have connected in Saint Brigitta in 450. Saint Brigid, the druid’s daughter, was a smith and the healer.ㅤ
ㅤㅤㅤ She “mother of family” and at the same time “the Supreme ruler”. For this reason Brigid is the goddess of fertility, fire and a home, but at the same time she is the goddess of crafts, including forge, healings, poetry; goddess of arts, creativity and doctrine in a broad sense.

Anonymous requested: 🌊nessian smut but like in public at some dinner party w inner circle lol 

this turned out to be kind of long lmao. also sorry it took me the ENTIRE DAY

NSFW

At this moment, Nesta was glad for the slit in her gown. She rarely showed as much skin as she was this night, but if it got Cassian to touch her as much as he was…it might just be worth it.

Currently, his hand was trailing its way up the sensitive skin of her thigh underneath the tablecloth Mor had so lovingly arranged for dinner. As soon as someone would direct a question his way, his fingers would pause, and it took everything within Nesta not to squirm. She would make him pay for this later.

Slowly, ever so slowly so as not to disturb the table, she uncrossed her legs, opening up for him. She almost didn’t catch his smile, a quick one like he knew something she didn’t. Slowly, ever so slowly, he slid his hand up her inner thigh. His fingers began tracing small circles and her breath hitched. As soon as he heard that, he dragged his ring finger toward her apex. And try as she might, she couldn’t help her slight shift as his finger reached its destination. He began pressing light circles down over her now damp underwear and she sighed slightly.

“Nesta?” Feyre’s voice jerked Nesta out of her daze. Cassian pulled his finger away and went back to warming her thigh with his hand.

“Sorry, I must’ve spaced out for a moment. What did you say?” Nesta replied, then caught Feyre shooting Elain a look. A giggle erupted from the middle sister and Nesta glared at her. “What, Feyre?”

“I just asked if you had finished that book I saw you with earlier. What was it called again? ‘The Winged Brute and the Maiden?’” 

Keep reading

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?”